What about a jolly limerick for the festive season? Esther has set holly as our challenge
A miser called Entwistle Solly
Had a plan to make lots of lolly.
He was said to be pleased,
Replacing paper with leaves,
Until all that was left was fresh holly.
Someone asked if we planned any travel to get away from the building works. Nope, we can’t envisage that and it is unlikely we will manage it afterwards as we will probably need to spend the rest of 2026 getting things straight.
Which promoted me rooting around in old photo folders in a cloud or two and wondering what my top ten venues would be. I’ve left out a lot: much of Western Europe, South Africa, New Zealand, Japan… but here’s a selection based on some very old pics for your delectation…
Sydney: Iconic view of the Opera House, circa August 1998
We ended up here after touring Oz for 8 weeks back in 1998. Since then I’ve visited three times on business. It is beautiful. The Harbour bridge, the Opera House, the green and cream ferries ploughing the trade.
The Lawyer, aged 8, demonstrating the best use of the Opera House
The hills aren’t ridiculous but give it the sort of topography that a city needs to have character. If a city is flat then it needs walls or canals to compensate.
The Rocks is (are) cool.
The cricket ground a true place of homage. Even its business district has a neat compact charm. I don’t go a bundle on the beaches, mind – Bondi feels like it is its own pastiche. The zoo is quaint and Darling Harbour is all you would expect from a tourist rap but well done none the less. And if I do have a gripe, Sydney goes on for bloody ever: its suburbs frankly take the piss in spreading so far – not so much a sub-urban as post-urban. But the people have always been friendly, the food superb and there are few better ways to sped a few days than strolling around Sydney enjoying another sight or another easy going bit of banter. Go. But have energy; it’s vibrant.
San Francisco:
A classic view of the Golden Gate Bridge as the morning fog is gradually burnt off
This is beautiful. No, it is BEAUTIFUL. But that’s not the best thing. It has the best climate in the world. Stuck between the Bay and the Pacific is self regulates to 72 degrees every day (give or take). Cross the Bay Bridge, head through the mountains and watch the thermometer climb a degree a mile until your vital organs have melted. Ok, it gets chilly in the morning with the fog and it does rain a bit in January but for the rest I defy you not to enjoy it as a visitor.
Pier 39, the sea lions. Boy does it stink!
True, I prefer variety but, at a pinch, I’d take this. And the BEAUTY? Did I mention the beauty? Well, ok it is sitting on a time bomb and one day it will disappear in a pudding of liquefaction so don’t be there then. But the fact it sits between various tectonic plates means the city is made up of small vertiginous rippling hills, best seen in the car chase in Bullitt. oh those beauteous hills…
They alone are worth the visit but drive down Lombard, cruise the Presidio, enjoy the museums. Sniff out a bargain in Chinatown or something retro in Haight Ashbury (it’s now so post post post modern it’s come back on itself); taste the chocolate splendours of Ghiradelli’s or the sourdough along the quay.
December 2013: the Coit Tower in the distance
And do find time for the murals in the Coit Tower – America as a socialist paradise, discuss. And Alcatraz is worth a visit but book.
Tallinn:
Up on the wall; it’s not as accessible as Dubrovnik but it has a more ramshackle charm
We ended one summer holiday here as a result of yet another example of dickhead tours in action. We planned to visit some Scandanavian capitals – Copenhagen, Stockholm and Helsinki (we’d already seen Oslo some years ago) before ending in St Petersberg. Unfortunately I forgot to get visas to enter Russia and only realised in Stockholm. By then it was too late. However as readers will know, dickhead tours’ USP is that while the original plans may crater there will always be an alternative. Tallinn.
The place is full of churches
We caught a ferry across the Baltic – millpond calm it was – and spent three days in the walled city. It is medieval with Catholic and Russian Orthodox churches, beautiful streets full of quaint and quirky buildings seemingly built one on top of the other with bars and restaurants at reasonable prices to suit any palate and pocket. Indeed a few too many booze tours and stag parties end up here so late nights are probably dreadful. But the daytime is a delight. One church, bombed out by the Luftwaffe in the 1940s was rebuilt by the atheist Russian backed government and is now a community centre and art space of much beauty.
The winter palace – and me…
Outside Tallinn the Winter Palace tells of a time of a different Russian domination, under the Tsars. This is a fiercely independent country which has enjoyed a renaissance inside the EU and NATO. Try it before Putin tries to take it back.
Stockholm:
Stockholm is water is Stockholm
As I said above Stockholm was on the same itinerary as Tallinn. By contrast it vaunts its many years of independence and liberalism openly and in Gamla Stan, the island housing the original settlement and the Royal Palace (with easily the most ridiculous household troop of any nation I’ve been to) it has a tiny jewel that warrants two days on its own. It had a Tintin shop, for goodness sake – the ultimate exemplar of civilisation at work.
The model; if this is as it was, Wow!
Highlights include the modernist tapestry in the town hall, the exceptional Vasa, a ship that sank on its maiden voyage in the sixteenth century and lay buried in silt in 30 metres of water in the harbour until being discovered in the post war years and then, amazingly, brought to the surface and preserved. Stunning, gobsmacking. Oh, and do visit the Nobel museum. For a man who invented one of the most deadly of explosives, dynamite, Alfred Nobel has done a lot of good with his cash. The history of the peace prize made the visit for me.
Bristol:
Brunel’s quite breath-taking suspension bridge
My alma mater, where I met the Textiliste, as I sold memberships of the law club during our freshers week in 1976. I remember the utterly beguiling blue eyes, full lip-bordered grin and a scarf that was twice as long as mine. We took our time falling in love but we didn’t stop once we started. You might say the same with Bristol. It is hilly and tiring and in places still shows off its scruffy history but it has corners of beauty and joy.
You get some sense of the hilliness; a bane of an undergraduate who walks everywhere.
The university buildings, built with tobacco and slave money display the sort of grandiose splendour you would expect. The suspension bridge is completely stunning. The docks and the SS Great Britain tourist traps worth the time.
There’s a lot of street art…
But wander Clifton, drink coffee, take in the Downs and the camera obscura, sniff out food and fashion in St Paul’s, find a Bansky stencilled on a wall and you will soon smoulder into a love affair that lasts a lifetime.
Cork:
So old this is black and white… and the cheapest film at the time!
Ireland 1978. My degree done the Textiliste and I headed for Southern Ireland and a hitch hiking holiday from the ferry port at Rosslare to the Ring of Beara and Bantry Bay. We camped; we shared cars with fussy Germans and wacky Norwegians; we stood at a bus stops and discoursed on the existence of God with a George Clooney lookalike, pissed to the point of grandiose articulacy.
Was I really this skinny – the scenery is stunning too!
We encountered generosity and suspicion, good nature and outright hostility. We ate simply, slept when the sun went down until it came up and saw the greenest, most beautiful countryside imaginable. I was too young to enjoy it fully, too old to feel entirely at ease and I knew that I needed to go back and do it justice. One day soon.
Amsterdam:
Amstedam is canals and cannabis cafes, or so the theory has it. But it is also bicycles and book shops. It has an architecture that repeats but is never quite the same. It is slow and at ease with itself and tells you, as does Venice how to work a city without cars. The Dutch are a fabulous people, ireverant and generous. They don’t do shame in the way we do across the channel. Take the nipple: in England the nipple today has the status that a homosexual man had in the 1950s – anxious to stay hidden, unsure and if displayed in public liable to generate sniggers or trigger anger; in Amsterdam the nipple is out and proud – it knows it is both repected and loved and, best of all, broadly ignored. What is not to like about a city, a nation that can embrace the nipple and make it feel welcome?
Bruges:
A happy family Christmas break 2007
Ah Belgium. Name ten famous Belgians? Old joke. In Bruges it has answers to any questions asking ‘what is the point of Belgium?’ Like Amsterdam it has canals, like Tallinn it has a vibrant core that has a historic integrity. It is home to the most fabulous of chocolate shops and cafes.
Just love this scene – very Bruges
It serves 400 varieties of beer, many flavoured (‘your usual arrowroot and cardamom Pilsner sir?’).
Er and you were 15? What on earth were your parents’ thinking?
Go at Christmas for the market – Europe does many a Christmas market but Bruges is excellent – and enjoy the crisp air and the ice show that is stunning; even Bill Murrray in Groundhog Day would struggle to learn these techniques.
Just superb
And now, with Eurostar so efficient (mostly) it is a hop, skip and jump away.
Tobago:
And when it rains…
We’ve been to several Carribean Islands over the years but Tobago takes a lot of beating. It has rainforest as well as beaches. I wasn’t expected to ride a bloody horse which, believe me, is a definite plus. And it stimulated a lot of poetry. Frankly apart from the Turks and Caicos which was a complete disappointment, each island we have been to – Barbados, Antigua, St Lucia and Trindad – has offered something for the visitor if you want relaxation, some sights and a lot of cocktails and time to read – which, coupled with kid’s club is all the incentive I needed for a holiday when the sprogs were d’un certain age. And here’s a poem – I feel like a Vogon, forcing this on you but, hey, who’s writing this?
The Disco Junk thrums past, a rainbow
On the puckered sea. Rock-like skulls,
Guano iced, are parliament to trilling gulls
Eyeing the coral fish, flashing their tarty show.
Cinnamon frosted babies, paint the beach
With plastic spades; eyeless parents, basted
For spit roasting; happy to have wasted
Their nurtured cash on dark staining their peach
White flesh. Seven days of frantic relaxation,
Spent anxiously checking for zebra stripes,
Are reward for a year’s dead-eyed toil. Gripes
Are banned; they have their compensation
In the form of a booze-induced coma
And the first stirrings of a melanoma.
A Parliament of gulls
Sarf London:
Brockwell Park; the pond, the walled garden where Shakespeare is performed in the summer and a community garden carries on the year round
Home. Heart. Peace. Safety. A bed that knows me. An oven that does my bidding. A space to write and a garden to grow. Streets that fit like worn slippers. Parks that envelope you in parental-like hugs. Nodding acquaintances. Easy access to the best, most culturally diverse place on the planet bar none (on yer bike, New York, you ain’t close).
Me and my loyal companion – the much loved, now departed Blitz – we always enjoyed an ice cream
And his successor in my affections (when a bit younger)
Weather rather than a climate. Tolerance in human form. If I could live anywhere at any time it would be here, now – unless the Textiliste wanted to move then I’d go.
We used to get we snow; and when we do, the world becomes magical. Can’t wait for another visit (I say that until it is actually manifest when it is a nightmare)
Well, I say I’d go, unless she wanted to move to North London. That would be intolerable.
Multicultural moi! Sorry for the egregious appropriation (no, not really)
Penny wasn’t going to let her say no. “They asked for one recommendation and I gave them you’re name. You can’t let me down by refusing.”
Gradually Mazy’s ‘I’m not sure’ became ‘Maybe’ and then ‘Ok’. She wanted to ask why Penny had thought of her but she wasn’t sure she wanted the answer. It was enough for Mazy to assume it was because of their friendship.
When, finally she spent two hours being taken through the steps involved and signed two consent forms, she felt relieved. And the money was certainly better than just ‘nice to have’.
The testing took two days of poking and prodding, giving blood, urine and a stool and an exercise test that Mazy dreaded but which wasn’t so bad. One young tester, a man with a Scandinavian name and accent joked with her about how far back she’d like to regress and she replied fifteen so she could tell her school nemesis Millie Twoberry what she thought of her. He said, in all seriousness they would see what they could do which rather terrified her.
She was nervous, the first day she met Professor Perkins. Ostensibly it was to discuss her results and whether they would admit her to the study. But that was only part of it. When she had been sat down and offered a drink, the Professor didn’t hold back. “I will go through the results in a moment but I wanted to say upfront you will be a great addition to our group as I knew you would.”
Mazy, who had been building up her courage, managed to ask the question that had been bugging her, surprising herself and possibly the professor. “That first day in the park. You said hello but only later left the letter. Why was that?”
He sat back and steepled his fingers under his nose. “Penny pointed you out a few days before. And I knew, even then. I’ve studied a lot of people, each of whom has some exceptional characteristic but you were perfect. So I rather muddled myself.”
“Perfect? No one is perfect.”
He laughed. “What I mean is perfect for our study. From a visual inspection I could see you were average. Height, weight, your face, the size of your hands, feet, everything.”
Mazy looked at her hands. “Bang average. Who knew?”
The professor hinged forward. “Don’t be so self critical. That’s what we wanted, what we’ve been after. And your tests are exactly where we’d expect them to be for someone born when you were and living in a westernised society. Every metric just confirms it. Slap bang in the middle. We can use you – sorry that sounds cold but it is true in our case – to be our control against which we can check our other results. We will clearly be looking for others who fit the same mould as you, but in different racial groups, different sexes and ages but you will be our first. Exciting, isn’t it?”
Mazy sat back. She was unexceptional and that was a good thing, the best thing. She smiled at this strange man who smiled back. For the first time, she was glad she was who she was. “Okay, where do we start?”
There we will leave Mazy, happy being ‘bang average’. But is that the end? Will this study throw up any surprises? Maybe you will find out in due course
It was getting cold, or so Mazy assumed because all she wanted to do was shiver. The lane Penny had led her to was narrow with little sunlight penetrating street level and the door in front of which they stood dark and, well, intimidating. Penny, though, had no hesitation, pressing an intercom to the right of the door and giving their names when asked.
It took a moment before a woman with a bob of blonde hair and startling pink lipstick ushered them inside. Only as Mazy passed her did she spot the red ankle boots. ‘I’d know you anywhere,’ Mazy thought and suppressed a giggle. This was so unlike her that she knew she was more nervous than she’d anticipated.
“They’re very nice” was all Penny had proffered in answer to Mazy’s inevitable question, but when Mazy tried to ask more she was closed down. “Let them explain; it’ll make sure I don’t get it wrong.”
Mazy let it pass, though she would really have liked to have had some context. She was still taking in the little reception – this property had once been a private residence she guessed and they were in the front room. It still had an ornate fireplace, the hearth now filled with some sort of dried grass and pictures of smiling faces on the wall behind the receptionist. It was those that held Mazy’s attention, there being two lines of front on portraits, men and women, of various colours and ages. Though… Mazy stared at a man with a long face, stubbly grey-flecked facial hair and long ear lobes who she guessed was about fifty and then at the face below which had to be the same person, given the length of the face, but probably half the age. She studied the next photo – a woman with an Afro and a piercing gaze and the picture below of probably the same woman – this person was also black with cornrows but the same intimidating stare and wondered what their age difference was.
“Mazy?”
A women stood in the doorway to the hall, smiling. “I’m Sara. Thanks for coming.”
Dr Sara Persimmon was square shouldered, about Mazy’s height with red hair in an ponytail and long blood red finger nails. Her eyes, Mazy noted, were friendly enough.
Mazy stood and, sandwiched between Sara and Penny followed her host up the stairs to a room on the first floor. It had one sash window that looked straight out onto the neighbouring block, a large almost empty desk – not even a laptop or tablet – and an occasional table around which they sat. Having declined any beverage, but accepted some sparkling water which she clutched like a kind of security totem, Mazy say back and waited.
“Harold will join us shortly. I think you met briefly. He thinks he may have scared you.”
This was said in a tone that Mazy assumed was meant to convey it was a silly error and no harm done, though Mazy still thought it creepy. Not that she felt she could say.
“What has Penny said?”
Mazy looked at her friend, hoping she would answer but she nodded at Mazy as if to say it was for her to reply. What had she said? “Nothing really. Just it’s good money.”
Mazy wished the floor would open. Why had she said that? That wasn’t why she was there? Well maybe a little but…
Sara laughed. “We do pay a small amount and expenses but it’s not lottery money. Okay, from the top. Harold’s career has been in how we can extend human life to its max while ensuring any extension isn’t just existing but enables a full life to be led, free of compromised co-morbidities. My field of study is a specific group of jellyfish, Cnidaria. One group has the name ‘immortal jellyfish’ because of certain behaviours. Harold posited that there were perhaps lessons to be learnt from this strange creature that could benefit we humans and we have developed a range of tests and trials to see if the theory can be supported. Penny is one of our earliest volunteers. In simple terms we’d like to see if you could join our programme. If you are interested we’d need to do a full medical and you’d need to understand the limited risks. And yes there is a financial aspect we can discuss. Penny, do you want to explain your experiences so far?”
Penny sat forward. ‘It’s cool. The medical alone is worth it cos they will check everything so if there’s anything going on that you don’t know about they’ll probably find it. But get past that and then it’s a year of injections and tests and scans and wotnot for which you get a bundle of cash.”
Mazy found it hard to take in. She managed to ask, “You’ve been okay? No side effects?”
“They think the thing with my teeth may be a result of the study, though it’s going to mean more tests. Otherwise I’ve not felt better.” She looked at Sara. “There has been one real plus. Can I say?”
Sara nodded.
“I’m younger. The tests indicated I’ve regressed by about five years on average across all categories. And…” She grinned, “when they did the medical before I started, they spotted some polyps in my bowel. I went to my GP for as referral and I’m waiting to see a specialist. But on my last scan they’d all gone. Basically my bowel has regressed to a pre-polyp stage. Cool, eh?”
Mazy nodded, distractedly. “You get younger?”
Sara wobbled her head. “Not everyone. As Penny says, in her case it appears to have worked that way and then by a few years. Others have experienced a slightly greater regression, but for most there’s no impact. And it’s not even. We’ve seen kidney health improve in several cases but the liver and pancreas hardly show any change. We are trying to pinpoint why.”
“And you think I might be useful?”
A voice behind Mazy made her turn. It was the man from the park with the green flecked eyes. “Oh yes. Mazy. We are sure you will be.” He smiled and for reasons mazy couldn’t say, she felt cold
Benjamin Brittain was brought up in Lowestoft, just up the coast and the place is now down at heel, living on past glories. The Aldeburgh of Brittain’s youth would have been a backwater of a place, old fashioned and out of date, a place of small fishing and Victorian values.
Today, the pendulum has swung. The fact Brittain moved here with his partner Peter Pears gave Aldeburgh a kick up the property ladder and what was once outmoded and outdated is now revered and beloved. Old is the new old or some such.
I had a town-stroll the other day, a beautifully crisp December morning of low sun and cerulean skies. The old buildings, the predominance of the sea, the fact there is no sand and therefor no beach to attract punters, but across the acres of shingle there is the self same North Sea – all give it its appeal. Not so much Kiss me Quick as Love me Long.
The Jubilee Hall offers a range of entertainment to the local worthies (and not so worthies). I even recognised a few of the booked artists.
I started by the life boat station and headed north, past a little park with its bespoke boating pond – I think they called it a yachting lake, but come on, I’ve enjoyed bigger baths. There are so many buildings that speak of a Victorian splendour now lavished with modern money attracted by association with a great composer and the festival he set up and which still runs. There aren’t many derelict shells, no tired empty boarded up hollows.
What there was, was a memorial to a dog, owned by local GPs who was a familiar figure in this part of town. Someone has given Snooks a Christmas makeover. Very twee.
Soon enough we come to one of many delightful pubs, the Mill Inn and the Moot Hall, a medieval splendour that I could circle for ages
Smoked fisheries ply their trade along the front – yes I indulged; if it swims it can be smoked. Fish vaping, fortunately isn’t yet a thing.
There are storyboards describing the many regular bird visitors, in this case the martins and swifts that nest under the eaves, rather than on cliffs which aren’t available hereabouts. In summer – they are migrators and are currently in their budgie smugglers somewhere south of the Canary Isles – they swoop and swirl on the evening air picking off the myriad insect life.
The prom leads in a straight line towards Sizewell and its nuclear buildings but my goal was a rather splendid sculptor as a memorial to Brittain. The Scallop stands in isolation of the stones, regularly battered by high tides, storing winds and salt spray and still survives.
Turning back to the town, past some grander residences I took a necessary detour to encompass the delightful parish church of St Peter’s and St Paul’s with its eye catching exterior – they like napped flints around here – and stained glass, one dedicated to… oh you know.
I took my time along the High Street with its 100year old cinema and variety of styles of architecture, the occasional mural and then back to the sea front and the look out.
Just before I made it back to the car, I came across the ‘Four daughters’ which are four dinghies that a local society intends saving and restoring as well as covering them to prevent further deterioration. I’m not sure how that will work but I applaud the ambition.
My final small detour took me to one of the small trawlers that ply their trade and the ancient machinery still in sue that gets the boats to and from the sea without damaging their hulls. Everything, even rusty crap like this, has its place!
I took a moment to stare out to sea; not sure why, it’s just what one does with sea. Ponder on the over yonder. They’d put up a Christmas tree, for reasons unknown, on the shingle. I suppose it’s a thing. A nice thing.
And Dog? There’s always another beach, that’s easy on his kneesees
I was taken to the Royal Albert Hall for a birthday treat a few days ago. It was a lovely crisp day and the RAH is such a fine venue, even watching the International Under 12 Paint Drying Doubles qualifying tournament is bearable here. But my treat was an interview with the ex Premier of New Zealand Jacinda Ardern. I think she’s a bit of a star who coped with the inevitable spotlight of several high profile events – the worst domestic terrorist attack in NZ history, a terrible natural disaster and dear old Covid. Throughout she remained calm and balanced. Her mantra much like Mr Roger’s of US TV was be kind and her eventual defenestration says much about today’s divisive political climate as it did about her successes and failures as PM.
She was a fascinating listen and the film ‘Prime Minister’ that is just out of her time in charge will, I’m sure, be well worth watching.
However it is one comment she made about the grubby nature of 20:20 revisionism in political discourse that struck a chord.
‘People remember the decisions you make, not the choices you had.’
The interviewer was also an unexpected treat. Bill Bailey who, if you don’t know if a comedian and extraordinary musician who plays about 40 different instruments. That included the typewriter at the last night of the proms recently. I know you’ll find it on YouTube if you go for a rummage.
All in all a fine day.
To Mazy’s surprise and annoyance Penny seemed to have disappeared for the rest of the morning. When time for lunch arrived Mazy knew one thing for sure. She wasn’t eating pitta, honey and soy in the park. Indeed, eating lunch seemed to be beyond her. She made a cup of lemongrass and pine nut infusion and sat at her desk.
It was at that moment she remembered the entry she had found on her phone for the address. She had never searched the name of the institute. That was surely a good place to start.
It took her a minute to find the name and type it into her browser. Her phone, which seemed to have developed a personality like Mazy’s, took it upon itself to search for the International Institute for the Exploration of Immorality and offered a series of options including either those tending towards pornography or religious zealotry in the guise of scientific research.
Mazy was stunned, assuming as she did that she was searching the correct title. She glanced around certain someone would be reading over her shoulder, feeling her face warm. She held the phone away from her squinting to read entries and while tempted to open one about an organisation that researched the increase in orgasms in low gravity environments, she spotted and focused in on the typo.
Laughing nervously to herself and muttering about her ‘stupid phone’ she corrected her mistake. This time, after two sponsored entries, referencing the health benefits of outdoor Pilates and wool based insulation, she found what she was after. Rather nervously she clicked on the entry.
The website was under development, she was told so the details were sparse. All she could glean was that this was a new venture building on work done by this Perkins man to explore ways to extend human life expectancy while maintaining physical and mental health.
She sat back, frustrated. She could have guessed that from their name, she thought. She typed in the Professor’s name next. The list of his work looked impressive, moving from biochemistry to medicine to working in Oregon in cryogenics. Latterly, and where he had the chair that gave him the professor moniker, he had worked in the department for human health at a university in California that was closely linked to a well known sea life centre. Of his move to the UK and this institute, nothing was said.
She tried Dr Sara Persimmon next, anticipating a similar background. When she opened her LinkedIn profile and began to read, it made no sense. Dr Persimmon was British and zoologist, specialising in mollusca. Her PhD was something weird to do with cephalopods. It took her a little more searching to appreciate the good doctor was a leading expert in octopuses.
She sipped her now cold infusion. That made sense. Not.
She jumped as her phone rang. Checking caller ID she saw it was Penny. Answering quickly, her mind full of questions, though she wasn’t sure she could make them coherent, she was about to speak when Penny spoke over her. “Hi. Sorry I had to dash earlier. I had a word with Harold – he’s been looking at my teeth – and we wondered if you wanted to pop round after work to find out more.”
Mazy let her gaze lift to her computer, its list of invoices seemingly never ending awaiting her next input. Soon enough AI would render her redundant. She saw her Tupperware with its random leftovers being the best she could afford for food. And she thought about the fact she would go home and crochet yet another scarf. And she wasn’t yet thirty.
“Yes, why not?”
She listened to the arrangements being made for her, not really paying attention as it was clear Penny would be there to ensure she ended up in the right place at the right time. No, her mind was focused on the madness of some scientific institute run by a medic and a fish expert wanting her. How crazy was that?
*
Fog. Of all the weather conditions on the meteorological menu, fog is the stodgy main that you try to avoid. It lacks character does fog. Others, like rain and hail you know when they start and stop. Not fog. Passive aggressive weather, the snark of a climate.
Even weather maps fail with fog. They talk about early morning fog clearing, the sun burning it off so you set out in the gloaming, headlights bouncing back like an out of date password and it’s still there when you arrive.
I should have known better, since my walk started by Oulton Broad. If you don’t know the Broads they are a mish-mash of waterways on the Norfolk Suffolk borders. England is at its lowest hereabouts so there are marshes and ditches and lots of rivers and lakes. Oulton is one of the biggest and famed for being a base for migratory birds at this time of year. In fact there’s a lot of nature hereabouts, so as a change from exploring towns I thought, why not a smidge of countryside.
The other thing about fog (I will stop, honest) is the insidious way it gets inside the warmest coat and chills to the core. Parked by a marina, with the fog thicker than a politician’s hide, I set off to circumnavigate Nicholas Everett Park. Shivering.
I’m sure it’s very pretty set alongside the water, but I was damned if I could make it out. One memorial bench caught my eye – a rather splendid piece of ironmongery and made me ponder how I would like to be forged for posterity. Probably something involving cricket, Paddington and Pooh bears and the London skyline. Nothing pretentious you understand.
On leaving the park, the path follows reedbeds and woodland and is again mighty fine – or would be had I been able to see much. At one point I joined the Angles Way that follows the boundary between Suffolk and Norfolk.
This is one of the many LDP – long distance footpaths – that riddle England and Wales and were beloved of my father. We did several over about 12 years, including one that goes south to north through Norfolk – the Peddars Way – from Thetford to Hunstanton – and then along the coast to Great Yarmouth – the North Norfolk Coastal Path. That was an epic hundred odd miles from memory and one of our last, about 25 years ago. He’d be 99 this month and would still tell me I miss more than I see on these walks. Probably right too.
Anyway, the paths eventually gave way to the entrance to a nature reserve, Carlton Marshes, with a rather grand visitor centre and very appealing cafe. First, though a circular walk across the marsh, even if the fog seemed not much thinner and the ‘birds seen today’ board beggered credulity.
As I was girding my loins (well zipping up my coat) the fog began to lift and some tempting hints of views appeared. Soon enough visibility was in double figures and you got a greater sense of the attractions of this area.
After trying out the cafe – decent soup, average coffee – I retraced my steps past a field I’d passed on the way in. It contained a socking gert bull and some cows. Didn’t see them before.
But there was no complaints now. The sky was a delightful blue, the views deep and enduring.
I passed a wonderful mural on the side of a cottage before re-entering the park
I could see much better including a sign that pointed me here.
An unexpected Banksy! Who knew the lad, or laddess – I’ve not heard if the artist has been formerly gendered – reached such wild parts. Heart a glow I was back at the marina.
So this is what the fuss was all about.
Back home there was still time to catch some rays, before a well earned snooze
The paper was a sharp white, like the writing paper her father used to pen letters to newspapers or complaints to the gas board or electricity company. The difference was, first there was no address in the top right corner. Her father always wrote their address in his neat flowing hand, though the way he penned their house number ‘22’ reminded Mazy of two sagging sea horses. The second was the writer in this case had used block capitals, unlike Mr Moiste, who was a stickler for the flowing cursive.
DO YOU WANT TO TAKE PART IN A VERY IMPORTANT STUDY, MAZY? IT MAY CHANGE LIFE AS WE KNOW IT. CALL IN AT 22 TEMPLE LANE BETWEEN FOUR AND SIX ANY DAY AND ASK FOR ME.
REGARDS
H PERKINS.
Mazy read the letter, if that’s what you’d call it – it was so long since she had a letter she wasn’t sure – several times that evening and at least ten the next morning before she went to work. She had so many questions. How did they know her name? Why had they written to her? Why this cloak and dagger stuff? What study? Who was this Perkins? But mostly, how did they know her name? That was weird and frankly a bit – no very – unsettling.
Because of the need to read the letter – she’d stick with ‘letter’ for now – she was late leaving and late arriving for work. No one seemed to notice. Having checked emails, worked out the priority of today’s tasks she headed for the break out area and made herself a mint tea. While the bag stewed in her mug, she pulled up Google maps on her phone and looked for Temple Lane. It was closer than she imagined, a narrow pedestrian passage that ran between the main road and the hospital. She expanded the map so it showed names of businesses occupying some of the properties. Most were linked to the hospital, departments for this and that illness or injury. No 22 showed no entry.
She fished out the teabag, dumped it in the waste and went to her desk. She should be cataloguing the stock returns but she was on a roll. Instead, she booted on to her favoured browser and typed in the address. To begin with it gave her a postcode which she noted down and three entries before, as it often did, the search engine began to interpret her wishes, finding entries with 22, Temple and Lane in them but without any connectivity. Of the three relevant entries one mentioned a planning application three years before, one a historic reference to war damage and one, which caused her to blink in surprise.
Under the address, the entry mentioned a recent move by The International Institute for the Exploration of Immortality, headed by joint leads, Dr. Sara Persimmon and Professor Harold D. Perkins.
She picked up her mug but held it close to her chest, her gaze on her phone’s screen going in and out of focus.
“You okay, Mazy?”
It took Mazy a moment to register Penny, probably the nearest to a friend at work.
“What? Yes. No. Sorry.” She checked back to her phone, then turned her attention to Penny, glad to have a reason not to think about any letter or men called Perkins. “I didn’t know you were back?”
“Yesterday, though I had an emergency dentist.” Penny grimaced and tapped her right cheek. “Seems my teeth have shrunk slightly and the filings I had last year are too large.” She rubbed her right cheek. “They said they’d not seem the like. I expect it’s going to cost me a packet. Though…” she looked around, as if checking for spies. “Did… they get in touch?”
Mazy was about to ask who ‘they’ were, but she didn’t need to. “Some institute? Chap called Perkins?”
Penny relaxed and hitched up her skirt so she could perch on Mazy’s desk. “Yep, them. Have they…?”
Just then someone called Penny’s name. Her shoulders sagged and she stood. “Jermaine, needing my care and attention. That boy has the resilience of clingfilm. Catch you later.” She waved at someone, presumably Jermaine, over the top of the half height partitions, and began to move away, before a quick glance back. Speaking in a low whisper, she added, “Talk to them if you’ve not done so yet. It’s good money.” She was gone.
Mazy stared at the space filled a moment before by Penny. She was even more confused. How come Penny knew about her being contacted? And what was all that about money? If she was sure about one thing, she wasn’t speaking to anyone, and certainly no Harold D Perkins until she’d spoken to Penny
A few weeks on and where are we?
At roof level we have some solar panels. Six of the eventual twelve. The second six will sit atop a rebuilt pergola in due course.
Inside, the utility is like a number of rooms. The walls have been stripped, skirtings and windowsills removed and batons attached where we are installing wall insulation.
Some rooms have already been insulated – the attic and one main bedroom.
In the garage, the shell of the new downstairs toilet has appeared as has the first part of what is pretentiously being called the plant room, which will house meters, the boiler, the water softener and the AV kit that pumps tv cable and WiFi around the house. There’s a spaghetti of blue cables associated with this that sits alongside the electric wiring – what is known as the first fix (get me, with the builder lingo) – and is pretty much done.
Plumbing first fix (I’m on a roll) is underway too.
The kitchen is now its final basic box and the more precise dimensions added to the technical drawings so the kitchen company can refine their plans. The new pocket door box to dining room is in with its new lintel and supports. And a new sprung wood floor has replaced the previous concrete to be insulated before a wet underfloor heating system installed.
There is another door opening to the dining that now allows visitors to see from the front door to the garden that has been finished, too. I can’t get enough of this, even in its raw state. When it is all finished this will be my fav bit, I think.
The sitting room has lost the old rather beaten up fireplace and a new improved one ordered. Rather than an open wood or coal fire, that is illegal in London, we will have a gas one. Not totally eco-friendly but a step in the right direction.
Upstairs the landing is dominated by the stairs to the loft space that before carved a chunk out a bedroom, making it too narrow and which we used as a study. A new stair case has been designed – I had no idea how hard that was to do – that will appear as a natural extension to the main stairs and free up the previously curtailed room (see above) to be a new master bedroom.
This, together with the removal of the rear chimney has allowed for a door to a small bedroom to be created so it will have its own en-suite bathroom.
The two other bathrooms are boxes ready to be fitted out. The fixtures have beven selected and will be ordered soon to be ready for fitting once the rooms are ready. Next up will be be selecting the tiles. It’s a never ending process.
The most progress to date has been in the loft where two velux windows have been installed and the whole shebang is insulated and boarded, ready for some plastering once the pipework for the heating is in.
It does feel like we are now moving forward.
TanGental 