Letter from Royal Leamington Spa: 17 of 2009

My dear family & friends

I’m getting the upper hand on the foxy-woxies. One of these days Hazel is going to nab herself a fox in our garden in the middle of the night and that fox is going to regret fucking with my lawn. Discouraging the foxes has proved a little easier than expected. I was lying in bed the other night and I noticed that the security light in our garden had switched on. I lay there and thought: That’s strange. If it had been South Africa, I would have hit the panic button and called the security company, and men with big guns would have come and searched our garden. This being England, that wasn’t necessary. But as I lay there, I suddenly realised that it must have been a fox. So I jumped out of bed, riled the dogs by poking them hard in the ribs and yelling: Tsa, tsa, tsa. Then I charged down the stairs to the conservatory with the dogs at my heels baying for blood. I grabbed the door key and tried to ram it in the lock and twist in one motion. But my hand was shaking so much with all the adrenaline pumping through my veins, I just could not get the key into the lock. Watching all this, the fox was fucking laughing at me on the other side of the glass. I swear he gave me a one fingered salute before easily jumping over the fence in his own time.

The next night I left the door unlocked.

I was ready when I saw the security light switch on. The dogs had also figured out that the light was a call to action and they galloped down the stairs ahead of me. By the time I got to the conservatory door, the fox was already heading for the fence. Hazel did her best, but he was long gone. The next night I didn’t see the light switch on because I was fast asleep. Edgar and Hazel, however, must have been sleeping with one eye open. You must know that feeling when you’re fast asleep and something really loud wakes you up. Your eyes are suddenly wide open and there’s just one thought that goes through your mind: Where the hell am I? Once I’d figured that out, I had to decide whether I was going to leap out of bed, charge downstairs and set the dogs free. I thought: Stuff it – and pulled the pillow over my head. I’ll get him another time.

In another vein, one of my favourite television programmes is “Mock The Week”. For the non-Brits, it’s a weekly spoof quiz show with various comedians giving a different angle to the events of the week. You can find lots of clips from the programme on Youtube if you feel so inclined. I particularly enjoy Russell Howard, and two of his lines this past week had me in hysterics:-
1) You see these bankers are getting bonuses again? That’s a bit like finding out that Osama bin Laden got air miles for 9/11!
2) Howard was in a pub in Bristol when the English soccer team beat Croatia 5-1, thus guaranteeing themselves a place at the World Cup in South Africa next year. Howard turned to the person next to him and asked if he would be going to South Africa for the competition. The answer was apparently: “No way! If I wanted to be murdered, mugged, or sexually abused, I’d go the docks wearing a dress.”

We’ve done some fun stuff since I last wrote which is probably best shown in the pictures in the usual place at http://picasaweb.google.co.uk/llewellynijones.

Lucia took a week’s leave last week. The first thing we did was go to the beach. I had been keenly watching the long range weather forecast which showed that Saturday (two weeks ago) would be a fantastic day in the south-east of England. So we loaded the dogs in the car early in the morning and headed for Saunton Sands in Devon, a two-and-a-half hour drive away. We stopped in Barnstaple for coffee, and then headed straight for the beach. I suppose there’s not much I can say about a day at the beach – see the pictures. I was, however, somewhat amused at the many surfers in the water trying to squeeze whatever they could out of a 1ft swell. (For the Cape Tonian surfers, that’s not an error. I mean 1ft.) The dogs – who used to go the beach nearly every day – had a party cavorting in the sea and the sand to their heart’s content. Hazel required emotional support as she remembered Africa. The other thing that struck me was how clean the beach was. You will know that I have complained bitterly in these pages about the level of littering we have seen around where we live. But it was quite amazing on the beach as we watched people making sure to take every last piece of litter with them – so when everybody left, the beach was as spotless as they found it.

We headed home in the early evening listening to the first part of the Last Night At The Proms on the radio. We switched between the Royal Albert Hall on BBC Radio 3 and the Proms In The Park on Radio 2 every time some screeching opera diva took centre stage. I don’t particularly enjoy the vibrato of opera – you know, the warbling voice; I much prefer plainsong both male and female – just the clear single note.

We got home in time to watch the second half of The Last Night At The Proms on television which is always quite a party with flags waving and audience “participation”. There were one or two things that struck me as quite jarring. First, there were quite a few German flags in the audience which does look a bit strange when the audience is belting out “Rule Britannia” and “Land of Hope and Glory” at the top of their lungs. Second, was the Moslem woman in the front row wearing a hijab waving a huge Union Jack and belting out “God Save The Queen” for all she was worth.

Our second adventure was a two-night break away in the Pennine Mountains of Cumbria and Northumberland. A couple of years ago we met a woman on Arniston beach whose family owned some holiday cottages in the mountains of Cumbria. Lucia looked them up and called, only to find that husband and wife had since split up. But be that as it may, we booked Stonecrop Cottage in the tiny hamlet of Eals. Once again, I won’t enumerate everything we did – rather look at the pictures.

On day one we stopped in Penrith on the way up to have lunch with Julie, the person we’d met on Arniston beach so long ago. She prepared a delicious lunch of Scottish smoked salmon and salad. We’re hoping that she’ll come down south soon so that we can return the favour and have a lot more time to talk. The cottage is fantastically secluded – I couldn’t live there (no coffee shops) but it’s great for a getaway.

On day two we drove to Haltwhistle in the morning and then to Housesteads, one of the largest Roman forts on Hadrian’s Wall. After sniffing around and taking the obligatory pictures on Hadrian’s Wall we took a looping drive back to Eals via Hexham. In the afternoon we took a long walk along the decommissioned railway line that leads across the Lambley Viaduct, and then cut back through the woods on the other side of the river. I won’t say we got lost in the woods, but we did lose the path several times. The dogs had a field day chasing after new sights and smells. We have never seen them as animated and excited as they were loping through the woods. They were also fairly much layered in mud. When we (eventually) got back to the cottage we grabbed our costumes and towels and went down to the river to see if we were brave enough to go for a swim. The water was colder than Camps Bay in winter – the type of cold that hurts. The dogs didn’t have a choice because we needed to clean them off – although, I must say, Edgar didn’t look too happy. I eventually screwed up all my courage and dived in ... and ran straight back out again. Lucia then felt obliged to do the same to much the same effect. We completely ignored the sign that says “No Swiming – It’s Dangerous”. ‘Elf 'n safety (the Communist Directorate of Health & Safety) put these warning signs up wherever they feel that people might have fun. Julian tells us of a bridge near where he lives in Tunbridge Wells where the sign at the top of the bridge says – “No Diving – Shallow Water” – and the sign at the bottom of the bridge says – “No Swimming – Deep Water”.

On day three we drove home via Morcambe Bay and Liverpool. We decided that Liverpool needs a lot more investigation and some day trips in the future. The little bit of the city centre and the waterfront that we saw was really attractive and inviting.

What else?

My brother-in-law says I should be very careful about campaigning to re-introduce whipping for littering offences lest they introduce it for motoring offences – particularly speeding – as well. In which case, I too might be in a little bit of trouble.

I also took my hearing aid back to the hospital for a check-up. To my mind, it just wasn’t working like it used to after the last repair. The technician shook the aid and closed it in her hand to induce feedback, and then handed it back to me and said it WAS working. So I said to her very slowly – I didn’t say it wasn’t working, I said it wasn’t working properly. That caused a bit of flurry and she emerged with a doctor’s ear torch to look down my ear. After inspecting my ear for all of two seconds she declared it to be “quite dirty.” I was so offended and quite pissed off. In fact, I probably looked like a person who was about to throw a major wobbly – so she dashed out to get another technician. He looked down my ear and said there was nothing wrong with it. I felt like I was in some Twilight Zone. So I said to him: I would really appreciate it if you would re-programme the hearing aid. He said it wouldn’t make a difference. I said: Nevertheless, I still want you to re-programme the hearing aid. He did so with bad grace – and do you know, it’s working like it used to. I walked away shaking my head with lots of things I wanted to say – but I left them unsaid.

And finally, I met God on Newbold Comyn, somewhere around the 15th tee of the public golf course. He had “LOVE” tattooed on the knuckles of one hand, some Greek symbols of the knuckles of the other, and various other prison tattoos up his arms. He had a wild shock of white hair that brought Albert Einstein to mind. He told me that all the leading ministers, rabbis and imams in England had got together to identify the second incarnation of Jesus – and it was him. He said Anne Robinshon – “a very, very knowledgeable woman” – had confirmed it on The One Show (on BBC1). I thought: Oh, Christ, how do these nutters find me?

That’s it
Love, light & peace
Llewellyn

Letter from Royal Leamington Spa: 16 of 2009

My dear family & friends

Right. The vermin digging up my grass in the dead of night – formerly known (to Lucia) as the foxy-woxies – are banned. They came in and had a party on Monday night. In the morning, there were feathers everywhere from their bring-and-eat buffet, they had dug up newly laid lawn, (mostly) destroyed Lucia’s favourite shrub, and there was fox shit everywhere. The only thing missing was the empty bottles of Strongbow cider favoured by England’s binge-drinking louts. One of the buggers was still searching for tidbits when we woke up at six. He cleared the fence in a single leap when he realised he was being watched. We thought it was cute until we surveyed the damage.

Now, there are many slights and annoyances in life that I will ignore. But fucking with my lawn is not one of them. I decided that that the dogs were going to sleep in the conservatory with the door open for the next couple of nights. So, on Tuesday evening, we kissed them goodnight and went to bed. Well, Edgar patrolled the fence incessantly and barked at every sound. Lucia gave up and let him in at about half-past one in the morning. We certainly couldn’t find any of the telltale signs of a fox party when we woke up at sunrise. But, absence of proof is not proof of absence. I shall be monitoring the lawn closely. Lucia suggested that we make a couple of “No Foxes” signs and hang them on the other side of the fence. They would do well to heed the signs; I will defend my lawn to the hilt.

It’s been a while since I wrote. Let me note a few of the more memorable events. You can see a few more pictures in the usual spot at http://picasaweb.google.co.uk/llewellynijones. (And talking of pictures, can I ask you to send us some pictures of your lives, or at least encourage you to start your own Picasa page for the delight of your scattered friends and family.)

At the top of the list was my birthday at the end of August. It was a bank holiday weekend. The weather was shit. I really wanted to go the beach, but one needs to be sure of good weather to invest in a two-and-a-half hour drive to the seaside. We went to the Pastelaria Portuguesa for dinner. They open for dinner once a week on a Saturday night offering some traditional Portuguese dishes for a set price. We rolled home afterwards. I’m still waiting for my birthday post though; there’s been a strike at Royal Mail that (according to a news report this morning) has delayed 20 million pieces of mail. So it’s not just SA.

Out of the blue we were contacted by another South African here in Leamington Spa a couple of weeks ago. Laurie Hall went to university with our vet in Cape Town (George Koury, Citivet Gardens) and also knew one of Lucia’s colleagues in Johannesburg who gave him Lucia’s email address. We invited him and his family around for drinks one Friday evening, but then it turned out that another friend of his (an ophthalmologist from Cape Town) was going to be in town as well, so we ended up going around to their house out in the country for drinks instead. It was a pleasure to meet them and we’ll have them back soon.

Another weekend I drove Lucia an hour down the road to Great Malvern to go walking in the Malvern Hills. We walked up to the beacon that I’d investigated a couple of weeks before. But, being a Saturday, it was a bit like Oxford Street – very crowded. It rather reminded me of Signal Hill in Cape Town. I used to love climbing the Hill with a couple of friends at full moon with a bottle of wine and some cheese and biscuits in my backpack. But as the years wore on, this became a more and more popular past time for fit and active Cape Townians. The last time I climbed the peak I counted more than 150 people edging around the summit trying to find a comfortable place to sit. I thought: “Screw this, I’m not doing this again” – and I never did. But in the Malvern Hills Lucia and I were only too pleased to get out into the great wide open. There wasn’t a breath of wind as we climbed the leeward side of the hill, and it was absolutely silent. You don’t find that many places like that here in the UK. Up at the top, we also noted that there were areas in the hills that had relatively few walkers about. We plan to go back there sometime with the aid of the survey map we bought at the Tourist Information centre and have a picnic in one of the quiet spots we spied.

After lunch in Great Malvern we went in search of the Tiltridge Vineyard near Upton-upon-Severn that I had discovered on the Internet. (There are now more than 400 wine producing vineyards in the UK.) But they were closed for the weekend. Somebody please explain to me what good that is – to close on the two days that you’re most likely to get visitors. As if to prove my point, Clive’s Fruit Farm and Farm Shop (“come pick your own”) a few hundred metres down the road was doing a roaring trade – there was a queue of cars waiting to get into the parking area. We did find a few bottles Tiltridge’s Elgar Wine at the farm shop, but I passed it by at £9.99. Although some English wine is developing a good a good reputation, it is to my mind vastly overpriced. We bought a bottle of English sparkling wine (champagne) at the Leamington Spa Food and Wine Festival a couple of weeks ago for £12.50. You can get vastly better sparkling wines from Spain, South Africa, Australia or Chile for the same price or less.

What else?

I forgot to tell you about the tramp in Vauxhall in my last letter. It was after I had taken my sister Barbara to Luton airport and I carried on into London. I had gone to find a Portuguese restaurant I had read about, and was walking up South Lambeth Road. Sitting on the pavement, leaning up against the railings of Vauxhall Park was a tramp (sorry, indigent person) and his dog (there’s no euphemism for dog, is there) begging for money. The tramp did have a bit of a wild-eyed, scary look of the emotionally disturbed about him. He asked for money. I said, No. He said: Fuck you, fuck off, get the fuck away from me, get the fuck off my sidewalk, go on, fuck you, fuck off, who the fuck do you think you are fucker, go on, fuck off ...” It stopped momentarily when he asked another passerby for money, and then it started all over again. When I thought I was nearly out of sight, I turned around to see what was happening, but he saw me and it started again, except much, much louder to make sure that I would hear all the way up the road.

The point is that he rather reminded me of a corporal I met in the army at 7 South African Infantry Battalion at Phalaborwa many years ago. He managed to use the word “fuck” in one sentence as a noun, adjective and verb. It came about as he was inspecting our rifles for “cleanliness”. The bloke next to me had clearly not made even the most rudimentary effort to clean his gun. The corporal stared down the barrel, leapt back as if he had been given an electric shock, and then yelled: “This fucking fucker is fucked.” Oh man, I nearly wet myself laughing. The corporal waited – apparently calmly – until I had brought myself under control. Then he yelled me to run around the “fucking” parade ground until he said that I could “fucking” stop.

And talking of beggars, there was another story in the media this week about how much money “professional” beggars are making in the UK. Police said some beggars were making “hundreds and hundreds” of pounds a week and then still claiming benefits. It immediately struck me as true because I have often come across beggars with dogs where the dogs look in perfect condition; they look as though they could enter a dog show compared to the emaciated, flea-bitten curs with big doe eyes I would expect to find as a begging accoutrement in South Africa, or any third world country.

What else? Oh, I was so annoyed the other day. Lucia and I decided to walk across the fields to the Saxon Mill. Just as you get to the public footpath across farmland some tosser had dumped two old big-screen televisions. The thing that got to me about this is that the televisions were too big and heavy to have been carried there; they had to have been taken there by car. But the dump – with a special section for television sets – is LESS than a mile away. Now, you see, that’s why I think whipping should be brought back – because it doesn’t matter how much you try to “re-educate” this tosser, he’s so dumb that only violence works.

Finally, let me end on an upbeat note. Barbara sent me a text message a couple of weeks ago to ask if I had listened to the Ukulele Prom on BBC3 the night before. The short answer was no, I hadn’t, but that I would try to catch it on the BBC website’s “play again” feature. It was absolutely brilliant. The Proms are mostly about classical music, but they also always have some “interesting” stuff. The Prom in question featured The Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain and they played a wonderful mix of classical and pop music on ukuleles. Lucia and I snuggled closely on the sofa listening to the Prom on the Net the next evening. I was so impressed that I decided that I had to get a recording of the Prom. While that sounds fairly simple, it takes a bit of effort to grab the recording from the Internet. First of all, the BBC and rights holders don’t really want you to do it. (But the law says you are allowed to record something from the radio and even distribute it so long as you do it for free.) So what they do is hide the address of the audio stream in the web page and you need a special programme (I use URL Snooper) to find the address. Then you need another programme (I use Replay AV) to grab/record the radio show from the Internet. I hadn’t done any of this since we’ve been in the UK, so I had to find the programmes and learn to use them again. This is a long way of saying that I’ve got a recording of the Ukulele Prom both as an MP3 (73MB) and as an audio CD that I have listened to many times since. If you would like a copy, the price is pictures. Just let me know.

Love, light & peace
Llewellyn