I'm Ready!

I have many reasons to be angry today (not least with myself), but I’m not going to let those reasons get in the way of all the good news that’s also coming my way. I’m feeling quite positive right now - much more positive than I’ve felt in a long time, and certainly more so than I was feeling on Monday. Birthdays always bring me down a little – for although we partied and celebrated raucously for three solid days, birthdays also bring a time for introspection and for recognizing the awful truth that yet another year has gone by with very little achieved. The New Year also has the same effect on me. But, they’re only dates, and shouldn’t be considered any more worthy a time for introspection than any other. This is why we should all read Eckhart Tolle’s ‘The Power of Now’ and learn that there is no looking back; no looking forward. We just have this moment in time; the one we’re in right now. That’s all there is, and we just need to make it a good one. Hmm, I haven't read that book for a while - must dig it out.

Anyway, I’ve just learned that my dear Papa has been moved from Intensive Care earlier than expected, following his major surgery on Monday. The medical wallahs are all very pleased with what they have described as his ‘wonderful progress’, so they’ve put him back on a normal ward. I can’t wait to see him later – he’s a survivor my dad, that he is. He’s rather excited because he takes delivery of his new car on Friday (it was ordered before he knew about the surgery). Pity he won’t be able to drive it for a while, but at 87 years old, there probably aren’t many excitements in life for him. At least he’ll be able to sit in it on the drive and twiddle with the knobs until the time comes when he can take it for a spin. Apparently, it’s smaller, but more powerful, than his last one. Hmm.

I’ve just realized that today is the day for posting my VAT return. Oh dear, I’d better get on with it before Her Majesty’s Revenue & Customs come knocking on my door. However, I have a bit of a disappointment for Her Maj – this quarter, my business has done so badly that she actually owes me money instead of the other way round! How about that, eh?

Seems like it’s a good day all round. Tra la la!

Now, if I can just remember where I left my Happy Head....

The Bad & The Ugly

I’m not sure where to begin. It all started with my mother telling me that I had turned suddenly into a ‘bad boy’ when I was about four years old. I was profoundly shocked by this news because I hadn’t worked out before then that good boys could become bad, simply overnight. I’ve been conscious of being bad ever since.

It was my birthday yesterday, but because we’d been celebrating on a massive scale the day before, I made yesterday a fairly quiet occasion. Friday night had been one of those sprawling, expansive, out-of-control events on the Broadway terrace, and yet it had ended most oddly with me drinking coffee until 3:00 a.m. trying to end a friend’s desperate unhappiness. On Saturday the whole of the Broadway crowd de-camped to Nottingham Pride where we sat on a huge parachute under a tree and had a picnic. There were dogs and children and dancing bears and men in drag a-plenty. The sun shone and the bands played and we all had enormous fun. Strangely (for I know not how this happened) I became heavily intoxicated.

After a birthday lunch with my parents yesterday, I then delivered my father to the hospital where he is due to undergo major surgery today. While we were waiting for him to be admitted, it was stiflingly hot and all I could think of was that a cool birthday beer might be waiting for me somewhere. Eventually I returned home, only to face all kinds of hassle in the car park which took ages to sort out – all the time I was getting hotter and hotter. The cool beer seemed an elusive enticement at the time.

However, I had a pleasant evening with a group of foreigners (where are all the English people in this city?) but it ended – after I came home – with me getting depressed and angry. Not a good way to end a birthday at all.

I have woken this morning feeling bewildered and lost. And bad. And ugly to boot. My mother, of course, was right.

New For Old

There’s an article in today’s Telegraph that solves a problem I talked about yesterday. Apparently, all we need to do to avoid joining this country’s obesity epidemic, is to avoid fat people. For yes, the article says: “People are influenced by the weight of those around them without being aware of it, leading to a 'spiral of obesity', according to University of Warwick researchers”. It goes on to say that: “Men do not worry about being overweight as long as plenty of men around them are also overweight”. However, it’s the headline to the article which I find most astonishing: “Having Fat Friends Makes You Put On Weight”.

This is most extraordinary. Now, I’ve often been accused of being fat-ist in the past, but surely, headlines like these are going too far? Life is already a wobbling blancmange of anxiety as it is (in respect of whether we are mixing with the right people or not); we hardly need to identify even further minority groups which we can gleefully decorate with additional social stigma. Does this mean that if we wish to stay thin, we simply shun anyone who is heavier than us? Just imagine what this will do to the slimming industry – billions of pounds will be lost to the economy by the simple act of us eschewing individuals who might not fit through the same gap between seats that we can. This would create a very Swiftian society, don’t you think, with some of us enjoying the small end, and some of us the big? Will there be segregation on public transport, in restaurants, libraries and hospitals? Will fat people be required to give up their seats on buses?

I’ve written here before about my firm view that homosexuality is not a life choice, and I note that last night John Barrowman devoted a whole TV programme to trying to prove just that (however, although I only caught the final ten minutes, it seemed like a bit of an apologia to me – his presentation & delivery might have been more convincing, I think). So, can we now expect to see Dawn French making a similar programme in which she discovers that her only problem was that she hung around with Susie ‘Tubs’ Billington at school?

I have an idea. Worried that my face displays increasing signs of ageing, all I need to do is to hang around with young people and, hey presto, I'll look younger! The trouble is, what if this works the other way round, and all my young friends start to become old before their time, just because they hang around with me? Look out for the next Telegraph headline: “Having Old Friends Gives You Wrinkles”.

You read it here first.

Eat More, Drink Less

I thought I would be settling down to some serious work this week but alas, too many pressing social engagements seem to have blocked this. This is not to say that I work in the evenings (although I could), but that long society nights out cause slow starts in the mornings. Monday evening was meant to be dominated by domestic matters but the arrival of my stray cat put paid to that. He kept me up half the night with his constant mewing for affection. Then Tuesday evening collapsed into an uprising of depravity – what had started out as a fairly sensible business meeting with two creative guys who are possible recruits for the Unleashed project, suddenly spiralled into the usual melée of Broadway cohorts. I decline to comment further on such matters.

Last night was no better. My carefully constructed plan was to attend the opening of a new art gallery in Nottingham. I’d met the two owners at a party recently so I thought I would go along to show support. As it started at 6:00 p.m. I reckoned I would be home by 8:00 p.m. at the latest, and therefore in a suitable condition to tackle my now famous ‘Leaning Tower of Pisa’ of ironing. Not so, I’m afraid - I rolled home at midnight. The ironing still teeters precariously. It’s time for me to retire from polite society, I think - not least because last night I ended up sending one of those emails that you instantly regret sending. Why my keyboard isn't alcohol-sensitive and thereby automatically disables the 'Send' button, I don't know.

Well, and now to more serious matters. I need to work out a plan to prevent me from joining Britain’s obesity epidemic. We are told that we are all heading for a crisis in this respect, so I must do something about it. This will require some skilful planning in terms of eating more healthily and getting more exercise. Going without food for an entire 24-hour period (which I did on Tuesday) and supplementing the calorific requirements with the demon drink, will not suffice.

The government is behind me on this, so it is my duty as a model citizen to abide. I start tonight by going sailing in what I hope will be a cheerful breeze. That should keep me out of trouble at least. Oh, where did I put my sensible head?

Slow Karma

I don’t often single people out for special merit, but I must mention in despatches a young film-maker I stumbled across last week. Leigh James Beard is a graduate of the MA in Multi Media at Nottingham Trent University and he invited me to his graduate show being held at the Bonington Building. I’d met Leigh before when he’d acted in a play produced by the East of Eden Company (run by a friend of mine, the talented Kieran Brooke), but I had no idea that this young man was also a film-maker.

I was treated to an astonishing pot-pourri of short films – there were ten in all, and they were being shown on ten different screens in a room which had been designed as a replica of someone’s apartment (it was in fact Leigh’s own apartment, and he had built the set himself, even moving in his own furniture to make it authentic). The films were all on continuous loop; some being displayed on TV sets, some on flat screens, whilst others were projected onto the walls and even one which was projected onto the ceiling. To view this one, I had to wear headphones and lie on the floor in a fake pool of blood (I use this phrase advisedly because it was the pool that was fake, not the blood – a pool of fake blood would have been rather messy).

Some of the films were straight-acted dramas, some part animation, and others included an element of digital manipulation of the images. All were quirky, original and artistic and of course, every single one was written, produced, directed and acted (with assistance) by Leigh James Beard. The fact that this was an entire conceptual event rather than just a simple screening made it all the more impressive. I think we should look out for this talented young man whom I suspect has a remarkable future ahead of him. I hope so, anyway.

In addition to this, I’ve had a rich and varied weekend. On Friday I was given a gift of a painting that was created especially for me by a friend of mine – it’s beautiful, and contains an image that is both poignant and humorous and it is now proudly displayed on the wall of my apartment. Then there was Susi’s birthday bash on Friday evening, with its expected mix of madness and mayhem, and then on Saturday I attended a charming and colourful wedding – two old friends of mine decided at last to “tie the knot”, using this very adage as the theme for the day because it symbolises an aspect of their two main interests in life together: sailing and mountain-climbing. It was a perfect day.

I then spent most of Sunday saying goodbye to my dear friend Martha who is returning to her native country (USA) for three months. We shall miss you Martha – god speed, and come back to us soon. Nottingham will be a different place without you, although I suspect that you will also find it a very different place when you eventually return. Here, we don’t stop moving on, moving on.

LSD

I had intended to have an early night last night. I had also intended to go to Buddhism, but I did neither. I didn’t go to Buddhism because I decided that meditating at home would be more propitious – I have so many issues racing through my head at the moment that I needed some time to reflect on what it is I want; where it is I’m going etc. At the moment I’m going nowhere, and I need to spank myself out of this awful lethargy that I’ve somehow skidded into.

So, after a session of introspection (navel-gazing, some might call it) I felt strangely uplifted yesterday evening. I still have to deal with the issue of my expenditure far outstripping my income (a perennial problem) but I felt that in one way or another - in this respect at least - all will be resolved. In the words of a fellow blogger, the universe (screaming or otherwise) will provide the required rejoinder. All will be well.

Perhaps ill-advisedly, this feeling of self-benevolence prompted me to abandon my apartment and to seek solace in the fleshpots of Broad Street. Being a Wednesday, I hardly expected to see many people about but lo, the usual gang of reprobates was roaming the streets and before long I had been tempted into imbibing rather more than the single pint I had promised myself. I ended up in Edin’s where the music and ambience is so sophisticated, so continental, that it’s hard for any sane man to escape. I was trying to explain this phenomenon to the people I was with, none of whom was born in this wretched country and so none of whom can really appreciate what a remarkable place Edin’s is. When I were a lad, you just didn’t get late night places as cool as this. Yes, I know they were available sur le continent, but I spent my youth in the Midlands where all we had were stinking, yellow-walled pubs that closed at 10:30 p.m. and where the highlight of the evening was the arrival of the man selling cockles and mussels.

In a reminiscent mood, I then led on to an explanation about the old currency of this bedraggled country: Pounds, Shillings and Pence (or £.s.d as we knew it in those days). My first ever pint in a pub as a teenager cost me 1s 11d, which converts to 9½ pence in decimal currency. Hardly seems possible now.

At the risk of turning into a maudlin old dog, I decided to make my way home. The evening had been quite dignified; there had been no debauchery. Luckily, dawn’s rosy fingers hadn’t quite yet tickled the night sky and I was able to sink into my bed in time to catch enough sleep to make this new morning possible. I am awake, and I am listening to the universe. So far, I don’t hear any screaming.

Remind me to tell you about my hair going grey overnight. Yes, it happened to me – my hairdresser was very shocked to discover this the other day. Me too - quite scary, I can tell you. I now look like George Clooney (if only).

Nostradamus - Right or Wrong?

I was talking to human rights activist Gearóid Ó Cuinn last night, and he told me a story about the building of Knock Airport in County Mayo, Ireland. Apparently, one justification for the building of such a huge runway in such a small town was to provide a facility for the hundreds of thousands of pilgrims arriving to visit the local shrine dedicated to a sighting there of the Virgin Mary in 1879. However, there is also a local rumour that the innocent pilgrims were merely a foil to conceal the fact that the real reason for its construction was to provide a platform for the landing of US bombers on their way to Libya in the late 1980s.

To some, this may appear to be another urban myth; just one of those teasing conspiracy theories that we all like to believe might be true. Whatever the valid facts are, the idea isn’t as implausible as you might think. No, for such schemes of duplicity are taking place right now in Africa - in particular, the Democratic Republic of Congo. The Chinese are investing £4.5bn in the reconstruction of Congo’s crumbling and derelict infrastructure. The vast project, which will triple Congo's current paved road network, is part of a “roads-for-minerals“ deal that was signed in January. As well as the roads, the Congolese have been promised the repair of 2,000 miles of largely defunct railways, the building of 32 hospitals and 145 health centres, the installation of two electricity distribution networks, and the construction of two hydropower dams and two new airports. Impressive stuff indeed, and designed to convince the world, perhaps, that China is the new magnanimous benefactor to the Third World.

If only things were that simple. The truth of the situation is that the Congolese are being robbed blind. In return for a £4.5bn injection, the Chinese stand to gain five or maybe ten times that figure in mineral extraction. The improvements they will be making to the road and rail networks are not part of an altruistic gesture to improve the lot of the Congolese poor workers – no, they are being carried out so that the Chinese can get the minerals out of the country as quickly as possible. Such activity won’t be restricted to the Congo either – China is poised to swallow the whole of the African continent, and there will be very little the rest of the world can do about it. Why else do you think they vetoed the recent resolution for sanctions against Mugabe? This latest action makes a mockery of the G8 which, as an organization, may as well be dismantled for all the world clout it has these days. The West’s Imperialism is finished and there is no point in Gordon Brown bleating on that China’s veto has “cast doubt on its reliability as a G8 ally”. China doesn’t care, and no more does Russia; nobody is listening.

Our position as a World Power has come to an end and we may as well sit back and accept that fact. The good news is that we only have to suffer the indignity of this situation for a few more years. After the 21st December 2012, it won’t matter anymore. Nothing will.

Chins up my lovelies!

Lost Weekend

My god, since I returned from rain-soaked Salcombe, I haven’t stopped running. It’s been a crazy mad weekend of indulgence. On Friday evening I met up with my dear American friend (she’s from Wisconsin, don’t you know?) and we ended up getting locked in at Nottingham’s coolest bar, and I didn’t get home until 4:00 a.m. Then Saturday was spent racing around between homes because my two daughters have both been visiting for the weekend, and both my parents have been in hospital (separately).

Saturday evening was passed in the Alley Café where we experienced an ever expanding international group – firstly there were my daughters (one French, one Swiss) plus four Hungarians, one American (you know who you are!), one Italian (Marco, we love you), two random French hippies, an Icelander and a delightful South African girl. What a night! We ended up in Bar Eleven where there was no way I was going to dance.

I thought that Sunday should bring some peace and quiet to my dissolute life but no, after several daytime and evening drinks in and around the Broadway, we all went on to @D2 where we enjoyed the spectacle of the maddest drag act I’ve ever seen. By this point we had been reduced to one daughter (the Swiss one had flown out earlier), one American, one Italian, one South African, one Dane, and me. I felt like the Foreign Secretary (who is that, btw? Is it that cheeky young Milliband fellah?) and I couldn’t work out whether my head was thumping from falling into a towel rail earlier (it is true reader, I did) or due to the ridiculous amount of alcohol that I’d consumed.

Today is Monday. Time for some reconnaissance in respect of this excess, I think. The bank account is now drained, the assets are all sold (except for my car) and Big Issue selling looms as the only possible source of income. Time to release my play about the Great Tullamore Balloon Disaster of 1785 perhaps. They say that a weekend wasted is never a wasted weekend, and it was certainly true of this one.

Homeward Bound

We made another incorrect decision yesterday. Well, I say we, but it was George’s decision not to sail in the morning. The wind looked reasonable (if a little gusty), and I was keen to go out, but George was concerned for his own safety and in the end, opted not to go. We went up to watch the start of the race and it all looked perfectly manageable; nobody was struggling. We were heartily sick when we realized this, as this had been our last opportunity to sail because today we have to pack up and leave.

I can’t say I’m sorry to be coming home. This place is ruinously expensive for a start, and if you’re not sailing, there’s very little else to do. Then there are the evenings when, after eating out in one of the dozens of over-priced eateries, we invariably wash up at the yacht club with the rest of the gang (there are hundreds of us here, specifically for this week-long event). There’s a limit to the number of occasions when you can chew the fat over that day’s racing without insane boredom setting in. It gets rather wearing to listen to tales of how Sailor A gybed two hundred yards earlier than Sailor B, thereby gaining some miniscule advantage that caused Sailor A to win the race; or how Sailor C flew his kite on the Townside rather than on the Mill Bay side of the estuary which gave him such a lift that there was no way Sailor D was going to catch him. Yawn yawn, I say.

So, today I am homeward bound and at last will get some phone coverage. It’s been frustrating, yet strangely liberating, to be out of telephone contact for a whole week. It is a universal truth that a man in possession of a mobile phone will forever be in search of a good signal but alas, dear reader, I couldn’t find one. I don’t need to remind you that all of us are too dependent on our little hand-held communication devices, and if a lesson has been learned this week, it’s that I didn’t die without mine. I still live and breathe.

I did have a little drama of my own this morning. I went out onto our balcony to discover that a massive seagull had become trapped between the table and the clear glass screen that serves as the barrier on the far side. The poor thing was bashing itself against the glass and seemed to be weakening pitiably, unable to achieve the sufficient wingspan required for despatch. I thought that I’d have to pick it up to release it from its torment but instead, I simply moved the table and scared the damn thing into flight. However, it only made it a few feet to the gabled roof and sat there, gathering itself and staring at me indignantly. The irony is that in view of the fact that he and his one million compatriots in this town have been keeping me awake half the night, every night, I should really have strangled him. Anyone who knows me, however, will know that I am a man of compassion and mindfulness and therefore, such an act would have been impossible.

A couple of days longer without my mobile phone though, and the story might have ended differently.

See you soon.

Salcombe Report 2

Well, what a week it has been so far. The weather here is still awful and all racing for today has been cancelled. Seasoned Salcombe-ites are all complaining that they have never known a week like it, but it’s my first time here (as a racer that is; I have been to Salcombe before) so I can’t say whether it’s unusual or not. Unfortunately, I didn’t pack for a winter climate, so I’ve no warm clothes with me – this may mean that a spot of retail therapy is required (if only I could afford it). Strangely, I did remember to bring an umbrella.

However, we did manage to get out yesterday. We raced in the morning and for the most part we had great fun. It was blowing old boots and as we hurtled up to the 3rd mark at Southpool, I was playing the spinnaker for all I was worth. George and I were hanging on for grim death off the back of the transom and the boat was being pushed forward at an alarming speed (faster than I’ve ever been, anyway). Most scary. The race lasted for about two hours but alas, not for us. About ten minutes from the finish line, with only one mark left to round, we capsized spectacularly, both of us being violently and unceremoniously tossed from the boat. At this point the spinnaker was still up, which made it almost impossible to right the boat so I had to swim under the water and, feeling blindly in the dark, locate the halyard and pull the spinnaker in. Even so, George was losing strength and we still couldn’t right the boat, so reluctantly he called for assistance. Our race was over. Within moments two very handsome and strapping blonde-haired young men appeared in a powerboat and managed to right us, allowing me to haul myself over the back and lie panting in a foot of water on the bottom of the boat. Then they towed us back to shore – a most ignominious end to our efforts, but we were happy.

Last night we threw a dinner party in our apartment. There were twelve of us at the table and we had far too much food and an even greater amount of wine. The quantity of food defeated us and we ended up throwing some of it away. However, the quantity of wine did not, and all that was left this morning was a scatter of empty bottles. When the dinner was finished we strolled up to the yacht club to swap tales of daring-do with the other sailors there. I’m sorry to report that even more alcohol was thence consumed – everyone seemed to have guessed that today’s racing would be cancelled and therefore must have known that concentration would not be required this morning.

I’ve been out onto the streets this morning and witnessed a damp mass of humanity trudging itself from one coffee shop to the next; bedraggled children and dogs being dragged along forlornly. But I’m happy. I don’t often get a chance to read for longer than an hour at a time, so whilst everyone else is complaining of boredom and even suggesting that we visit Salcombe’s tiny, tiny, tiny two-roomed museum again, I’m actually enjoying myself.

If I can be bothered, I’ll write again at the end of the week. If not, I might tell you instead about the time my step-father sold me to white slavers so that he could pay off his gambling debts. That was a most bizarre experience, I can assure you.

Here Comes Summer

Well, I managed to get some wi-fi in the coffee shop across the road from our holiday apartment, so here I am reporting to you from wonderful Salcombe in Devon. For anyone who knows Salcombe, you’ll know that it’s a very snobbish and ‘okay-yah’ kind of a place. Everyone has too much money and everyone drives around in cars that are too big and expensive (everyone who is visiting here that is – I’m not talking about the locals, if indeed there are any). Everyone wears either Fat Face, Weird Fish, Musto or Henri Lloyd clothes (these labels are the sailing world’s equivalent of D&G, Versace and Jean-Paul Gaultier and nobody would be seen dead in anything else). Foolishly, I came here without any shorts (I packed in a hurry) so I’ve been out to buy a couple of pairs at Fat Face – now I’m as trendy as everyone else and don’t need to feel ashamed of my normal attire which is invariably 'George' or 'Cherokee'!

Anyway, the weather has been terrible since we arrived. Yesterday we had gale force winds and relentless, driving rain. All sailing was cancelled. Today, the wind had reduced to a manageable blow so, despite the continuing rain, we set off for the start of the race. When we left the sanctuary of the harbour, we realized that it was still blowing old boots and we were getting horribly wet and uncomfortable. The boat was almost out of control at one point. I was wishing that I were somewhere else, but didn’t dare say so to my fellow crew member (there is a certain kind of macho bravado attached to these events). Imagine my relief then, when I spotted that we’d rigged the spinnaker incorrectly and therefore rendered it impossible to use safely. The pole downhauls were the wrong side of the mast, and the halyard was the wrong side of the jib sheets. Ha! These things cannot be resolved at sea, so we had no choice but to retire from the race. I can’t say that I was too disappointed – it was most horrid out there.

And then the sun reappeared after an absence of two days, and we were sitting on the deck of our apartment eating lunch. Our deck overlooks the harbour, so from our vantage point we were able to watch our more competent (and perhaps more courageous) friends return from the race. The legendary Tom Stewart (yes, he who also succeeds in National 12s) won the race outright. At this point, we felt that we were really in Salcombe at last.

After a pleasant lunch we went out on a motorboat to watch the afternoon race. It was still blowing old boots as we followed the race and - very grateful that we weren't out there sailing - we watched some spectacular capsizes. Masts were broken, spinnaker’s were shredded, rudder stocks were smashed; it was all huge fun (even if a little scary).

Tomorrow is another day and we have re-rigged our spinnaker (correctly) in anticipation. Tomorrow we are sailing in the afternoon race and hopefully the weather will improve a bit so that this time we shall at least make the start line. In the meantime, I have to attend to the little question of opening a bottle of delicious red wine. Ah, holidays are so enjoyable.

In Absentia

Hello everyone - I'm going to be away for a week (sailing) and so unless I can find wifi somewhere (always a possibility) I might not be posting for a while. It isn't really the best time to be away, but it has been planned for a long time, so I may as well go. My parents have told me to "go and enjoy your holiday", as if I needed one! My life is one long holiday at the moment, some people say. The Broadway will probably go bankrupt without me.

Anyway, if I get a chance to update you on our progress in the racing, I shall. Otherwise, I'll see you in a week!

Watch this space!

R x

My Dad

The New Year is not going well. I’m still finding it difficult to motivate myself into doing anything constructive at all. Some people believe that if you ask the universe for something, and if you believe in that, then the universe will provide. Well, whatever the veracity of that theory is, there’s still the adage to be considered that nobody ever gets anything for nothing. Ipso facto, if all I ever do is lounge around the place expecting to receive, then it won’t happen. The universe (whatever that is – is it some kind of support agency?) would expect some match funding, I think. By that I mean that if I were to put in the required effort, then that effort would be matched by the appropriate rewards. I can't expect it otherwise.

My poor dad – who is very old indeed – is in hospital at the moment. The medical people have discovered that he has cancer, but the good news is that it can easily be removed with surgery. I am impressed and grateful that they are so keen to bother – it would be so convenient for them (in the current climate) to say that a man of nearly ninety shouldn’t take up the precious resources of the NHS. I’m not ready to lose him yet; in my mind I’m still a little boy who is seeking approval, and he’s my dad.

He fought in the Second World War (he was a gunner on naval warships) and yet he is immensely modest about that - he never claims to have been the bastion of our freedom; he never seeks credit for being the defender of the democratic world. He helped to patrol the oceans during six long years of conflict – he safeguarded the North Atlantic convoys; he was a combat to the bombardments in the Mediterranean and North Africa; he shot down planes from the skies of Norway, Indonesia, India and East Africa. He helped to sink the battleship Graf Spee in the waters off Montevideo, Uruguay. He’s my hero, if nobody else’s, and I’m enormously proud of him. And I love him.

And what do I ever do to make him proud of me? Sweet FA, that’s what! I run around pretending to be a writer, pretending to be making a difference in this world, yet all the time I’m just an indolent wastrel, squandering my time and money. He must be so disappointed in me, and I feel ashamed.