In my Reflection last week, I mentioned my emotional crumpling after hearing Andrea Bocelli singing ‘Con te partirò’. This week both Sarah and I have stumbled over songs, and a photo, which twanged our heartstrings.
In one case, we heard the same song separately.
It was ‘Still Together’ by Shania Twain from an album that meant something to Sarah and me in the early weeks of our relationship. There was much in some of Shania’s songs with which we identified. That was near 20 years ago; over time, those songs have slipped from memory.
I heard Shania’s song when again watching an episode of the ‘Sopranos’. As with ‘Con te partirò’, it played as background music in a scene. As before, my emotions crashed into the song as my mind fell back to the early 2000s. At least I didn’t crumple this time. Sarah’s hearing of Shania happened when the song came on the radio as Sarah was driving. The song is all about a married couple beating the odds. Guess that’s no longer Sarah and me….
Then Sarah bumped emotionally into, ‘That’s Amore’ sung by Dean Martin. It’s not a heart-rending song. It’s quite cheerful and begins with the line,
“When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie
That’s amore”
The trouble is that I associate it with the numerous times Sarah, and I have gazed upon that ‘pizza pie’ while in Italy. Sitting or strolling beneath its grey glow while sharing conversation over a drink, while taking a stroll, or when simply watching the world go by. In Verona, Venice, Rome, Turin, Siena and many other beautiful Italian towns and cities. However, there are two particular occasions that remain particularly vivid in my memory.
The first was in Bologna. Sarah and I had eaten a traditional Bolognese meal in the wonderful Ristorante de Nello al Montegrappa and then strolled into Piazza Maggiore for a nightcap at a small bar. We settled ourselves down at an outside table and, sipping our drinks, we soon fell into quiet conversation. Around us sat many couples similarly engaged. Listening in on the soft mummer of those exchanges, an eye-catching disc of glistening grey sat high above the Basilica di San Petronio.
The second memory was from a vacation in Santa Margherita Liguria. Again, Sarah and I enjoyed a wonderful (is there ever any other type of meal in Italy) evening meal. As we meandered to our hotel alongside the Mediterranean waterfront, under the watchful eye of the Castle, a gilded globe kept us company. Balanced precipitously on the horizon, it painted a Monet-like rippling streak of gold across the water’s surface.
As I mentioned It wasn’t just music that jabbed our hearts this week. A photo appeared in Sarah’s FB memories of the two of us at a friend’s 50th Birthday party ten years ago. There we both are. Dressed to impress and smiling warmly at the camera while in a close embrace. Very much a couple. One of the scattered pictures of our together smiles we are leaving behind.
I’m sure our emotions will become easier to manage as we continue our journey to separation. But, right now, those emotions are overly sensitive to the touch.
And as I look forward to the lives we are about to live, there is another song that keeps coming into my head. I’ve liked the music of Joan Armatrading very much for many a decade. One of Joan’s songs, ‘Willow’ goes to the heart of being a friend to another in times of need,
“…What ever you want me to
All you got to do is ask
I said I’m strong
Straight
Willing
To be a
Shelter in a storm
Your willow oh willow
When the sun is out..”
As Sarah and I move forward it will be about being kind to each other. And no matter what. There is never a reason not to be kind.
Having decided to part, it seems as if my wife, Sarah, and I have both felt a significant release of tension from our relationship. A strain that had grown ever more burdensome over the past months.
We’ve always got on, but increasingly our lives had drifted apart. Our interests had grown increasingly dissimilar, and our relationship had become more of siblings than a married couple.
Yet, in the past week, we’ve together been on shopping excursions, shared meals, made a cinema trip and visited a coffee shop. We’ve talked a lot too. I confess our conversation is primarily around the practicalities of moving towards our respective futures, but there have been other conversations too. And those were light, relaxed and with laughter. We even took a joint selfie to share with concerned close friends and family to show that we were doing OK.
Right now, Sarah plans to move closer to our youngest daughter, Hannah. Their relationship is more akin to sisters than mother and daughter. Since Sarah and I moved to the southwest of England some years ago, Sarah has missed being able to see Hannah as regularly as Sarah would like.
For my part, I may stay in the southwest. I’ve grown attached to my adopted hometown. I feel part of its community, and both fulfilled and rewarded by my volunteering activities at a primary school and local museum.
However, I also have a hankering for moving back ‘home’ to the northeast of England. To the place of my birth. Newcastle-upon-Tyne has many attractions for me.
I get more ‘bang for my bucks’ when it comes to property. It has a thriving arts culture. And while moving there takes me further from family, transport links to the south are excellent. I’ve also decided to give up driving altogether, so Newcastle’s comprehensive public transport system will be a boon. I’ll be able to watch NUFC more often. I also speak the language!
And speaking of language, I did toy with the idea of moving to southern Italy. There too it is cheaper with good public transport. It’s also not too difficult to get back to the UK. I can about get by in Italian and would soon improve my fluency once there. I might even cope with only watching NUFC on TV. But for me, the most significant deterrent is the restrictions brought in by Brexit. I might go for it Ii I was ten or fifteen years younger, but one does seek a more manageable life when a little older.
Of course, these are early days in our separation. While Sarah and I may have cast off the tension between us, we now know we each have to ride our different emotional rollercoasters. Not all our thoughts can be on looking forward. We’ve already had some tears before bedtime. There will no doubt be more. And as with anything to do with emotions, it’s a small thing that can trigger tears.
In my case, it was while watching a rerun of an episode of the Sopranos. The background music to one scene was Andrea Bocelli singing ‘Con te partirò’. Confusingly, the song’s English title is ‘Time to Say Goodbye’. That poor ‘translation’ tends to muddle the song’s meaning that is about journeying together. It usually calls to my mind all the journeys Sarah and I have made, literally and figuratively, as a couple. But hearing the song on this occasion brought a reminder that we will now travel separate paths and it was that, which brought my tears.
Having crumpled it was fortunate that Sarah was on hand with the warmest of reassuring hugs. Such an act on her part may seem strange. Not so. We agreed we’d help each other ride the rollercoaster. On this occasion, I needed some support. Tomorrow, the next day, or whenever, it might be Sarah in need. And my arms will be there for her.
I am extremely fortunate to have both loved and been loved.
As I write this, I’m beginning a journey from love. It’s not the first time. In theory, having travelled this road once means I should find this journey easier. However, I doubt that will be the case. Although it may mean I move through the emotional cycle more quickly. In fact, I’m already through the Denial stage.
But I jump ahead. Some who read this may now be asking what is this Denial of which I write?
Well, I liken the ending of what was once a deep and loving relationship to grief. In my mind losing the love of someone is as tangible a loss as the death of a loved one. The circumstances behind the loss of love may vary. However, the stages of emotion one experiences are the same whether there are third parties involved in the breakup or a once-close relationship ‘runs out of steam’. A once fierce and intense love fading to indifference or even alienation.
It’s accepted that grief has 5 stages and what follows is how I interpret these in terms of the ‘death’ of love;
One’s first reaction when another tells them they no longer feel love is to go into Denial. A natural tendency to say this can’t be right. This can’t be happening to me. I love you; you must love me.
At some point, Denial tends toward Anger and frustration. The ‘why me – it’s not fair’ stage. The afflicted individual spreads Blame around liberally, but usually, they accept none. Instead, they will lash out at their once-lover or the once-lover’s family and friends.
As Anger fades, one enters the Bargaining stage. Making pleas to a once-lover on what must change in order to reignite the spark of love. And there might indeed be a change in behaviour that reignites that spark. Although that’s not what usually happens. Some people never get past this stage and evolve their Anger to hatred of the individual that has fallen out of love with them. That hatred can last years. Many years. It can stay even if the individual believes they have moved to the next stage.
And that next stage is the decline into Depression. A deep sadness that can fall to a level at which the individual, sullen and withdrawn, says to themselves, “what’s the point?”;” I’m clearly an abject failure; “why go on without the one I love?” Some then use this as emotional blackmail in an attempt to win back their lost love. More dangerously an individual can take their despair to a point where they feel life is really not worth living. Tragically, taking their lack of self-worth to the extreme and to then end their life.
Eventually, however, one hopes to move their emotions on and reach the final stage. Acceptance. They realise that things will be okay and that they do have self-worth. That should they wish to seek it, they can find love and affection again. That they can find a new way forward. Sometimes an individual can achieve this alone. Most times however it’s with the support and indeed love of family and friends.
Some can move through these five stages quickly. Some can get bogged down. For example, at the end of my second marriage, I got a bit stuck in Denial and then later fell into mild Depression.
This time around, who knows. As I wrote earlier, I’m past Denial and don’t think I will lapse into Anger. There is still much warmth between my wife and me. We have discussed the options of how we might move on. Although we both must let our emotions play out, for now, it feels like I won’t become entrenched. There could be a time when I may dip into Depression, but for the moment, I have no sense of that.
Early days though, and while I don’t intend to bleed all over future Reflections, no doubt I will share my feelings as things progress.
That’s the way it should be as I move forward. If nothing else, I’ve learnt you have to share as you move through the stages. As move forward I must.
Given that last Sunday was Father’s Day, it will be no surprise that my Reflection this week is on my father, John (Jack) Watson.
Jack was the youngest of eleven children. He was an ‘Edwardian’ born in 1908. His father, Harry, was born just north of Newcastle-upon-Tyne and worked in shipbuilding; Jack’s mother, Anne, was Scottish. Unfortunately, both Harry and Anne died some years before I came along. One of Jack’s earliest memories was his lighting the large bonfire in his part of Newcastle’s celebration of the ending of the Great War.
In his youth, Jack was a keen athlete. He played for Newcastle ’N’s, the Newcastle United Youth team, and competed with Benwell (an area of Newcastle) Harriers. Jack would often regale me with stories of his younger days. A footballer’s reward in the late 1920s was not today’s, so he chose a job that offered a steady income rather than gamble on life as a footballer. Jack became a Firefighter.
Jack married his first wife, Elizabeth (Bette) Ross, in the late 1930s. Tragically, their first child, Patricia, died after only a few weeks of life; however, two children then came along. My half-siblings, Andy and Judith. However, more tragedy was to follow. After Judith’s birth, Bette suffered severely from post-natal depression, taking her own life on one very dark night of her soul. It was 1950; Andy was six, and Judith two.
Jack could have given up the children to what in those days went for social services. He didn’t, and I’m immensely proud of how he managed to look after two young children while working as a Firefighter. He didn’t always do it by the book, calling on friends and neighbours to help before finding a housekeeper who could sleep in when Jack had night duty.
Sadly, that housekeeper had a drinking problem, and Jack let her go once discovered. In searching for a replacement, a woman, Jenny, some 14 years younger than Jack, appeared on the scene. What started as a business relationship blossomed into romance, and the two married in 1955. I came along the following year; Jack was 48 years old.
I recall that for many years a portrait of Bette hung on the wall of Judith’s bedroom (Andy and I shared a bedroom until, at 18, he left home to join the Army). It was so that Andy and Judith didn’t forget their mother. I thought that was a caring gesture from my parents.
As a small boy, I enjoyed getting up early when Jack was on day shift to share a bacon sandwich breakfast with him before he left. And naturally, I followed his lead of not buttering the bread. It’s a habit I’ve kept to this day. Jack liked to cook. In fact, my mother said Jack taught her how to cook.
One of my treasured possessions is Jack’s diary of 1964. It was the year he retired from the Fire Service. Firefighters had to leave the Service at the age of 55 back then. In the diary are some appointments, but the most fascinating part is his ‘accounts’. For instance, his mortgage from the Urban District Council was £6 monthly. Such ‘Council mortgages’ are now a thing long past.
After retiring from the Fire Service, Jack got a job as a Mortician at the Royal Victoria Infirmary (RVI) in Sunderland. It wasn’t for the squeamish, but life as a firefighter isn’t for the squeamish either.
Jack had his first heart attack shortly before Christmas 1970; I was 14 years old. He was 62.
The news came late afternoon with a knock on the front door. I answered the door to a middle-aged man who asked for Jenny Watson. The man introduced himself to her as Head of Administration for the RVI. He then asked Jenny to go to the hospital with him as Jack had been taken seriously ill. Confusingly for the man, Jenny replied, “I’m not falling for that”.
The reason for such a strange comment was that the RVI Christmas Party was to take place that evening, to which Jack wished to go, but Jenny did not. So, instead of believing he was ill, she suspected a ruse to get her to the party.
To the man’s disbelief, Jenny told him to stop messing about, asking him, “where is Jack hiding?”. She even went as far as to brush past the man and look over the yard wall. Not finding Jack hiding there, she looked into the man’s car. I think the chap, now totally bewildered, feared Jenny was in shock. I realised this wasn’t a joke, and Jenny was coming to the same realisation. She was soon off to the hospital with the man. On her return, she shared how extremely ill Jack was and that his survival was touch and go.
It turned out Jack had a lucky escape. He’d lunched on Pot Pie (suet pudding) with some friends. Then back at the RVI, he stripped a large body by himself, which involved a lot of tugging and pulling. The effort caused a tiny tear in his heart. Jack put the discomfort in his chest to overindulgence in Pot Pie (I know that feeling). As the pain in his chest increased, he popped into Casualty as it was then (A&E these days) for an indigestion tablet. On describing his symptoms and looking at his pallor, a nurse guessed it was something more severe. She asked Jack to sit for a moment while she found the indigestion tablets. Instead, she went for a doctor who admitted him immediately. If Jack had gone home on the bus, the doctor reckoned he would have died before reaching that home.
Jack remained in the hospital for some weeks (treatment of heart attacks was quite different back then, with patients advised to have lots of bed rest). There’s a line by Emily Dickinson, “Old age comes on suddenly, not gradually as is thought”. That had happened to Jack. Overnight, the robust, healthy, young-looking sixty-something man had disappeared. In his place was a drawn, grey-skinned, aged man lacking confidence. The latter was even more evident when he came home.
His doctor encouraged Jack to go for walks. He did so. But at a painfully slow pace compared to his confident stride of the past. My mother cautioned me not to cause him upset as she, too, feared that agitation might instigate another heart attack. Unlike many teenage boys, I tried, in Jack’s eyes at least, to be a model of good behaviour. He returned to work some 6 months after his heart attack.
A couple of years later, he won the Heggie Award. It recognises individuals who achieved the highest mark in the Diploma of Anatomical Pathology Technology. Named after Dr James Hegie, a champion of the need for fully trained people to assist pathologists during post-mortem and in caring for the bereaved. It led to Jack’s 15 minutes of fame through radio interviews etc. I was sixteen and felt immensely proud of his achievement so late in his life. It taught me that no matter your age, you should never stop learning.
At around 8:30 in the morning of 23 November 1977, I took a call at work (by this time, I was married and living and working in London) to tell me of Jack’s passing. Jenny discovered his body, although the call came from the next-door neighbour, ‘Uncle’ Frank. As I heard the familiar voice telling me, “I have some sad news”, I knew at once what that news was to be.
Jack died the previous night after falling asleep in his armchair. Standing on a side table nearby was an empty glass. His last nightcap of whiskey and soda. He didn’t make it to bed as death stole him from sleep. Peacefully, the doctor reported.
The rest of that 23 November is something of a blur. First, I called my wife to tell her of the news. She was devastated, being so fond of Jack. I then sought a leave of absence from work and headed to Kings Cross to journey north in the late afternoon of an ever-darkening day.
‘Uncle’ Frank picked me up from the railway station. Jenny was at his house with his wife. I checked Jenny was OK and then went next door to the small, terraced house from which Jack had left for the last time about an hour earlier. I entered into silence and darkness. Then, turning on the light in the kitchen, my eye fell upon a letter on the table. The envelope, placed there by Jenny, bore my name, written in Jack’s hand.
Sitting down at the table and without removing my heavy coat or discarding my scarf, I opened the envelope and began to read the words within.
It’s a short, simple letter. Very much, Jack. In places, it’s business-like. For instance, it contains a recommendation of a good undertaker (given my father’s line of work, he would know). He asks me to look after my mother. He wishes me well. There are no declarations of love or outpourings of affection. It ends with a “God Bless” and “Your Dad” above his signature.
Yet, on that gloomy November evening, I began weeping as soon as I read the opening sentence. This was now a letter from the past. From a man, I was never going to see or hear again. There would be no more stories. No more listening to his laughter. No more letters. A presence now absent.
We weep at the loss of a loved one, for ourselves just as much as for them. On reflection, I feel my tears came from losing the chance as an adult to get to know my father. I’d spent less than a month in his company in the three years since I’d left home. Little of that time was just him and me.
Despite that, he had much influence on me. Many of his traits have passed to me. The quick temper, lack of patience, some pomposity, and not listening to others as much as I might. But balancing these are integrity, generosity, and morality. He taught me that;
Life isn’t a rehearsal. You have to show up and live your best performance. You can do nothing about the hand of cards that life deals you with. But it’s down to you to play that hand the best you can.
People are like snowflakes. No two are identical, and no matter how hard you try, you can never walk in their shoes. The smile you see may mask intense pain. Try to accept people as they are and avoid being judgemental. Remember, you don’t know their story.
Enjoy relationships and work at them. Compromise is crucial but don’t wake up someday at the end of someone else’s life. As I wrote above, life is not a rehearsal.
Embrace a change of circumstance, or it will crush you. But remember, when it comes to people, you can only change yourself. Not someone else. The best you might do is influence another person but don’t fool yourself that you can change them. They are the only ones who can do that for themselves.
As well as these life lessons, I have inherited Jack’s penchant for storytelling and his twinkling sense of humour. And how can I not mention our mutual support of Newcastle United. The most intimate moments I spent with him were watching the Magpies. Memories of those times wrap themselves around me whenever I now travel to St James Park.
Jack experienced much in his life. The end of the Great War, fighting fires in the Second World War (including in the London Blitz – the Fire station on the Euston Road where he was based is still working). He knew love, the joy of children and deep grief. He felt the pressures of being a single parent. He swapped one career for another and saw success in both. He suffered the fear of life-threatening disease but overcame that fear. He was an ordinary man. He was my father.
I’ve always liked the apocryphal story of George V’s last words. In response to his doctor, who, for encouragement to the dying King, offered, “You’ll soon be well and able to visit Bognor again” (Bognor was a supposed favourite holiday destination for George V.)
Sadly, such encouragement drew only this from His Majesty, “Bugger Bognor!”
There’s probably not a word of truth in the story, but it’s still good.
Another story in a similar vein is that of Oscar Wilde. Who supposedly, on his death bed, uttered, “My wallpaper and I are fighting a duel to the death. One or the other of us has to go.”
I mention these as while looking up some information about Charles Dickens, I discovered his final words were “On the Ground”. Very ordinary for such a great wordsmith. The words appear strange at first sight. But they were in response to his sister-in-law suggesting he lie down after he began to suffer symptoms of the stroke of which he died. The two were outside Dickens’ home in Gads Hill, so one can only speculate as to whether Dickens uttered the words as a question or exclamation.
Given death comes on most of us in an unexpected sudden fashion, I suspect most people’s last words are very ordinary or even incoherent. An example is the great thinker and writer Henry David Thoreau, whose last words were ‘Moose’ and then ‘Indian’.
There are some notable exceptions to my suspicion, however,
Nostradamus, whom many thought could foresee the future, apparently got it right about his demise. He predicted that “tomorrow at sunrise, I shall no longer be here”. He was dead right with that prediction (sorry, I couldn’t resist)
We all know that Marie Antoinette met a grisly fate. But she was polite to the last. After she stepped on her executioner’s foot on her way to the guillotine, she uttered her last words, “Monsieur, je vous demande pardon, je ne l’ai pas fait exprès.”
Someone who chose humour in the face of death was murderer James W. Rodgers. As he faced a firing squad, the prison warden asked if Rodgers had a last request. Despite his perilous situation, “Bring me a bullet-proof vest”, was Rodger’s reply.
If you face death through execution, maybe humour is your last comfort. The last words before the execution of convicted murderer James Donald French by Electric Chair echo this. French shouting to the assembled press corps, “How’s this for your headline? French Fries!”
Some final words that send Ripperologists into investigative delight were those of Dr Neil Thomas Cream. As an aside, I’m not convinced there was a ‘Jack the Ripper’. Newspapers were even better in the late 1900s than they are today at stitching together a story. And what a story was that of the first serial killer. The Whitechapel area of 19th Century London was notoriously dangerous, and several murdered women wouldn’t be a story unless there was some link between those murders. Don’t forget the sobriquet Jack the Ripper was not from the pen of the perpetrator but from a journalist.
Dr Cream was convicted of the murder of several women using poison. Just as the trap fell away at his hanging, Cream’s executioner claimed Cream called out, “I’m Jack….” The oblivion of death claimed anything else he planned to utter.
Now he might have been about to say that he was Jack Spratt, Jack Frost or Jack the Giant-killer. But, of course, everyone believes he was about to utter … “the Ripper”. The one hole in that belief is Dr Cream was in prison in the USA at the time of the ‘Ripper’ killings. Still, let’s not let the facts get in the way of a good story.
Some final words prompt black humour, as in the case of General John Sedgwick. In a battle of the American Civil War, he proclaimed, “They couldn’t hit an elephant at this distance!” just before a sharpshooter from the opposing side killed the over-confident, General.
Many will remember the stoic final words of Captain Lawrence Oates on Scott’s ill-fated expedition to the South Pole, “I am just going outside and maybe some time.”
Some keep it brief. Hans von Bülow, a German conductor and composer, replied simply, “Bad” when asked how he felt.
Some of the saddest final words are those of Vincent van Gogh to his brother Theo. We know how tortured an existence the marvellous painter led. Sadly, at his death, he seemed to find no respite telling Theo, “The sadness will last forever.”
I ponder what my final words might be when I utter them in what I hope is many years from the present.
One hopes it would be something deep, meaningful and of the philosophy of life. But it might just as easily be … “what car?”
Until I moved to Wiltshire some 10 years ago, I had not come across a Scarecrow Festival or Trail. I had, of course, come across Scarecrows even in my younger days living in the northeast of England. It wasn’t all Pit Heads and Slag Heaps.
Scarecrow Festivals appear to have started around 30 years ago in Derbyshire, and their popularity has since spread across the UK. There are now at least three in and around the small Wiltshire town in which I now live.
One of the few community events which I visited last year, in between Covid restrictions, was to follow the scarecrow trail organised by a local primary school. While maintaining all the social distancing requirements of the time, it was good to see families out, strolling around the area. All, trying to guess what each of the forty-odd homemade scarecrows represented as part of the theme of Literature.
This year, unsurprisingly, the theme was ‘Royalty’ given it’s the Queen’s 70th Jubliee. So a couple of weeks back, I again strolled around between scarecrows of that theme. The weather was beautiful, so many families were again out and about looking at the creations of others.
While there is an overall theme, the scarecrow makers can interpret that as they wish and interpret it widely they did.
I saw only one Queen Elizabeth the Second amongst the 47 scarecrows on display. And I have to say (with no disrespect to the lady herself) she did look an appropriately regal scarecrow.
Some creators had dipped back into the past. One splendid display had Louis XVI suffering his fate at the hands of Madam Guillotine. While beside him stood Marie Antionette holding… yes, you guessed it, a piece of cake.
This year is also the 380th anniversary of the English Civil War. I was, therefore, not surprised to see a Charles I amongst the display. Sadly for him, he too had lost his head.
It was clear from one scarecrow that history teaching may have slipped somewhat over the years. I assume one particular scarecrow was meant to be Harold, given the arrow in his eye. The confusing thing was his attire. It was that of Richard the Lionheart with his chainmail and white tabard, with a red cross. Many a parent walked away trying to clarify to their children the confusion.
Of course, England’s most well-known King couldn’t miss out. So yes, Henry VIII was there looking suitably rotund and wielding an axe.
One creator had set a challenging puzzle. Their offering was a large boiled sweet wrapped in black and white striped paper. A humbug, of course. But not many realised the full name is mint humbug, and thus the ‘scarecrow’ represented the Royal Mint.
Some creators went off on a surrealist tangent. Such as they who offered a large guitar that sported an Elvis quiff
Another showed allegiance to Lady Di, whose model looked very elegant. Whoever had created the head fashioned an excellent likeness.
I confess there was one that had me puzzled at the time and still does today. It was the model of a lady dressed in flowing black robes with long flaming-red hair. Behind her was a large cross. On one side of that flew the Union Flag and the Stars and Stripes on the other. Any thoughts, anyone?
Whether any of the models would scare a crow, only a crow would know. But they are creatures that are quick to learn, so I suspect it would not take them long to suss out these scarecrows while inventive posed no danger.
But that’s not important. The Trail served its purpose. To both raise a little money for the school and to offer some family entertainment to the Community.
Immediately after I retired, three years ago, I took a journey by train that started in my home town and ended in Rome. Travelling through France and into Italy. My way of establishing a clean break between the world of work and that of retirement. I called my journey, a trip on the ‘Leyton Orient Express’, given my plan to use scheduled train services and stay in low-budget hotels. What follows is a short reminisce of my journey with the occasional culinary insight.
There is a saying that the longest journey starts with the first step. Well, mine started with cows on the line! Not the most auspicious of starts for my two and a half thousand-mile venture as those cows brought the Great Western Railway between London Paddington and all points west to a complete standstill.
I arrived at my local station, late in the morning, to find people milling around on the platform. All seemingly avoiding each other. It was reminiscent of the scene in the ‘Great Escape’, where the escapees arrive at the railway station and try to avoid eye contact or any other sign of recognition.
Unlike some of my fellow travellers, the delay did not agitate me. I had booked to see the 1970s film classic, ‘Don’t Look Now’, for mid-afternoon but missing that wasn’t the end of the world. As it was, forty-five minutes after my scheduled departure, I was speeding eastward to arrive in London with plenty of time before my film.
I’d been economical with the costs of this trip, staying in small hotels in the cheaper areas of each city, so my first hotel found me near Pimlico. It was a quiet residential area and the hotel was nice enough. A friendly welcome greeted me, and while my room was small, it had all I needed. After checking in, I headed for the Curzon cinema in Bloomsbury and my film.
I have seen, ‘Don’t Look Now’ many times. Yet, I found this remastered version as enjoyable as every other viewing. Although I pondered, as I left the cinema, it might not be the best film to watch given the days ahead wandering around alone at night through the narrow streets of French and Italian cities.
The next day saw an early start for my tube journey to St Pancras and from there, an onward trip to Paris by Eurostar. Once through the melee before security at St Pancras, everything calmed down, and the short wait for boarding was quiet and relaxed.
We left on time with not a hint of a cow, and it wasn’t long before we plunged into the darkness of the Channel Tunnel. Twenty-odd minutes later, we burst from darkness into sunshine as we sped our way to Paris through the fields of Northern France.
Gare de Nord was as busy as ever. I, therefore, girded my loins to battle the crowds and find the Metro for my journey to the Champs de Mars area of Paris and my hotel. A struggle then ensued between the turnstile entrance to the Metro and me. I inserted my ticket, moved my bag through the open gates to then have them close with my bag on one side and me on the other. Reinserting my ticket proved fruitless. Fortunately, a native Parisian let me use his ticket while he vaulted the barrier. From there, I successfully navigated the metro system, and I was soon back into the hot sunshine in search of my hotel.
I found it quickly enough tucked away on a busy street of bars, restaurants, and small shops. I also found it closed with a little handwritten sign on the door apologising and saying someone would be back in two minutes. It may have been more like five minutes before I heard the unlocking of the front door, and with greetings and more apologies, I checked into my room.
The room while tiny was charming and very French in style. The bed, with many pillows, almost filled the space available, but as with that in London, the room offered all I needed for a good night’s rest. It was then to explore the area. On my walk, I also checked out my planned bistro for the evening. Recommended by the receptionist in my hotel who said if I was looking for decent quality at sensible prices this was the place.
They were correct as it turned out that the food was superb. Unfussy yet packed with flavour. The owner was enchanting and reminded me a little of Yvette in ‘Allo, Allo’. Not in stature but how her presence commanded the establishment that also resembled the bistro set of the TV programme. My ‘Yvette’ swapped between English and French with ease, but it was also helpful in that she spoke in slow French as I tried to avoid falling into English. All three courses were to die for (especially the boef bourguignon main) yet the bill was a fraction of a ‘grand’ restaurant. You can tell an excellent restaurant by its local clientele, and this had them in spades. Not the sophisticates, just ordinary working Parisians who know great food.
It was another comparatively early start the next morning for my journey to Marseille. I navigated the metro interconnections without mishap and arrived in Gare de Lyon, as tends to be my habit, well before the time of my morning train.
Fifteen minutes before departure came the announcement of the platform, and I and many others, headed off as directed. I confirmed the correct platform by looking at the board above the entrance but confusingly it had two trains listed with two different numbers but both leaving at the same time. One was destined for Nice the other for Marseille.
Before boarding, what I believed to be, the correct carriage, I asked the train attendant and was confident they confirmed my choice. I settled myself into my seat, exchanging a polite ‘bonjour’ with the chap in the seat beside me and waited for departure.
Around five minutes later, a lady appeared, and although my French is modest, she was clearly telling me I had her seat. We looked at each other’s tickets, and on both, it said carriage two seat two. Except hers said, destination Nice and mine said destination Marseille. I was clearly on the wrong train.
With apologies from me in strangulated French and helpful guidance and reassurance in excellent English from those around, I left that train to carry on down the platform to look for my own.
There it was, sitting in front of the train to Nice. I found carriage two and seat two sitting empty. My confidence was now a little shaken; I asked in confirmation if this was the train for Marseille. “yes’, came the reply from several people, and in a variety of languages.
As I travelled south, it was not without one or two misgivings given what some had said of Marseille before I left the UK. I knew Marseille had a dark and edgy reputation, not unlike Naples. Marseille railway station was apparently a place in which not to linger. I had visions of entering a dark station unimproved from its earliest days and filled with miscreants and malcontents lurking in the shadows.
It was another comparatively early start the following day for my journey to Marseille. Again, I navigated the metro interconnections without mishap and arrived in Gare de Lyon, as tends to be my habit, well before my morning train.
Gare de Lyon seemed to have changed since my last visit there 10 years ago. It is much expanded and has a modern glass and metal ‘feel’. But, as with many railway stations, it is as much a shopping mall as a passenger terminal.
Fifteen minutes before its scheduled departure, I heard the platform announcement for my train, and I and many others headed off as directed. I confirmed the correct platform by looking at the board above the entrance. Still, confusingly it had two trains listed with two different numbers but with identical departure times. One was destined for Nice, the other for Marseille.
Before boarding, what I believed to be, the correct carriage, I asked the train attendant and was confident they confirmed my choice. Therefore, I settled myself into my seat, exchanging a polite ‘bonjour’ with the chap in the seat beside me and waited for departure.
Around five minutes later, a lady appeared at my elbow. Although my French is modest, I understood clearly that she was telling me I had her seat. We looked at each other’s tickets, and on both, it said carriage two seat two. Except hers said, destination Nice and mine said destination Marseille. So, I was in the correct seat but on the wrong train!
I offered apologies in strangulated French. Then with both guidance and reassurance from those around, I left that train to look for mine.
It was there in front of the train to Nice. I found carriage two and seat two sitting empty. My confidence was now a little shaken. So before sitting down, I asked other passengers if this was the train for Marseille. “yes’, came the reply from several people in various languages.
As I travelled south, it was not without one or two misgivings, given what some had said of Marseille before I left the UK. I knew Marseille had a dark and edgy reputation, not unlike Naples. However, I much enjoy Naples, so to begin with, I wasn’t too concerned.
However, many had said that the Marseille railway station really was a place to avoid. So, to be safe, I decided that I would not walk to my hotel on this occasion. Instead, I would take a taxi and thus minimise any potential threat to my person.
As we drew nearer Marseille, I had visions of entering a dark station unimproved from its earliest days and filled with miscreants and malcontents lurking in the shadows.
In contrast, I arrived at a wonderfully light and airy station that was busy, yes but filled with people going about their regular business. So, my transport plans changed at once. On leaving the station, it was to exit onto a beautiful viewing gallery that offered magnificent views across the sprawling city.
The sun was again shining. The cloudless sky was a deep blue. And a ride in a taxi was the least of my desires. So off I headed in the direction of my hotel. As I walked, I wondered if any who warned me of the station’s ‘dangers’ had ever visited the place. My first discovery was an impressive and lengthy set of steps guarded on each side with statues of grandeur.
On my arrival at the hotel, I discovered that my room wasn’t ready, so leaving my case, it was to the harbour area and lunch by the water.
Marseille has a transitory feel. Not a destination as such, more a city that people pass through while journeying elsewhere. As a result, it’s not a pretty city with tourist sights. Instead, it has impressive buildings and an attractive restaurant-lined waterfront where I took lunch of fresh tuna with a salad crisp to the bite. Eaten as I looked out over the water. In the distance, a cathedral sat imperiously on a hill, looking down on all.
Lunch over, I strolled around the extensive harbour. The most eye-catching feature was a canopy of which the underside is polished metal. It reflected in reverse everything below and made for fascinating viewing.
I always look to eat local offerings as much as possible on my travels. I had picked a restaurant again on the waterfront that had a reputation for traditional Marseilles cooking. The menu offered such delicacies as lambs’ testicles however I played safe and opted for lamb ribs. They arrived cooked beautifully and served with a crisp salad. A half bottle of fresh and fruitful Sancerre washed them down.
My train to Nice left a little later than those of my other journeys, so I could take my walk to the station at a gentle pace. The weather was as pleasant as that of the day before. However, this time, I had to climb up the grand steps rather than down. It took a couple of rest stops to complete the task.
The train left promptly and this time I found the correct carriage and seat without the aid of anyone else. Once we left the urban landscape of Marseille, we headed towards the coast for the journey to Nice.
The journey was not long, and I soon arrived in Nice, feeling at home, given my visits there over the years. I got my bearings quickly on where the hotel was situated. After a short stroll through the primarily residential streets, it was a warm welcome at the hotel and directions to a small, well-appointed room.
After lunch on the beach of perfectly grilled sole and a glass of Chablis, it was a stroll around familiar sights in Nice. The market, the waterspouts in the park and finally, Michelangelo’s David. Or at least the smaller version of that statue. There’s a tiny version of the Statue of Liberty too.
My evening meal was again superb. Veal in a tuna sauce. A meal I have enjoyed several times while travelling but, as with Salad Niçoise, never tastes quite the same when eaten in a restaurant in the UK.
My meal over and with thoughts of the next day’s early start for my journey across the border to Italy, I strolled back to the hotel. The light had taken the mauve, and purple pastel tones that fall upon the Mediterranean towns as the sun makes its descent. No wonder artists so much love this area.
The following day, I was back in Nice’s station in time for my journey to Genoa. Unfortunately, on arrival on the indicated platform, I, and others around me spotted our intended train several tracks away from where we all stood.
Usually, on arrival at the platform, it’s to await your train’s arrival or to find it emptily awaiting its occupants. In this case, some minutes before we were due to leave, our train began to move and slowly disappeared out of the station. It reappeared some moments later, travelling in the opposite direction from which it had left, pulling slowly to the platform on which my fellow passengers and I, stood.
Soon we were off and speeding again along the beautiful ‘Blue Coast’ railway. As with the journey from Marseille, when looking one way we had the Mediterranean stretching out to the horizon. Looking in the other direction, offered sheer cliffs towering way above us.
It wasn’t long before we pulled into Genoa station. As grandiose as I remembered it. Now to find my hotel. Aided by my trusty iPhone maps, I headed off in what I believed was the correct direction. Around five minutes later, I retraced my steps to head off in the opposite direction.
Things went well for the first 15 minutes of walking, given the easily navigable broad streets. Then, as I entered the old town of Genoa with its narrow winding streets virtually unchanged for some 400 years, things went awry. I knew where the hotel must be, but there seemed no way to reach it from the large piazza to which the map had guided me. There was a tiny alleyway about as wide as my shoulders, that seemed to travel in the correct direction, but I had no desire to walk down that.
Ignoring my map I left the piazza and after strolling down one street and then another, I stumbled upon the tiny piazza in which my hotel stood. Once a 17th-century palace it’s conversion to a boutique hotel was beautiful. Outside had kept the older splendour while inside, all was sleek and modern.
While checking in, I mentioned my challenge in finding the place. Recognition fell over the face of the receptionist. I was clearly not the first to meet such a problem. She helpfully answered that the small alleyway was indeed the quickest way to the hotel, suggesting I use that alleyway as my exit to explore the city.
I did so, and I came across several ‘interesting’ female characters on my short journey through it. All middle-aged and wearing heavy makeup. I didn’t linger on my walk as thoughts of the red-coated dwarf from ‘Don’t Look Now’ came to mind.
Genoa is a magnificent city, but those touring Italy tend to overlook what is also a working city. Nevertheless, it has beautiful piazzas, grand fountains, imposing buildings, and fine statues. Many of the latter being of Christopher Columbus, who was born there. There was a feeling of being home in England. For example, the red cross of St George (the Patron Saint of Genoa) hangs from many homes and buildings. There are also statues and plasterwork of the Saint.
It was then to my restaurant for the evening. The menu proffered was something to behold. It consisted of several wooden tablets bound together with metal loops. The whole thing was about two inches thick. Therefore, choosing my meal involved some exercise. I opted for the waiter’s recommendation of a local pasta and pesto combination. Not usually my choice but, in this case, I really enjoyed it.
After my meal, it was back to the hotel, and even though darkness had descended, I braved the small alleyway again. The ‘ladies’ still sat there within small pools of light cast from inside their homes. While offering goodnight greetings, I kept moving at pace.
It was a much earlier start the following day for my long journey to Rome. As I left my hotel, the sun had not fully risen, and a faint light shrouded eerily the empty piazza and streets. Unlike Nice, on arriving at the station this time, the train already stood alongside the platform. We were soon off and while the journey was long at five hours, the time passed quickly as gazed dreamily at the Mediterranean fleeting by. The train arrived at Rome’s Termini right on schedule.
My hotel was some distance away, near the Castel D’Angelo, and even the taxi driver took some time to find it. Checking in was an experience. After ascending in the rickety old lift, still common across Europe, it was to discover that the receptionist was, in fact, the cleaner who did not speak a word of English. Not even hello. Fortunately, I knew enough Italian and supplemented by gestures, and lots of smiles in both our cases, I was able to check-in. The best description of my room was functional. It held a bed, a table, and a TV. Nothing else, not even a glass to drink from. The bathroom was equally stark. A shower and a toilet. There was toilet paper but nothing else. Catering arrangements were from a vending machine in reception. The receptionist /cleaner also gave me a voucher entitling me to breakfast the next day at a nearby café. It was then off to my destination for the afternoon of the Domus Aurea.
Built by Nero, Domus Aurea is Latin for Golden House in Latin. And golden it once was with walls covered in gold as well as ornate marble and gemstones. It was also massive with over 300 rooms (but no bedrooms!). After Nero’s death, his successors wished to eradicate his memory so buried the palace. It wasn’t until the 15th century that it was rediscovered. It is now an underground archaeological site. Its glory may have faded but it’s still magnificent to behold.
I’d received a recommendation for a restaurant, close to my hotel, for the evening and made a reservation there. When the time came, I entered its cramped space to a bustling atmosphere, a warm greeting, a winning smile, and a menu proffered in my direction. People occupied most tables, but my reservation stood me in good stead. I pondered going for the multiple courses with which Italian dining is synonymous. In the end, I managed three as the portions of each were not meagre. Antipasti of cured meats, a generous Primi of pasta and then a secondi of roast chicken with a contorni of vegetables. All beautifully cooked and of a quantity that sated my appetite. After a meal in Italy, I often waddle back to the hotel.
The hotel owner had kindly arranged transport for me to the airport the next day, so I spent the blazingly hot morning strolling up to the Castel D’Angelo and St Peters. That was after a light and flavoursome tuna and tomato panini breakfast, courtesy of my hotel voucher, washed down with a cappuccino.
I was back at the rendezvous point for my car to the airport in perfect time and soon sped along Rome’s streets. Fortunately, my amiable, chatty driver did not drive in that classic Italian pedal to the metal style. I, therefore, arrived at the airport less fraught than is sometimes the case.
Having had every train while in Europe run on time, it was typical that a delay would occur on the ‘English’ leg of the journey. But after not too long a wait, I was airborne and homeward bound after a marvellous journey. My trip was everything I wished it to be as a transition from the world of work. I returned a little tired but relaxed and ready for life’s next chapter.
I was in my early 40s when I first felt the effects of osteoarthritis. It was in the ‘pinkies’ of both hands. They felt stiff and sore. I confess I thought little of it and did nothing about it. I assumed it was the wear and tear of ageing.
Then a year or so later, I felt the same stiffness and soreness in my other fingers, most specifically in the index finger of my left hand. And along with those symptoms, the finger was noticeably swollen around the joints. So much so that it was impossible to bend the finger.
It called for a trip to the doctor. Not that I thought they might somehow reverse the ageing process (I wish), but I hoped some treatment might exist to reduce the swelling and soreness.
There wasn’t. The doctor did confirm it was OA and suggested I might consider Glucosamine. Some who suffered from that malady felt it had a beneficial effect. There was no solid scientific data to support that, but hey-ho, I thought, what can be the harm in trying.
I did, and my index finger returned to its usual size. The soreness and stiffness also disappeared. Not in my pinkies, however. I also noticed the knuckles of those fingers acquiring that characteristic gnarling seen in people with OA.
Given the contradictory results, I decided on an experiment. I stopped taking the Glucosamine to see how my index finger or other non-afflicted fingers might react. Nothing happened. No return of swelling, pain, or stiffness. I did not return to the Glucosamine, and as I type away writing this today, other than my pinkies, my fingers work fine. However, I still have slight soreness in my pinkies, their knuckles gnarled and the fingers challenging to bend.
My knees, specifically my right knee, are now a more significant problem. Regular readers will recall the pieces I’ve written on the injuries I sustained to that knee in my younger days. Therefore, it is no surprise that OA would one day seek it out.
Since the injuries, subsequent op and physio, my right knee has always been prone to stiffness and swelling. Nothing that I could not live with. However, last summer, things became worse with much more pain. Both when bending the knee and touching it.
Back to the Docs, I thought. But sadly, in the past twenty-odd years, no miracle cure has emerged for OA. So, the best he could do was a referral to Physio to see what might further strengthen the muscles in my leg and thus possibly help out the old knee with its role.
Given the NHS’s challenges, it wasn’t surprising that my first Physio consultation took until November. Still, I have to say it was worth waiting for. Unlike when seeing my GP, I felt under no time pressure. First, the Physio made sure they had a thorough history. Then came a detailed examination of my knee and my mobility level in the joint. It came as a surprise to me just how many ways a leg might bend and stretch!
A series of muscle-strengthening exercises was soon set. Then, after watching me pedal on a static bike came a recommendation as to how to adjust my cycling motion. The physio felt that my then action might cause increased knee pain (as part of my exercise regime for the past 20 years, I pedal away on a static bike every day for around 30 to 45 minutes).
I began the proscribed exercises and adjusted my cycling action. In a couple of weeks, the pain when touching my knee disappeared. Then in time, came a reduction in the overall stiffness and pain in my knee.
Further consultations continued, and refinements were made to my exercise routine. As well as my cycling, my routine now currently consists of; offset squatting, hip abductions, shoulder bridges, single-leg standing with eyes closed (the most difficult of them all), and one leg calf raise. More than that, the Physio enrolled me on an NHS ‘Living with Arthritis’ programme. The last session of that programme is tomorrow.
I found the programme especially useful as it gave an insight into what OA actually is and how different sufferers experience different symptoms and pain. No two seem to be alike. The programme busted the myths and altered my beliefs. It also offered further recommendations on exercise and pain management (attenuating that pain ‘added’ by the brain), diet etc.
So, where am I now? In much less discomfit than I was a year ago. I always knew the knee wasn’t going to get ‘better’. Age and sporting abuse has taken their toll. But, after the ever great support from the NHS, I have a far greater understanding of what OA is and what it isn’t. I know what to do to help manage my OA. How to exercise, what pain really means, and to eat sensibly. All aimed at giving my knee some help.
More than that, the NHS has taken away my fear of OA.
Landscape with the Fall of Icarus – Pieter Bruegel the Elder
When away in Palma last month, I took William Manchester’s ‘Death of a President’ to read. Published in 1968, it’s of the five days surrounding John F Kennedy’s assassination and the murder of his assassin.
Such a book is hardly holiday reading, you might say. I’m afraid I’m not a reader of much light fiction. I look for fiction and non-fiction that informs me, challenges me, and substantively engages me. Manchester’s book certainly does that.
The book is not sensationalist (the two shootings are a page or two of some 600 pages). It is not of conspiracies. It’s more a lament to the loss of hope of a man who might have done so much more. It’s of the devastating impact his premature death had on his family. And those with whom he worked closely. As well as the reaction of those across the USA and the World. I was too young to form a view of just what a difference JFK might have made should he have lived. I now know he was a flawed man and suffered severe health problems. Yet, given the reaction to his death, it would appear that people right around the World saw a man of vigour, progression and of integrity. Someone intent on making a positive change to society.
Manchester extensively researched the book. It’s based upon interviews, with around 200 people, over the two years following JFK’s death. Interviewees ranging from Jackie and Robert Kennedy to President Johnson, Oswald’s wife and mother, along with Dallas taxi drivers, Secret Service agents and White House valets etc
It is a compelling narrative of those five days in November 1963. There is no attempt to over dramatise but to bring the events and the participants to life in a measured way. To put the reader amongst those participants. Whether it’s in JFK’s pre-Dallas meetings in the White House. His casual conversations with Jackie, friends, or colleagues. The infighting in between the Dallas democratic leadership. Lee Oswald’s strained relationship with his mother and wife. And after JFK’s death, the immediate tension between his White House team, the so-called ‘Irish mafia’, and those of Johnson’s team, the ‘Texans’.
There is a vast cast of characters in the book. Manchester not only captures in meticulous detail the role they played and the actions they took but also their thoughts and feelings. First, he conveys the early fears of some for JFK on the trip (Dallas was a right-wing city very hostile to his politics). Then encouraging initial stages of the visit saw large crowds. After that comes tragedy and its chaotic aftermath. The transfer of power almost appears brutal in its haste. Then, finally, the outpouring of grief and the poignant telling of JFK’s return to Washington, his funeral and burial. From the moment of his death to his internment being only some three days.
I personally don’t believe there was a conspiracy. To me, both the assassination by Oswald and his subsequent murder were opportunistic. He was a man with great ambition but little talent. Oswald wanted notoriety, and killing someone of note would achieve that. He first tried and failed in that with General Walker. Oswald also wrote of his desire to kill Senator Connolly, who he did wound in the assassination. Oswald was a man whose only power and influence came from a gun barrel. And, as we saw again last weekend in Buffalo, with many such inadequate souls one way or another, they will wield that power.
The IRA once wrote, “We only have to be lucky once. You will have to be lucky always”. On that day in late November, Oswald was both lucky and ruthless. Manchester brings out how a confluence of events offered Oswald his opportunity. His ruthlessness is demonstrated by his killing of officer J D Tippit. The death of whom is often overlooked. However, Manchester does not forget officer Tippit or his family. Neither did Jackie Kennedy.
As it turns out, Oswald gloried in that infamy for only three days. Then, gunned down in another opportunistic killing. Moments before he killed Oswald, Jack Ruby sent a MoneyGram to one of his employees. If that transaction had taken one minute longer, his target would have been on the way to another prison.
The fact Ruby was successful is another example of the bungling by the Dallas police of events after the assassination. Unbelievable as it might be to us, even if Oswald had gone to trial, it would have been difficult to convict him. Too many senior law enforcement officers had gone on TV and radio saying he was definitely the killer. They denied Oswald legal advice. And mishandled forensics. One struggles to think of anywhere in the USA where the authorities might find an untainted jury. His would have been the sort of trial seen before the times of Henry II. A person is guilty unless they can prove their innocence.
Manchester’s Magnum Opus conveys the tragedy, and subsequent sadness, of JFKs death atmospherically and without descending into melodrama. He writes of people struggling with extraordinary circumstances. You feel carried along on almost the same emotional roller-coaster.
He well captures the machinations of the USA political system. Including the fact that the men who drew up the constitution never intended that a Vice-President would immediately assume the Presidency. They would simply be a stand-in until the voting in of a new President. However, the assassination of Lincoln set a precedent after Andrew Johnson simply assumed the role (and what, in hindsight, was a disastrous assumption of power that turned out to be) and had himself sworn in as President.
Virtually all of the major participants on that day in late November are now dead. Although at the time of writing, there is one that is still alive. It’s Clint Hill, the Secret Service agent, who mounted the back of JFK’s limousine to shield Jackie and what he then realised was the deceased JFK. We can only ponder what might have been if Hill had been three seconds sooner in reaching the President’s car.
Looking back some 60 years, what comes to my mind more than anything from Manchester’s book is Auden’s poem, ‘Musée des Beaux-Arts’. No matter how shocking such tragic, seemingly World-stopping events seem as they happen, we soon move past them. It may feel like the end of the World to those directly involved. But to many others, life goes on with barely a glance in the direction of the tragedy. The ploughman, ploughs. The ship sails on. The children skate.
Wise advice. If only a good friend (and while I would usually respect someone’s anonymity, let’s call him Reg) and I had known that some 20 odd years ago when such a fate befell
It was my final working day at GEC. A prominent British Industrial conglomerate when I joined it in 1978. At its peak in the 1980s, it employed some 250,000 people. It’s now gone. How the mighty fall, and whenever I think of it, Keats’ Ozymandias comes to mind.
Anyway, back to that Friday in 2002.
In the morning, I did the rounds bidding my farewells while at the same time contemplating the next stage in my career. After that came the farewell speeches, followed by the usual ritual of congregating with colleagues for a lunchtime drink or three to celebrate my moving to pastures new.
I’d surrendered my company car earlier that day with the intent of catching a train and then a taxi home. However, Reg, who, interestingly, I shared a beer with a few hours ago today, offered to drive me home. To be fair to him, he did add a caution that his vehicle was not in the best condition. I should have heeded that warning.
The celebration over; it was mid-afternoon when Reg and I set off on the journey to my then home in Bedfordshire. It meant a drive on the A1, M25 and then the M1. It was on the latter that our journey came to a juddering halt.
We had just passed the junction for Hemel Hempstead when the lights went out. The lights, the dashboard instruments, the indicators. Anything that required electrical power. And then the engine died. We were in the middle lane of one of the busiest motorways on the busiest day of the week and at the busiest time. To paraphrase Tennyson. Cars to right of us, cars to left of us, cars in front of us; hurried and thundered. But not us.
After pausing for thought, we decided that our best course of action was to get out and push the stricken vehicle to the hard shoulder. Not the current advice! So, very gingerly, we opened our doors and squeezed ourselves out.
Reg’s immobile car trapped those vehicles directly behind us, but those on either side continued to storm past. Fortunately for us, after some moments, drivers across all three lanes realised things were not as they should be. I suspect seeing two individuals forlornly standing in the middle lane gave them something of a clue. So, all around us, the traffic halted. A couple of friendly souls even helped us push the stricken vehicle off the motorway.
Sadly, Reg did not have roadside assistance cover. Hence, it was a long wait while we contacted a recovery company who could take us and his stricken vehicle home. That wait was a test of both our patience and our bladders. But at least we had taken our mother’s advice and “went before we left”.
Eventually, a tow truck arrived. That truck then deposited me some 30 minutes later at Junction 9 of the M1 to await my wife to complete the final stage of my ‘recovery’. A brief time later, I very much welcomed her arrival.
I spent more than 20 years with GEC. It was the making of my career. Yet, it’s ignominious end stays in my memory sharper than anything else I achieved there.
As it’s said, it’s not how you start; it’s how you finish ……
Reflections 