Monday, July 12, 2004
A blogger ends a post talking about sneezing and having a sore throat: Can we guess what's going to happen next? Yep, it's July, yep I get a horrendous cold, yep I don't post for a while. Sorry.
First things first. Poor choice of words of the day: This article from the SMH's sister site: Don't kill the shark: attack victim's brother. Now that's not very nice.
Second: I've discovered that Moby Dick does not make ideal "I'm ill" reading. It's hard enough to read that theatrical prose when my brain is functioning. Stick a big lump of pressure round the front of my head, and it's meandering gibberish. It may teach me words such as harmattan and howdah, but the plot to word ratio is infuriatingly low. There's endless sections on what is and isn't a whale [which is just about interesting to me, as from a current biological stance some of the suggestions are a little intriguing], which is forgivable in a book about whaling. But when the author takes page after page devoted to the fearsomeness of whiteness, it needs a certain level of tenacity not to skip to the next chapter [1]. We get the point: white equals colour of death, and weirdly pure and sanctified hope, and it's bit odd that it's not really a colour but all of the colours at once. Spin it out for a paragraph at most (that's including the fog and things that go "woo") and be done with it. Stop this foolish philosophising: you're not Tolstoy, and even his diatribes on controlling history probably put a lot people permanently off War and Peace (though that bizarre Masonic storyline can't have helped). And he had a heck of a lot more plot to play with.
[1] I didn't. I cheated and picked up an old Dick Francis instead. Contorted plots of evil machinations make much more sense than tedious ponderings [actually it's not so much pondering as pontificating]. Admittedly this is probably because many authors work to the same formula, whether intentionally or not. So if one has read several of the author's works before you tend to know who will live and who will die (and in what order), and occasionally who the baddy will be. But when one's brain isn't functioning to well, it's nice to have something entertaining that doesn't take too much work.
Reverting back to...a topic I haven't yet mentioned. Got rung up midweek. GA [friend]: Hi, I'm home on Saturday, want to come to the pub [her parent's place a few miles away]? Me: I'm ill, so maybe not. You don't want this. GA: You'll be fine.
Phone call on Saturday at about 10 past 6. GA: Hi, how are you? I'm in [Interchange], I'll be at Tweeton in about 40 minutes. You still want to come? I think there's a party [somewhere in Sussex]. Me: Um, ok. GA: Good, you can give me a lift from the station then. What would her response be if I'd been ill enough to say "make your own way there"?
So hurriedly eat, fling stuff in a bag, and drive off. Tweeton Station is heaving, and she's looking bored. Pull up in the nearest gap, and she seems a bit miffed I didn't stop where she was standing [by the pedestrian and vehicle bottleneck by the main exit by the double yellow lines]. The usual "hi how are you"s, and we drive off. She chats, I don't pay attention, as it's been years since I drove round this part of town and they've moved bits of road. Drive out to the village where the pub is, speeding only slightly.
Get to pub, park, remembering to line the passenger door between the posts. Go in and straight upstairs. There's a new dog. A new mischievous dog. A new mischievous dog that hasn't learnt yet not to try jumping on me. It's quite a big dog, but it still acts like a puppy. I have to say I prefer the older brighter one. The one that knows me and knows what she can get away with and when she can get away with it [this dog has mastered opening round Victorian door handles, sticking her head round the door, sensing if it is ok to come in, and if it's not (ie mid-row), leaving again, and pulling the door shut behind her]. It doesn't help GA keeps calling the new dog by different names (and that GA's brother uses a not-very-complimentary name), but then this is the girl who managed to the first dog to turn clockwise for one command, and anticlockwise for another, due to not being able to remember what was the command for a turn.
So new dog not big hit (well except for the initial impact). GA and her brother chat for a while (each sounding preachier than thou, but the people in that family all think they're better than the rest of their family). We order food (GA orders and I just have the same). Food appears, and we go outside to eat. It's the usual conversation of people not discussing certain topics.
We go back in, and the rest of her family have rung asking for reinforcements and supplies. Apparently GA and I are ferrying them over. Which is just as well as I'm the only one with a car available. The people at a party have left a list of requests. These include playing cards. I'm guessing the party isn't going as well as might be expected. We gather things, and GA is handed a large bundle of plastic bags and elastic bands, with the comment "you might need these". Where is this party again? In a feild? Oh I see. Very fetching.
We drive off the edge of the street atlas. Sussex, land of the here-be-dragons. I'm a bit concerned as we have a hand drawn map (that includes a "balloon tree" as described when her brother thought he'd lost the original map), and GA's sense of direction, to guide us. GA's sense of direction leads her to say "oh look there's the river" when we crossed Westminister Bridge, closely followed by "oh, is Big Ben here then?" (which part of Westminiter and Bridge confused you?).
We continue along meandering lanes, and then hit a village. Apparently I might have to turn left by the church. Might? Is that turn left or not? We turn left. GA: It might not have been left, but carry on in case it is, followed by us leaving the village and returning to open roads. GA: It was the other way. Turn round, drive back, and ask at the first junction if we want that left (presuming it to be a triangular branch back down to the main road, that runs to the far end of the village). GA is adamant that we don't want that road, so we continue up the junction between pub and the church (it's one of those villages). We turn left back onto the main road, and back to where we were a while ago.
Once again the houses thin out quite quickly, we pass what appear to be the other end of the road I suggested taking, and I'm told to slow down [I'm already chugging along in 2nd] so we can look out for a pollarded tree (to be far to the brother, the diagram does look like balloons). On one bend, on the hill above is a tree that's had a few of it's branches lopped off. Apparently that is the sacred balloon tree. GA doesn't look impressed when I point out that that's not pollarding, that's just pruning. I think my subsequent discourse on the poster for Big Fish and school trips to Somerset were probably overdoing it a bit, but it's still not a pollarded tree (the balloon tree diagram was the archetypal pollarded shape).
So it's here then. Somewhere. First right apparently. I know the talk referred to the party being in a field, but the first right is a gate, with only a field beyond it. So not this right. We continue on down, and there's muddy entrance next to a sign about some diary co-operative. Guessing this is it then. We drive down the rough track [the type of thing that's made of mud, gravel and potholes, and upon which quarry lorries and milk tankers usually approach head-on coming much too fast]. Ahead there's a sprawling junction with several exits, and another car ahead turning left, so we follow, assuming they're going where we're going.
There's ranks of cars parked off both sides of the track. The Landie ahead is backing and turning, but I can't tell if it's run out of track and is coming back or has found the last space down there (and I can't see past it). Ahead on the left is Range Rover parked along the verge, and behind it is small patch of long grass flanked by the ditch that runs along the road where I was. There's another Land Rover behind me. I decide to park in the same bit of verge I can see, not knowing if there are spaces anywhere else.
Well, whilst try to get as far off the track as I can, but not drive into the ditch I drive slowly forward. And find a deep hole hidden in the grass with the front left wheel. Do I do the sensible thing and back away and try to park elsewhere? No, I do a slow hill start and edge the front wheel out of it, and then carry on, going slowly to get the back wheel across. I stop and get out to check the position. The car's not straight and the back right corner is still sticking out into the road. But not enough to block the road, and if I attempt to straighten up, I'm going find myself running out of a flat surface to do it on. So we get out (parking next to a ditch can pose problems for anyone trying to get out of the passenger side door). Despite the Range Rover ahead leaving its parking lights on, I don't bother, figuring anyone coming along here has to be going slowly and with their lights on.
Getting out we can see that there's couple more spaces ahead, then a cattlegrid, another junction and apparently a cottage beyond it. So I could have parked somewhere decent. Oh well. We walk back down the lane we approached from, following the couples and other clusters of people. We turn left at the sprawling junction, and then see the scattered straw marking the path. We then see why there's scattered straw: it forms a causeway through a wide and deep slurry lake. If the others drove through this bit, and didn't know about the straw, no wonder they suggested sacrificial plastic bags. Well, it is a diary farm I suppose.
The path continues through a wood, each couple in turn making small talk about the trees, and the unlit candles lining the path. There's traffic jam of couples all stuck behind someone making their way with a crutch, and either being too polite, or too ill-dressed to resort to walking off the path to overtake (though the latter is unlikely as there ground everywhere is covering in a layer of what appear to bluebell leaves). Eventually GA ducks under the lower hanging branches beside the path and overtakes, and I follow. Most of the other couples do the same, now that someone else has done it.
We stride along, and then come to a clearing. To the right is black modern Land Rover, some unturned crates forming a barrier, a couple of piles of bricks and tiles, and the back of some building. In one the windows, is a stack of cans, and an elbow that looks like GA's father's. GA continues straight on, ignoring me. And then once she sights people she drops back unsure of what to do, which considering she's just been giving me a prep talk on how to network, seems odd.
We go odd, with me heading the way, and fending off people with a slight nod and big smile. There's a cluster round the barbecuing section (well, a big crowd of cold, bored and expectant-looking people standing in a lot of smoke usually implies a barbecue). Wheeling round to the right and there's an open-sided courtyard, obviously the farmyard before the farm became industrialised, and moved up the road. There are huddles of people, with barn to the left, a locked shed to the right and what look like ex-stables ahead open to the courtyard.
GA seems flummoxed by it all, by I drag her ahead into the ex-stables, and sure enough there's the bar, with her family working it. We squeeze through between tables, and straight through the door back outside (and back to by the car and the piles of tiles). I'd forgotten they had a black Discovery.
Hmm, so this looks like fun: standing round by washing-up bowls of cold water, bags of rubbish, the stacked remains of a building, and being just round the corner from the generator. So, who's party is it? None of people working on the bar seem to know. They just know they were hired for a party, and that there are signs dotted round the neighbouring countryside saying "25". Presumably that's 25 years, but of what no-one seems sure. Possibly 25 years of the milking co-operative, or maybe it's the farmer's son/daughter's birthday party, but there don't seem to be enough 25 years olds for that.
So I stand round the back of some unknown someone's party, and realising that at least habitually standing in kitchens at parties usually gets you heat and food. I politely turn down the opportunity of doing some washing-up, on the grounds that I'm not getting paid, yet both of GA's younger sisters are, and they're not doing it.
It feels eerily like a particularly dismal scout camp. Cold, damp and with nothing to do but the washing up. One sister has already nabbed the food and cards, and is sitting playing patience. Those who aren't working sit and chat for a bit, but it's all utterly trivial [I can't remember any of it]. Eventually the middle sister and I go inside the car [because it's warmer], and play Beggar thy neighbour (she calls it something else). It's an interesting game, as she plays the complete opposite game to the one I do. She tries to get out as quickly as possible, and tries playing that person who loses picks up the cards, and then the winner has the first card down next. Eventually I convince her that the loser [the one who has just paid out 3 normal cards on the other player's king, for example] doesn't get to pick up the bundle he's just lost, and has to go first next time. But as it's luck, us quibbling about the rules and the point of the game don't make much difference. I lose (my way) on the first game, but she thinks she's lost (due to having all the cards). I discover her life at college is about as fun as ours was, although the "in" areas have changed a bit (You sit in the cafeteria? The far end? The one by the huts? Are you mad, that's were all the Garys are. That's where all the fights happen ... What do you mean you've never heard of the scabby little room? ... But everyone does still sit on the fences of the OK corral, despite the frequent tellings-off, right? That, and they're always breaking).
The next game goes on a long time, and gets called off, due to her work commitments. I don't think either of us are unduly upset. I get a message I ought to be more sociable. With whom? GA is standing looking bored, and not talking to me, the sisters are flitting in and out, her parents are behind the bar full time, and the unincestuous barmaid understandably doesn't get to come out much, and that's only to smoke.
I retreated back to warmth of their car, this time at the invitation of the younger sister, who wants to play snap. Snap? I think I last played that on family holiday to Lancashire, oooh, when I wasn't quite old enough to remember much beyond a stream, a bloody-minded ram interrupting a pic-nic, a stone between to countries [turns out it was on the border of Yorkshire and Lancashire, both of which were equally cold and windy], having a kite I could go for a walk with [it was that easy to fly, though the windswept barren plains of Lancaster Uni probably had something to do with it] and walking past the mistletoe on an appletree on the way to collect the eggs for breakfast at a bed and breakfast we stopped at on the way up. I played it with my brother. He cheated [strange that my participation in, and awareness of, so many games ends with some family member cheating. Snap: my brother. Monopoly: my male cousin. Some game I can't remember the name of, or how to play: my female cousin. Chess: my father (he just forgot it wasn't his go. Repeatedly. I can be quite fun watching him trying to work out why I'm not responding to his actions, and thus throwing his planning into chaos. I don't think it ever occurred to him that I'd got bored and had given up protesting when he took my go)].
Anyway, we play snap. She cheats. I give her a "you're how old, and you still expect me to sportingly let you get away with that, because you're younger?" look. Admittedly I'm not all that sure how old she is. Neither is her sister, GA [don't ask]. I figured out the eldest she could be was 14, and that's because I remember her being born (we'd just started secondary school at the time, and so people's mothers having children was pretty rare).
After getting annoyed by my gaul in contesting the game (oh I see, you just want me to regularly put cards down, and not bother sticking my hand on them whilst calling "snap". Well you can see how the name "Snap" mislead me then), she wins. She carries on putting cards down, waiting for a pair to come through. I can vaguely remember the sequence they were in. There's the ten of clubs, so there should be another ten coming next. "Snap!". She is not happy. Me: Well, if you will carry on playing once the game is over...
We play on, and I start gaining cards. She decides she ought to be helping her parents once I have nearly all the pack. Game adjourned.
Get back out, and go and chat with GA. Her father comes out just as we're discussing something that was on the news. She's surprised I heard about it. I was asking if she was in it. Let me clarify this bit. A couple of weeks ago there was an article on the BBC News website (and reputedly on BBC South News, or whatever it's currently called). The article was about an incident in the Solent. A Big Corp had hired some yachts, and had somehow managed to crash two of them into each other, with the result that one sank. [I doubt know why I'm being discreet about this, you can easy find out about which firm I'm talking about]. Further follow-ups via the grapevine suggested that the yacht that sank didn't know they were sinking for a very long time.
GA works for Big Corp. GA has talked about sailing incidents with Big Corpers (Such as her, whilst acting as navigator, being asked "where's X-bouy?". She goes down to check the charts, and comes back up, and confidently points somewhere off to the horizon. The Boss: Er, are you sure? What's that buoy then? [pointing to big, very close buoy, on the other side of the boat to GA's indication]. GA: I'm not sure, I'll go and check. Disappears back down to the charts. Comes back up. GA: We came out of Cowes not Portsmouth didn't we? Sorry, wrong chart). GA also talked about needing a dress that could survive being packed for a fortnight, and which wouldn't mind getting damp [I was being dragged round looking for one]. GA was part of the corporate event when the sinking happened? Probably.
So I ask her. She wasn't anywhere near the accident at the time, because they were sailing round the farest buoy of the pre-arrange race course. Their radio wasn't working very well, and so they missed the message informing them the course had been shortened. [I'll leave aside for the time being comments on the wisdom of sailing without adequate communications. I'll also ignore the fact the boat charter company bans racing, and quite why race control didn't insure all participants knew of the change, and what they were doing letting bits of the fleet disappear on their own (was there een a race control?)].
AS GA tells it, they heard erratic chatter over the radio about the incompetence of assorted people. They realised something was wrong, but didn't know what, so carried on (as they had enough problems of their own). Quite a long while later they heard the message "...we are unsure of [garbled]...we have a foot and a half of water down here, and it appears to be rising...". This is followed by an exchange between unknown voices, which can't be easily understood. GA's crew pick up enough to figure out that there's all sorts of fun involving lifeboats down the other end of the Solent.
They sail back to the finish, and finish off for the day. Talking to people informs GA that the collision was between a group who didn't have much experience [FS Regs people] and another lead by a very experienced sailor. Unfortunately the sailor is Swedish. He speaks English, but not well. The implication is that when he's cross or panicked he reverts to Swedish. Add to that the chaotic nature of most boats, and quite how difficult it is to make yourself heard by the crew on the foredeck, especially in poor weather (and when things are going wrong - try outshouting a rapidly flapping main). I'm guessing communications broke down.
The race had already been shortened because of the deteriorating weather conditions. That day had extremely strong gusting winds, and an incredibly choppy sea. Not ideal conditions, especially for an inexperienced group. From what GA said, the two boats were near a mark, and so both were trying to get round it as easily as possible. That means both would be aiming for the same point.
Normally, the rules and regulations governing sailing races would determine who had right of way, and who would have to adjust their course. It is probable that the Swedish skipper knew most of these rules, and expected them to be applied. It is also probable that inexperienced team didn't, and so would not react as expected.
So two boats in close proximity, heading for the same point, both not accurately predicting what the other would do. Now remember the weather. Howling winds [and rising], so the boats will both be heeled over, and probably over-powered [big sails designed for weaker winds]. Both will be having a joyous time crashing up, down and across waves. Every movement of the sails changes where the boat sails. As the boat goes over each wave, the boat is trying to sail in variety of directions, with a variety of success.
I think events conspired enough that the bow of one stuck the hull of the other, just under the transom [the flattened section at the stern/rear]. I'm not sure if this has a technical name, but it was far enough down that the crew couldn't see the hole, and far enough down to be below the waterline.
Apparently they sailed on a long while after the collision (4 miles according to one source), whilst the boat started to fill with water, unaware there was anything wrong.
Eventually the leak was discovered, and the help messages sent. The crew taken off by lifeboat, and the yacht towed out of the main channels. It sank on the edge of Bramble Bank.
The comment accompanying the picture to the right, was "Sunsail's boats all have their numbers on the tops of their masts. Now I know why!" At least we know the roller-furled jib works, though overall it isn't exactly a great advert for Sunfast (the makers of the yacht). And Bramble Bank must be muddy to allow the thing to sink keel first, and then hold it bolt upright.
Assorted links (discretion be damned), though not necessarily accurate: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5.
Random ad [presumably] for Swedish navigation tools.
GA's other story from her sailing expedition took place in similar conditions. It's pretty grotty weather, and the crew on her boat have just finished swapping one set of sails for a smaller set. Extrapolating on my experience, this means they've just spent the past 20 minutes screaming at each other over the top of the noise of the waves and wind, getting cold, wet and bruised, and generally trying not to fall in, whilst trying to keep hold of large slippery expanses of sail.
So they're all pretty knackered, and are sitting waiting for the day to end (or the flurry of effort on the next tack). One of the crew, who is fairly young and inexperienced, obviously decides to perk everyone up a bit [and possibly score brownie points with the boss]. He announces "Tea, coffee anyone?", to which he gets a series of muttered replies along the lines of "If you're making it".
He disappears down below. The rest of the crew sit, too tired to tweak the sails. A while later, the wind and waves suddenly catch the boat, and she heels right over. This is accompanied by the cascading sound of smashing crockery. No-one of the crew dares say anything. A little while later, the guy making tea reappears with four mugs. He hands them out to those who asked for a drink. He stays up in the cockpit, so GA asks him "Aren't you having one?". He replies "No, not right now".
Even GA has enough tact to figure out the reason and not press it. Apparently, he went down to make the tea. So he filled the kettle and put it on the stove, and as he was waiting for it to boil, he took enough mugs out of the cupboard, shut the door afterwards, and lined them up on worktop. He then started putting teabags, spoonfuls of coffee, milk and sugar in the mugs. Wedging himself in the companionway, he then waited for the water to boil.
As he was waiting, the boat suddenly heeled over. The mugs on the side slid off, with four of them landing relatively intact in the sink. However, when he shut the cupboard he had taken them out of, he didn't know one has to click the handle to lock it. So he shut the cupboard door. Without the catch. So when the contents of the cupboard moved as the boat rolled, there was nothing to hold the door shut, so there was nothing holding them in. So the contents of the cupboard fell out. The contents of the cupboard was boat's crockery. So when it heeled over, piles of plates, side plates, bowls, and the remaining mugs, flung themselves towards the navigator's desk. Much crockery plus big drop, plus solid wood, equals not much.
I'm still surprised that a company that hire boats out to fairly inexperienced sailors has breakable crockery. I'm even more surprised that there's no secondary securing mechanism, such as strapping or webbing, round the piles in the cupboard.
But it's quire funny really, as long as it's not one's own deposit or insurance bills it effects.
Reverting back to the party, and by this time, the music has got louder, and appears to be a live band covering numbers by the Rolling Stones and alike. GA somehow manages to describe it as "Cheese". Sometimes you have to wonder about how this girl's brain works. Cheese? In musical terms, it means the truly dire, it's bad yet engineered enough to trigger innate responses. It usually involves Dutch females and nonsensical lyrics. It often thinks wackiness or zaniness is a virtue. It's the song at the school disco which is embarrassing at the time. Somehow I can't see anything coming from the Rolling Stones ever appearing on a compilation album titled "Now that's what I call CHEDDAR!".
Eventually the cold and boredom become all too evident (and it's not just restricted our huddle in the servants quarters. I guess that's what you get for having an open-air party on a chilly night, inviting many guests to traipse deep into the countryside, and then charging them high prices for both the food and drink), and by mutual agreement GA and I leave, and are charged with returning the youngest sibling to the pub. The youngest sibling somehow has liberated a glass of Pimms [Pimms on a cold night? Surely there is an implicit understanding that anyone drinking Pimms must be within 5m of warm dappled sunlight on well kept lawn?]. This is going to be fun.
The path back to the car is even more fun. Remember that it's through a wood, then across straw causeways through the mire, and then along a rough half-stony, half-muddy road, and round onto another? It's night. In the wood there are candles to light the way. They are placed about every hundred yards, and that's when the suicidal moths haven't snuffed them out. The path isn't straight, but candles strangely seem to line up. So the walk back through the woods consists of trying to use nightvision under a shady canopy, putting my arm up to block the candlelight (they are strategically sited to blind one just as soon as one's eyes have recovered from the light of the last one).
Eventually I develop an incredibly loose hip and ankle walk, as trying to cope with the terrain only seems to make it worse. Fortunately the straw pontoons did show up well at night, so that was the next problem avoided.
We walk back to the car being glad that it's summer so there is still a slight pretence of light in the sky. Attempt wipe mud off shoes on the grass before getting in, but I can't see what I'm doing, so I give up. Unlock the car and get in, letting the others in. The little sister has somehow finished her drink and disposed of the glass. I don't know where though, so I assume it's been left on bonnet of some convenient Range Rover.
GA and I both notice that when we get in the car, the sidelights on the Range Rover ahead of us aren't as bright as they were when we parked. And that was in daylight. As we get ready to leave, we realise they are visibly dimming before us. Oh dear. But what can we do? Spend ages walking back to the party and asking if anyone owns a Range Rover? We'd only get about a third of the people there coming out. And my car is usually on the receiving end of the jump leads, so I'm not sure it would be any use. And it's late, and there's many other people around. So we, in the true spirit of chivalry, drive off and leave it there.
Driving off consists of putting the car in first, putting the steering on full lock and inching my way forward hoping to squeeze past the end of the Range Rover. Why? Because it's dark, there's a hole directly behind me, and a ditch beside that, so the thought of backing and turning here doesn't seem too good. GA is not convinced, and is telling me to back out, as I'm going to hit the car ahead. Me: No I'm not [whilst thinking: I can just about do this, and I'm only going very slowly so hitting the car ahead won't actually damage anything]. I can see the headlights catching the back of the car ahead, and focusing the ribbed patterns on it. I am very close. I just make it. Me to GA: Oh ye of little faith [not admitting I didn't think I could make it, but was going to try anyway].
So I drive on, hoping my gut-instinct about there being somewhere to turn round up here is right. Over the cattle grid, and onto a cow widened junction. Going slowly, with low revs, I sweep round to the left and continue round in a full circle. I'm glad there's enough room, as I wouldn't want to have to reverse here. That's because the entire area is one big sludgy mass. Did you know that driving on slurry is much like driving on gravel or snow? You have to do everything slowly and gradually.
Drive out of the farm, and back along meandering roads (yay, rally style corners! Though I hasten to add I wasn't going that fast. Though having light forewarning of oncoming vehicles [all two of them] does help). Back to the pub, and we stop outside. We go, and stand round chatting with GA's younger brother and assorted just-finished-work barmen. While we do this, one of the customers decides to go behind the bar and start serving people. The brother chases him back out again. Apparently, the pub traditionally does lock-ins, but the brother would be on his own, and doesn't want to do it (he claims he wasn't supposed to be working tonight, as he's going somewhere very early tomorrow). The regulars don't seem convinced, and are waiting for someone to carry on serving them, even though it's way past 11.
I decide to make my excuses and leave. I go out, get into the car, put the key in the ignition, and nothing happens. The dashboard lights come on, but there's no sound. Damn.
This has happened before. If only I could remember what caused it. It's happen before when I was parked in the same space here. Think. One of the faults was a loose lead, but should have been fixed. There was something about the distributor arm, wasn't there? Open bonnet, and take off the distributor head (the thing that looks like a sandcastle). Something's rattling. Two small bits of irregularly shaped plastic fall out. Hmm, that's not good. Looking into it, they appear to be insulating bits on the rear of the connectors, and they're from two opposing corners. I put it back on, cursing it slightly. Turn the key again, and still no noise.
I go back to the pub to beg a torch. The one in their beer cellar is huge, and yet doesn't work. They don't appear to have another one. Seeking out GA, she seems baffled, and goes to get the only one she can think off. I tell her is doesn't work, so she tries the torch anyway. It does work. The little sister comes in, and with exacting the same "oh give it here" attitude tries it. They look stumped. I suggest a candle, knowing the pub gets through gallons of them. GA looks contemptuous, and dismisses that idea.
Back out to the car, and she's got suggestions until I open the bonnet, and then she doesn't. The little sister appears with a candle, and once again it's off with the orange sandcastle. Despite GA sounding like she knows what she's doing (and knows better than me), she doesn't correct me when I call it the alternator. Even with a candle, I still can't see anything wrong with it.
It's then we notice the dog is out, and lurking around our feet. It's the older, nicer dog, who happens to be utterly black (from this angle at least). Sticking her in the car to keep her out of harm's way, we decide that it must be the distributor arm that's stopped in the wrong place and so isn't making contact. The cure for this is bump-starting this [I'm not sure this is the right diagnosis or cure]. GA claims not to know how to bump-start a car, so I have to be the one driving. Which when I'm a foot taller than either of them, and heavier, seems wrong.
We start off trying to do it backwards, but it doesn’t work. I think I kept trying to soon. Running out of road, we stop. They go round to the back, and when I change gear, I realise I'd put it in first not reverse. No wonder it didn't work. So putting it back in first, we go forwards. I wait till we're going fast, and running out of road. Bring the clutch in, and the engine sort of splutters. And then fades away again as I bring the clutch back out. Damn. The car has come to a halt. I try restarting it. It's making trying-to-start noises, but not working. This goes on for some while in a confusion of putting ther choke in and out whilst accelerating. She suddenly revs frantically into life.
I put the car into gear, and then remember the dog. Car back out of gear, check the hand brake, and then unlock the door behind me to let the dog out. GA opens that door, and there's no dog. We both realise she must be in the front, and so I reach over to unlock front passenger door. As I do so, I clout the dog with my elbow [probably right in the face]. Sorry dog, I didn't see you there. The dog understandably makes for the back door, and disappears. I get back in properly, and in a flurry of revs, shout a very enthusiastic "thank you so much!" over my shoulder through the window, and drive off knowing GA's holding the dog by the collar.
I drive home, a bit too fast in places, but there's nothing else around. I park, without problem, and leave the car, and go in, and then to bed.
The next day, the effects of last night are apparent on the car. The tires are brown, there's pretty arcing streaks along the car, in fetching pale beige, and blackened handprints round the bonnet and door handle. Oh well.
This is made all the more ridiculous by the next car along being a proper landrover. A big new, incredibly clean, shiny and undented land rover. Further up the road are a couple of Discos, equally as clean and shiny. It's bizarre, looking round the road. The more a car has been designed for off-roading, the cleaner and less damaged it is. There's my muddy mouldmobile Vauxhall Cavalier, designed with the sales rep in mind. There's a lightly speckled Skoda, a somewhat scuffed Ford, and a couple of roof-racked Golfs, which look like they were trying to find out if going through a hedge backwards is worse than through it fowards. And then you have the assorted SUVs [the landies and knock-offs], which are all pristine, and have probably never faced anything worse than the wrong end of Sainsbury's car park.
And that's about it for this weekend's adventures.
Anyhoo,
First things first. Poor choice of words of the day: This article from the SMH's sister site: Don't kill the shark: attack victim's brother. Now that's not very nice.
Second: I've discovered that Moby Dick does not make ideal "I'm ill" reading. It's hard enough to read that theatrical prose when my brain is functioning. Stick a big lump of pressure round the front of my head, and it's meandering gibberish. It may teach me words such as harmattan and howdah, but the plot to word ratio is infuriatingly low. There's endless sections on what is and isn't a whale [which is just about interesting to me, as from a current biological stance some of the suggestions are a little intriguing], which is forgivable in a book about whaling. But when the author takes page after page devoted to the fearsomeness of whiteness, it needs a certain level of tenacity not to skip to the next chapter [1]. We get the point: white equals colour of death, and weirdly pure and sanctified hope, and it's bit odd that it's not really a colour but all of the colours at once. Spin it out for a paragraph at most (that's including the fog and things that go "woo") and be done with it. Stop this foolish philosophising: you're not Tolstoy, and even his diatribes on controlling history probably put a lot people permanently off War and Peace (though that bizarre Masonic storyline can't have helped). And he had a heck of a lot more plot to play with.
[1] I didn't. I cheated and picked up an old Dick Francis instead. Contorted plots of evil machinations make much more sense than tedious ponderings [actually it's not so much pondering as pontificating]. Admittedly this is probably because many authors work to the same formula, whether intentionally or not. So if one has read several of the author's works before you tend to know who will live and who will die (and in what order), and occasionally who the baddy will be. But when one's brain isn't functioning to well, it's nice to have something entertaining that doesn't take too much work.
Reverting back to...a topic I haven't yet mentioned. Got rung up midweek. GA [friend]: Hi, I'm home on Saturday, want to come to the pub [her parent's place a few miles away]? Me: I'm ill, so maybe not. You don't want this. GA: You'll be fine.
Phone call on Saturday at about 10 past 6. GA: Hi, how are you? I'm in [Interchange], I'll be at Tweeton in about 40 minutes. You still want to come? I think there's a party [somewhere in Sussex]. Me: Um, ok. GA: Good, you can give me a lift from the station then. What would her response be if I'd been ill enough to say "make your own way there"?
So hurriedly eat, fling stuff in a bag, and drive off. Tweeton Station is heaving, and she's looking bored. Pull up in the nearest gap, and she seems a bit miffed I didn't stop where she was standing [by the pedestrian and vehicle bottleneck by the main exit by the double yellow lines]. The usual "hi how are you"s, and we drive off. She chats, I don't pay attention, as it's been years since I drove round this part of town and they've moved bits of road. Drive out to the village where the pub is, speeding only slightly.
Get to pub, park, remembering to line the passenger door between the posts. Go in and straight upstairs. There's a new dog. A new mischievous dog. A new mischievous dog that hasn't learnt yet not to try jumping on me. It's quite a big dog, but it still acts like a puppy. I have to say I prefer the older brighter one. The one that knows me and knows what she can get away with and when she can get away with it [this dog has mastered opening round Victorian door handles, sticking her head round the door, sensing if it is ok to come in, and if it's not (ie mid-row), leaving again, and pulling the door shut behind her]. It doesn't help GA keeps calling the new dog by different names (and that GA's brother uses a not-very-complimentary name), but then this is the girl who managed to the first dog to turn clockwise for one command, and anticlockwise for another, due to not being able to remember what was the command for a turn.
So new dog not big hit (well except for the initial impact). GA and her brother chat for a while (each sounding preachier than thou, but the people in that family all think they're better than the rest of their family). We order food (GA orders and I just have the same). Food appears, and we go outside to eat. It's the usual conversation of people not discussing certain topics.
We go back in, and the rest of her family have rung asking for reinforcements and supplies. Apparently GA and I are ferrying them over. Which is just as well as I'm the only one with a car available. The people at a party have left a list of requests. These include playing cards. I'm guessing the party isn't going as well as might be expected. We gather things, and GA is handed a large bundle of plastic bags and elastic bands, with the comment "you might need these". Where is this party again? In a feild? Oh I see. Very fetching.
We drive off the edge of the street atlas. Sussex, land of the here-be-dragons. I'm a bit concerned as we have a hand drawn map (that includes a "balloon tree" as described when her brother thought he'd lost the original map), and GA's sense of direction, to guide us. GA's sense of direction leads her to say "oh look there's the river" when we crossed Westminister Bridge, closely followed by "oh, is Big Ben here then?" (which part of Westminiter and Bridge confused you?).
We continue along meandering lanes, and then hit a village. Apparently I might have to turn left by the church. Might? Is that turn left or not? We turn left. GA: It might not have been left, but carry on in case it is, followed by us leaving the village and returning to open roads. GA: It was the other way. Turn round, drive back, and ask at the first junction if we want that left (presuming it to be a triangular branch back down to the main road, that runs to the far end of the village). GA is adamant that we don't want that road, so we continue up the junction between pub and the church (it's one of those villages). We turn left back onto the main road, and back to where we were a while ago.
Once again the houses thin out quite quickly, we pass what appear to be the other end of the road I suggested taking, and I'm told to slow down [I'm already chugging along in 2nd] so we can look out for a pollarded tree (to be far to the brother, the diagram does look like balloons). On one bend, on the hill above is a tree that's had a few of it's branches lopped off. Apparently that is the sacred balloon tree. GA doesn't look impressed when I point out that that's not pollarding, that's just pruning. I think my subsequent discourse on the poster for Big Fish and school trips to Somerset were probably overdoing it a bit, but it's still not a pollarded tree (the balloon tree diagram was the archetypal pollarded shape).
So it's here then. Somewhere. First right apparently. I know the talk referred to the party being in a field, but the first right is a gate, with only a field beyond it. So not this right. We continue on down, and there's muddy entrance next to a sign about some diary co-operative. Guessing this is it then. We drive down the rough track [the type of thing that's made of mud, gravel and potholes, and upon which quarry lorries and milk tankers usually approach head-on coming much too fast]. Ahead there's a sprawling junction with several exits, and another car ahead turning left, so we follow, assuming they're going where we're going.
There's ranks of cars parked off both sides of the track. The Landie ahead is backing and turning, but I can't tell if it's run out of track and is coming back or has found the last space down there (and I can't see past it). Ahead on the left is Range Rover parked along the verge, and behind it is small patch of long grass flanked by the ditch that runs along the road where I was. There's another Land Rover behind me. I decide to park in the same bit of verge I can see, not knowing if there are spaces anywhere else.
Well, whilst try to get as far off the track as I can, but not drive into the ditch I drive slowly forward. And find a deep hole hidden in the grass with the front left wheel. Do I do the sensible thing and back away and try to park elsewhere? No, I do a slow hill start and edge the front wheel out of it, and then carry on, going slowly to get the back wheel across. I stop and get out to check the position. The car's not straight and the back right corner is still sticking out into the road. But not enough to block the road, and if I attempt to straighten up, I'm going find myself running out of a flat surface to do it on. So we get out (parking next to a ditch can pose problems for anyone trying to get out of the passenger side door). Despite the Range Rover ahead leaving its parking lights on, I don't bother, figuring anyone coming along here has to be going slowly and with their lights on.
Getting out we can see that there's couple more spaces ahead, then a cattlegrid, another junction and apparently a cottage beyond it. So I could have parked somewhere decent. Oh well. We walk back down the lane we approached from, following the couples and other clusters of people. We turn left at the sprawling junction, and then see the scattered straw marking the path. We then see why there's scattered straw: it forms a causeway through a wide and deep slurry lake. If the others drove through this bit, and didn't know about the straw, no wonder they suggested sacrificial plastic bags. Well, it is a diary farm I suppose.
The path continues through a wood, each couple in turn making small talk about the trees, and the unlit candles lining the path. There's traffic jam of couples all stuck behind someone making their way with a crutch, and either being too polite, or too ill-dressed to resort to walking off the path to overtake (though the latter is unlikely as there ground everywhere is covering in a layer of what appear to bluebell leaves). Eventually GA ducks under the lower hanging branches beside the path and overtakes, and I follow. Most of the other couples do the same, now that someone else has done it.
We stride along, and then come to a clearing. To the right is black modern Land Rover, some unturned crates forming a barrier, a couple of piles of bricks and tiles, and the back of some building. In one the windows, is a stack of cans, and an elbow that looks like GA's father's. GA continues straight on, ignoring me. And then once she sights people she drops back unsure of what to do, which considering she's just been giving me a prep talk on how to network, seems odd.
We go odd, with me heading the way, and fending off people with a slight nod and big smile. There's a cluster round the barbecuing section (well, a big crowd of cold, bored and expectant-looking people standing in a lot of smoke usually implies a barbecue). Wheeling round to the right and there's an open-sided courtyard, obviously the farmyard before the farm became industrialised, and moved up the road. There are huddles of people, with barn to the left, a locked shed to the right and what look like ex-stables ahead open to the courtyard.
GA seems flummoxed by it all, by I drag her ahead into the ex-stables, and sure enough there's the bar, with her family working it. We squeeze through between tables, and straight through the door back outside (and back to by the car and the piles of tiles). I'd forgotten they had a black Discovery.
Hmm, so this looks like fun: standing round by washing-up bowls of cold water, bags of rubbish, the stacked remains of a building, and being just round the corner from the generator. So, who's party is it? None of people working on the bar seem to know. They just know they were hired for a party, and that there are signs dotted round the neighbouring countryside saying "25". Presumably that's 25 years, but of what no-one seems sure. Possibly 25 years of the milking co-operative, or maybe it's the farmer's son/daughter's birthday party, but there don't seem to be enough 25 years olds for that.
So I stand round the back of some unknown someone's party, and realising that at least habitually standing in kitchens at parties usually gets you heat and food. I politely turn down the opportunity of doing some washing-up, on the grounds that I'm not getting paid, yet both of GA's younger sisters are, and they're not doing it.
It feels eerily like a particularly dismal scout camp. Cold, damp and with nothing to do but the washing up. One sister has already nabbed the food and cards, and is sitting playing patience. Those who aren't working sit and chat for a bit, but it's all utterly trivial [I can't remember any of it]. Eventually the middle sister and I go inside the car [because it's warmer], and play Beggar thy neighbour (she calls it something else). It's an interesting game, as she plays the complete opposite game to the one I do. She tries to get out as quickly as possible, and tries playing that person who loses picks up the cards, and then the winner has the first card down next. Eventually I convince her that the loser [the one who has just paid out 3 normal cards on the other player's king, for example] doesn't get to pick up the bundle he's just lost, and has to go first next time. But as it's luck, us quibbling about the rules and the point of the game don't make much difference. I lose (my way) on the first game, but she thinks she's lost (due to having all the cards). I discover her life at college is about as fun as ours was, although the "in" areas have changed a bit (You sit in the cafeteria? The far end? The one by the huts? Are you mad, that's were all the Garys are. That's where all the fights happen ... What do you mean you've never heard of the scabby little room? ... But everyone does still sit on the fences of the OK corral, despite the frequent tellings-off, right? That, and they're always breaking).
The next game goes on a long time, and gets called off, due to her work commitments. I don't think either of us are unduly upset. I get a message I ought to be more sociable. With whom? GA is standing looking bored, and not talking to me, the sisters are flitting in and out, her parents are behind the bar full time, and the unincestuous barmaid understandably doesn't get to come out much, and that's only to smoke.
I retreated back to warmth of their car, this time at the invitation of the younger sister, who wants to play snap. Snap? I think I last played that on family holiday to Lancashire, oooh, when I wasn't quite old enough to remember much beyond a stream, a bloody-minded ram interrupting a pic-nic, a stone between to countries [turns out it was on the border of Yorkshire and Lancashire, both of which were equally cold and windy], having a kite I could go for a walk with [it was that easy to fly, though the windswept barren plains of Lancaster Uni probably had something to do with it] and walking past the mistletoe on an appletree on the way to collect the eggs for breakfast at a bed and breakfast we stopped at on the way up. I played it with my brother. He cheated [strange that my participation in, and awareness of, so many games ends with some family member cheating. Snap: my brother. Monopoly: my male cousin. Some game I can't remember the name of, or how to play: my female cousin. Chess: my father (he just forgot it wasn't his go. Repeatedly. I can be quite fun watching him trying to work out why I'm not responding to his actions, and thus throwing his planning into chaos. I don't think it ever occurred to him that I'd got bored and had given up protesting when he took my go)].
Anyway, we play snap. She cheats. I give her a "you're how old, and you still expect me to sportingly let you get away with that, because you're younger?" look. Admittedly I'm not all that sure how old she is. Neither is her sister, GA [don't ask]. I figured out the eldest she could be was 14, and that's because I remember her being born (we'd just started secondary school at the time, and so people's mothers having children was pretty rare).
After getting annoyed by my gaul in contesting the game (oh I see, you just want me to regularly put cards down, and not bother sticking my hand on them whilst calling "snap". Well you can see how the name "Snap" mislead me then), she wins. She carries on putting cards down, waiting for a pair to come through. I can vaguely remember the sequence they were in. There's the ten of clubs, so there should be another ten coming next. "Snap!". She is not happy. Me: Well, if you will carry on playing once the game is over...
We play on, and I start gaining cards. She decides she ought to be helping her parents once I have nearly all the pack. Game adjourned.
Get back out, and go and chat with GA. Her father comes out just as we're discussing something that was on the news. She's surprised I heard about it. I was asking if she was in it. Let me clarify this bit. A couple of weeks ago there was an article on the BBC News website (and reputedly on BBC South News, or whatever it's currently called). The article was about an incident in the Solent. A Big Corp had hired some yachts, and had somehow managed to crash two of them into each other, with the result that one sank. [I doubt know why I'm being discreet about this, you can easy find out about which firm I'm talking about]. Further follow-ups via the grapevine suggested that the yacht that sank didn't know they were sinking for a very long time.
GA works for Big Corp. GA has talked about sailing incidents with Big Corpers (Such as her, whilst acting as navigator, being asked "where's X-bouy?". She goes down to check the charts, and comes back up, and confidently points somewhere off to the horizon. The Boss: Er, are you sure? What's that buoy then? [pointing to big, very close buoy, on the other side of the boat to GA's indication]. GA: I'm not sure, I'll go and check. Disappears back down to the charts. Comes back up. GA: We came out of Cowes not Portsmouth didn't we? Sorry, wrong chart). GA also talked about needing a dress that could survive being packed for a fortnight, and which wouldn't mind getting damp [I was being dragged round looking for one]. GA was part of the corporate event when the sinking happened? Probably.
So I ask her. She wasn't anywhere near the accident at the time, because they were sailing round the farest buoy of the pre-arrange race course. Their radio wasn't working very well, and so they missed the message informing them the course had been shortened. [I'll leave aside for the time being comments on the wisdom of sailing without adequate communications. I'll also ignore the fact the boat charter company bans racing, and quite why race control didn't insure all participants knew of the change, and what they were doing letting bits of the fleet disappear on their own (was there een a race control?)].
AS GA tells it, they heard erratic chatter over the radio about the incompetence of assorted people. They realised something was wrong, but didn't know what, so carried on (as they had enough problems of their own). Quite a long while later they heard the message "...we are unsure of [garbled]...we have a foot and a half of water down here, and it appears to be rising...". This is followed by an exchange between unknown voices, which can't be easily understood. GA's crew pick up enough to figure out that there's all sorts of fun involving lifeboats down the other end of the Solent.
They sail back to the finish, and finish off for the day. Talking to people informs GA that the collision was between a group who didn't have much experience [FS Regs people] and another lead by a very experienced sailor. Unfortunately the sailor is Swedish. He speaks English, but not well. The implication is that when he's cross or panicked he reverts to Swedish. Add to that the chaotic nature of most boats, and quite how difficult it is to make yourself heard by the crew on the foredeck, especially in poor weather (and when things are going wrong - try outshouting a rapidly flapping main). I'm guessing communications broke down.
The race had already been shortened because of the deteriorating weather conditions. That day had extremely strong gusting winds, and an incredibly choppy sea. Not ideal conditions, especially for an inexperienced group. From what GA said, the two boats were near a mark, and so both were trying to get round it as easily as possible. That means both would be aiming for the same point.
Normally, the rules and regulations governing sailing races would determine who had right of way, and who would have to adjust their course. It is probable that the Swedish skipper knew most of these rules, and expected them to be applied. It is also probable that inexperienced team didn't, and so would not react as expected.
So two boats in close proximity, heading for the same point, both not accurately predicting what the other would do. Now remember the weather. Howling winds [and rising], so the boats will both be heeled over, and probably over-powered [big sails designed for weaker winds]. Both will be having a joyous time crashing up, down and across waves. Every movement of the sails changes where the boat sails. As the boat goes over each wave, the boat is trying to sail in variety of directions, with a variety of success.
I think events conspired enough that the bow of one stuck the hull of the other, just under the transom [the flattened section at the stern/rear]. I'm not sure if this has a technical name, but it was far enough down that the crew couldn't see the hole, and far enough down to be below the waterline.
Apparently they sailed on a long while after the collision (4 miles according to one source), whilst the boat started to fill with water, unaware there was anything wrong.
The comment accompanying the picture to the right, was "Sunsail's boats all have their numbers on the tops of their masts. Now I know why!" At least we know the roller-furled jib works, though overall it isn't exactly a great advert for Sunfast (the makers of the yacht). And Bramble Bank must be muddy to allow the thing to sink keel first, and then hold it bolt upright.
Assorted links (discretion be damned), though not necessarily accurate: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5.
Random ad [presumably] for Swedish navigation tools.
GA's other story from her sailing expedition took place in similar conditions. It's pretty grotty weather, and the crew on her boat have just finished swapping one set of sails for a smaller set. Extrapolating on my experience, this means they've just spent the past 20 minutes screaming at each other over the top of the noise of the waves and wind, getting cold, wet and bruised, and generally trying not to fall in, whilst trying to keep hold of large slippery expanses of sail.
So they're all pretty knackered, and are sitting waiting for the day to end (or the flurry of effort on the next tack). One of the crew, who is fairly young and inexperienced, obviously decides to perk everyone up a bit [and possibly score brownie points with the boss]. He announces "Tea, coffee anyone?", to which he gets a series of muttered replies along the lines of "If you're making it".
He disappears down below. The rest of the crew sit, too tired to tweak the sails. A while later, the wind and waves suddenly catch the boat, and she heels right over. This is accompanied by the cascading sound of smashing crockery. No-one of the crew dares say anything. A little while later, the guy making tea reappears with four mugs. He hands them out to those who asked for a drink. He stays up in the cockpit, so GA asks him "Aren't you having one?". He replies "No, not right now".
Even GA has enough tact to figure out the reason and not press it. Apparently, he went down to make the tea. So he filled the kettle and put it on the stove, and as he was waiting for it to boil, he took enough mugs out of the cupboard, shut the door afterwards, and lined them up on worktop. He then started putting teabags, spoonfuls of coffee, milk and sugar in the mugs. Wedging himself in the companionway, he then waited for the water to boil.
As he was waiting, the boat suddenly heeled over. The mugs on the side slid off, with four of them landing relatively intact in the sink. However, when he shut the cupboard he had taken them out of, he didn't know one has to click the handle to lock it. So he shut the cupboard door. Without the catch. So when the contents of the cupboard moved as the boat rolled, there was nothing to hold the door shut, so there was nothing holding them in. So the contents of the cupboard fell out. The contents of the cupboard was boat's crockery. So when it heeled over, piles of plates, side plates, bowls, and the remaining mugs, flung themselves towards the navigator's desk. Much crockery plus big drop, plus solid wood, equals not much.
I'm still surprised that a company that hire boats out to fairly inexperienced sailors has breakable crockery. I'm even more surprised that there's no secondary securing mechanism, such as strapping or webbing, round the piles in the cupboard.
But it's quire funny really, as long as it's not one's own deposit or insurance bills it effects.
Reverting back to the party, and by this time, the music has got louder, and appears to be a live band covering numbers by the Rolling Stones and alike. GA somehow manages to describe it as "Cheese". Sometimes you have to wonder about how this girl's brain works. Cheese? In musical terms, it means the truly dire, it's bad yet engineered enough to trigger innate responses. It usually involves Dutch females and nonsensical lyrics. It often thinks wackiness or zaniness is a virtue. It's the song at the school disco which is embarrassing at the time. Somehow I can't see anything coming from the Rolling Stones ever appearing on a compilation album titled "Now that's what I call CHEDDAR!".
Eventually the cold and boredom become all too evident (and it's not just restricted our huddle in the servants quarters. I guess that's what you get for having an open-air party on a chilly night, inviting many guests to traipse deep into the countryside, and then charging them high prices for both the food and drink), and by mutual agreement GA and I leave, and are charged with returning the youngest sibling to the pub. The youngest sibling somehow has liberated a glass of Pimms [Pimms on a cold night? Surely there is an implicit understanding that anyone drinking Pimms must be within 5m of warm dappled sunlight on well kept lawn?]. This is going to be fun.
The path back to the car is even more fun. Remember that it's through a wood, then across straw causeways through the mire, and then along a rough half-stony, half-muddy road, and round onto another? It's night. In the wood there are candles to light the way. They are placed about every hundred yards, and that's when the suicidal moths haven't snuffed them out. The path isn't straight, but candles strangely seem to line up. So the walk back through the woods consists of trying to use nightvision under a shady canopy, putting my arm up to block the candlelight (they are strategically sited to blind one just as soon as one's eyes have recovered from the light of the last one).
Eventually I develop an incredibly loose hip and ankle walk, as trying to cope with the terrain only seems to make it worse. Fortunately the straw pontoons did show up well at night, so that was the next problem avoided.
We walk back to the car being glad that it's summer so there is still a slight pretence of light in the sky. Attempt wipe mud off shoes on the grass before getting in, but I can't see what I'm doing, so I give up. Unlock the car and get in, letting the others in. The little sister has somehow finished her drink and disposed of the glass. I don't know where though, so I assume it's been left on bonnet of some convenient Range Rover.
GA and I both notice that when we get in the car, the sidelights on the Range Rover ahead of us aren't as bright as they were when we parked. And that was in daylight. As we get ready to leave, we realise they are visibly dimming before us. Oh dear. But what can we do? Spend ages walking back to the party and asking if anyone owns a Range Rover? We'd only get about a third of the people there coming out. And my car is usually on the receiving end of the jump leads, so I'm not sure it would be any use. And it's late, and there's many other people around. So we, in the true spirit of chivalry, drive off and leave it there.
Driving off consists of putting the car in first, putting the steering on full lock and inching my way forward hoping to squeeze past the end of the Range Rover. Why? Because it's dark, there's a hole directly behind me, and a ditch beside that, so the thought of backing and turning here doesn't seem too good. GA is not convinced, and is telling me to back out, as I'm going to hit the car ahead. Me: No I'm not [whilst thinking: I can just about do this, and I'm only going very slowly so hitting the car ahead won't actually damage anything]. I can see the headlights catching the back of the car ahead, and focusing the ribbed patterns on it. I am very close. I just make it. Me to GA: Oh ye of little faith [not admitting I didn't think I could make it, but was going to try anyway].
So I drive on, hoping my gut-instinct about there being somewhere to turn round up here is right. Over the cattle grid, and onto a cow widened junction. Going slowly, with low revs, I sweep round to the left and continue round in a full circle. I'm glad there's enough room, as I wouldn't want to have to reverse here. That's because the entire area is one big sludgy mass. Did you know that driving on slurry is much like driving on gravel or snow? You have to do everything slowly and gradually.
Drive out of the farm, and back along meandering roads (yay, rally style corners! Though I hasten to add I wasn't going that fast. Though having light forewarning of oncoming vehicles [all two of them] does help). Back to the pub, and we stop outside. We go, and stand round chatting with GA's younger brother and assorted just-finished-work barmen. While we do this, one of the customers decides to go behind the bar and start serving people. The brother chases him back out again. Apparently, the pub traditionally does lock-ins, but the brother would be on his own, and doesn't want to do it (he claims he wasn't supposed to be working tonight, as he's going somewhere very early tomorrow). The regulars don't seem convinced, and are waiting for someone to carry on serving them, even though it's way past 11.
I decide to make my excuses and leave. I go out, get into the car, put the key in the ignition, and nothing happens. The dashboard lights come on, but there's no sound. Damn.
This has happened before. If only I could remember what caused it. It's happen before when I was parked in the same space here. Think. One of the faults was a loose lead, but should have been fixed. There was something about the distributor arm, wasn't there? Open bonnet, and take off the distributor head (the thing that looks like a sandcastle). Something's rattling. Two small bits of irregularly shaped plastic fall out. Hmm, that's not good. Looking into it, they appear to be insulating bits on the rear of the connectors, and they're from two opposing corners. I put it back on, cursing it slightly. Turn the key again, and still no noise.
I go back to the pub to beg a torch. The one in their beer cellar is huge, and yet doesn't work. They don't appear to have another one. Seeking out GA, she seems baffled, and goes to get the only one she can think off. I tell her is doesn't work, so she tries the torch anyway. It does work. The little sister comes in, and with exacting the same "oh give it here" attitude tries it. They look stumped. I suggest a candle, knowing the pub gets through gallons of them. GA looks contemptuous, and dismisses that idea.
Back out to the car, and she's got suggestions until I open the bonnet, and then she doesn't. The little sister appears with a candle, and once again it's off with the orange sandcastle. Despite GA sounding like she knows what she's doing (and knows better than me), she doesn't correct me when I call it the alternator. Even with a candle, I still can't see anything wrong with it.
It's then we notice the dog is out, and lurking around our feet. It's the older, nicer dog, who happens to be utterly black (from this angle at least). Sticking her in the car to keep her out of harm's way, we decide that it must be the distributor arm that's stopped in the wrong place and so isn't making contact. The cure for this is bump-starting this [I'm not sure this is the right diagnosis or cure]. GA claims not to know how to bump-start a car, so I have to be the one driving. Which when I'm a foot taller than either of them, and heavier, seems wrong.
We start off trying to do it backwards, but it doesn’t work. I think I kept trying to soon. Running out of road, we stop. They go round to the back, and when I change gear, I realise I'd put it in first not reverse. No wonder it didn't work. So putting it back in first, we go forwards. I wait till we're going fast, and running out of road. Bring the clutch in, and the engine sort of splutters. And then fades away again as I bring the clutch back out. Damn. The car has come to a halt. I try restarting it. It's making trying-to-start noises, but not working. This goes on for some while in a confusion of putting ther choke in and out whilst accelerating. She suddenly revs frantically into life.
I put the car into gear, and then remember the dog. Car back out of gear, check the hand brake, and then unlock the door behind me to let the dog out. GA opens that door, and there's no dog. We both realise she must be in the front, and so I reach over to unlock front passenger door. As I do so, I clout the dog with my elbow [probably right in the face]. Sorry dog, I didn't see you there. The dog understandably makes for the back door, and disappears. I get back in properly, and in a flurry of revs, shout a very enthusiastic "thank you so much!" over my shoulder through the window, and drive off knowing GA's holding the dog by the collar.
I drive home, a bit too fast in places, but there's nothing else around. I park, without problem, and leave the car, and go in, and then to bed.
The next day, the effects of last night are apparent on the car. The tires are brown, there's pretty arcing streaks along the car, in fetching pale beige, and blackened handprints round the bonnet and door handle. Oh well.
This is made all the more ridiculous by the next car along being a proper landrover. A big new, incredibly clean, shiny and undented land rover. Further up the road are a couple of Discos, equally as clean and shiny. It's bizarre, looking round the road. The more a car has been designed for off-roading, the cleaner and less damaged it is. There's my muddy mouldmobile Vauxhall Cavalier, designed with the sales rep in mind. There's a lightly speckled Skoda, a somewhat scuffed Ford, and a couple of roof-racked Golfs, which look like they were trying to find out if going through a hedge backwards is worse than through it fowards. And then you have the assorted SUVs [the landies and knock-offs], which are all pristine, and have probably never faced anything worse than the wrong end of Sainsbury's car park.
And that's about it for this weekend's adventures.
Anyhoo,
