Killer Shrimps!

I was reading today about a sailing event (that I wasn't attending anyway) which was cancelled because of the discovery of the presence of 'killer shrimps' in the water. I kid you not, dear reader (for would I lie to you?). No - the gammarid shrimp, Dikerogammarus villosus, common name ‘killer shrimp’, has been found at Grafham Water, an Anglian Water reservoir in Cambridgeshire. This is the first time the shrimp, which is classified as an invasive species, has been found in this country.

Before you start assuming that the sailing community is made up by a load of wusses who would be frightened off by the prospect of capsizing into a shoal of marauding shellfish, I will tell you that it is Anglian Water who imposed the cancellation of the sailing contest. Apparently, nobody is quite sure how these shrimps have managed to invade what is basically an inland water, so the precaution has been put in place to prevent further dispersal of this dangerous animal (although they don't look too harmful in the picture, do they?). One suggestion is that they can be carried into and out of the water by boat, and so the Authority has decided to ban any boats doing just that. The shrimp has already colonised parts of Western Europe, affecting a range of native species such as freshwater invertebrates, particularly native shrimps and even very young fish, altering the ecology of the habitats it invades. Insects such as damsel-flies and water boatmen, common sights on British lakes and rivers, could be at risk, with knock-on effects on the species which feed on them. Serious stuff indeed.

What I find so puzzling about such accounts though, is this: If such an aggressive species as this is so virulent and so invasive, how come it exists anywhere in small pockets only, and hasn't already taken over the world? Dikerogammarus villosus is a non-native shrimp that has spread from the Ponto-Caspian region of Eastern Europe, and is believed to have invaded Western Europe via the Danube. It has spread across most of Western Europe over the last 10 years, and tends to dominate the habitats it invades, sometimes causing the extinction of native species. I am therefore surprised that there is any other kind of aquatic wildlife left - surely, everything else should have been eaten by now? It's a strange world indeed. Prawn sandwich, anyone?

I have a full programme of events coming up this week. It's a good job that I'm temporarily excused from the salt mines, because otherwise there wouldn't be time to fit it all in. I have a meeting with Nottingham Contemporary about the arrangements for a writing event that we're holding there (by 'we' I mean the Nottingham Writers' Studio); a private pre-release screening of Billy Ivory's new film 'Made in Dagenham' (with Billy Ivory); a meeting of the ScreenLit Festival Committee at the Broadway; and then a launch party for 'First Story' as it begins its first foray into Nottingham. I can see that there will be little time for the usual festivities, which is a good job really because unrestrained, I can't be trusted to behave with any amount of decorum these days (or so it would seem). I've just had the most excessive weekend for a long time - well, for about a week in truth - and I could do with focusing a little more closely on the more serious sides of life.

Now, I notice that my terrace has become slightly flooded in the rain. I was thinking of going out there to un-block the drain but I suddenly noticed a prevalence of small pink heads bobbing about in the water. Hmm, better put on my steel-capped boots.....

Families, eh?

If you are a regular reader of this rubbish, then you may be forgiven for believing that there was only one relative in my life to influence the development of my formative years - my Great Aunt Dolores. This is not the true picture, for actually I come from a large and diverse family. We are a disparate lot - and as such, we rarely have anything to do with each other. I have twelve first cousins, yet I would have trouble recognizing more than a handful of them if I were to pass any of them in the street. There are fat ones, thin ones; rich ones, and poor ones. Some are probably pleasant people, some are undoubtedly not the sort of people I would ever seek as friends. I have no uncles left alive, and only one aunt - and she is blind and hates me anyway. So really, living within a large family is certainly no guarantee to living within an extended family.

However, besides Dolores there was another family member who had an influence on me during my upbringing. My father's cousin - a strangely Quixotic character by the name of Géraint de Braose - was the first person to teach me to appreciate classical music. You might think that there is nothing unusual in this, but in my immediate family there was little appreciation of anything but popular music throughout my early years. Whereas I knew the lyrics of everything Doris Day, Frank Sinatra or Perry Como had recorded (for example), I didn't know my '1812 Overture' from my 'Unfinished Symphony'. Nobody in my immediate family did. And then one day, Géraint dropped by - he pulled up outside our tiny house in his massive and gleaming pre-war open-topped Jaguar saloon, and breezed into our sparsely-furnished living room carrying a record under his arm. Without a word to my parents, he removed the disc currently sitting on the turntable of our ancient gramophone (I remember it was a recording of "Hold Out Your Hand You Naughty Boy" by Alma Cogan), span it onto the cushion of a nearby chair with an almost disdainful casualness, and replaced it with his own.

What came blaring next from the tinny and highly inadequate little speaker had me immediately spellbound and captivated. The recording that he had decided to impose upon us on that spring Saturday morning, was the 'Háry János Suite' by Kodály. From the very opening, with its mischievous musical "sneeze" (a device from Hungarian folklore that, according to Géraint, indicates that everything to follow is not to be believed - I now suspect he may have got that the wrong way round), to the majestic and sweeping grandeur of the finale 'Entrance of the Emperor and His Court', I was totally mesmerized by the outrage and audacity of this previously unheard-of music. My father, presumably thinking it was all a load of rubbish, went off to the kitchen to peel some potatoes and my mother, presumably of a similar disposition, decided it was time to scrub the front doorstep. My siblings (all eight of them) scurried away into the woodwork like frightened mice, presumably to entertain themselves elsewhere. There was only me, awestruck, left alone in the room with my second-cousin. We sat in near silence while the record span its way to its conclusion, interrupted only by a brief explanation from Géraint to the meaning of each movement as it began.

"You like that?" he asked, when the record had stopped spinning. In response, I nodded enthusiastically. "Then there's more. Lots more. I will send you a parcel in the week - let me know how you get on with it, will you?"

The following week I duly received a package - the first time anything had ever arrived at our humble house addressed specifically to me - and I eagerly tore off the wrapping. Inside was a magpie's hoard of sparkling treasures: Mozart, Beethoven, Chopin, Tchaikovsky and Wagner - all names of which at that time, I had never heard. The only trouble was that I had nothing on which to play such delights - the indulgence that my family had offered towards Géraint's intervention was not to be repeated towards me, nor to my pleas for a monopoly of the gramophone. In fact, my elder brother threatened to smash the whole collection if I so much as whispered a suggestion of Mozart's 'Violin Concerto No. 4' ever again. In the end, I had to "make myself useful" to an old Polish widower who lived down the road (the term "child abuse" hadn't been coined in those days), and as a reward he bought me a second-hand Dansette record player which I was able to keep at his house, and on which I was allowed to play anything I chose while he grunted and spat his way to a climax.

I was on my way!

Convalescence

This posting will not reflect my true state of mind (which is one of appalling contrition and shame). No, I will only write about the positive aspects of my recent life, and I will avoid recounting to you the sorrowful outcomes of some of my more extreme and ignominious deeds. It all began when I motored down to Cornwall for a few days of relaxation - I had a lovely trip down, with none of the usual tiredness I normally experience on long journeys. Once I had crossed over the Tamar Bridge into the land of the Kernewek, the sun was just too inviting, so I put the top down on the car and drove the rest of the way with the "warm wind in my hair".

Cornwall was such a pleasure - no sooner had I arrived than I was ensconced in the rooftop garden of my friends' house with a glass of beer in one hand, and a cigarette in the other. The remainder of my stay was whiled away by meandering around the harbour shops, walking along deserted beaches, trekking through the Cornish countryside to take tea and scones in the woods, and lingering over relaxing dinners, eating good food in the company of good and restful friends. A most uplifting sojourn indeed.

When my visit was over, I drove back across the Tamar Bridge into Devon to attend the wedding at Salcombe of some old sailing friends of mine. This was by far the most stylish and lavish wedding that I have ever been too - look out for the photos in 'Hello' magazine, I'm sure. We all had such a lot of fun catching up with old faces - scattering ourselves across the elegant lawns of the hotel, discreetly surrounded by an army of formally-dressed servants handing out canapés, Pimms and champagne galore. Then to the wedding breakfast, served amidst the diaphanous drapes of the graceful dining room - one hundred and sixty guests sat down to a delicious five-course banquet and as much wine and champagne as we could drink. Thereby hangs my downfall of course - and once the dining and speeches were over, our genial and generous host opened up a free bar which, for a dilettante libertine such as myself, is a sure recipe for disaster. As I said, I will not dwell on the reprehensible results of such indulgence, but I think I can safely predict that I will not be invited to such an event again.

I drove home the following day - a long and tedious journey, only made bearable by the knowledge that my dear friend Richie Garton was waiting for me; waiting to start another round of debauched and decadent drinking. This was not a sensible thing for me to do of course, because I then proceeded to continue with a total lack of self-control (where behaviour in polite society is concerned, I mean); a self-indulgence which unfortunately lasted for the next two days. Oh, when will I ever learn?

Duties and chores await me - impatiently drumming their fingers on the table-top; sighing in resignation that yet again, they remain unattended. Despite the very best of intentions, I have failed once more. The only thing to do is to remain inside my apartment, alone. I can hardly cause myself any more embarrassment if I do that, and it may also give me the opportunity and motivation to attack the list of 'things to do' (which is now as long as the Turin Shroud). What's more, it might even give my poor, wrecked and ruined body a chance to recuperate from the sordid excesses of recent times.

So, it's 'goodbye' to polite society for a while, and 'hello' to sobriety, industry and diligence. My next posting will hopefully be a record of such productivity, and you will be amazed at the transformation in my circumstances.

Watch this space.

Ever Fattened

Oh, even though all the stress is meant to have gone from my life, there's still too much to do! I've been very busy tying up loose ends and getting bills paid, and other stuff - people demand so much of my time that I might as well be back at work, really.

Anyway, you will be pleased to know that I am putting up "two fingers" to it all and am taking myself off to Cornwall for a few days. There I will be able to do absolutely nothing and can be pampered by my dear friends while the spinning, chaotic world of responsibility tumbles away behind me. My aim is to go fishing on the sea, eat ice cream and Cornish pasties, and drink lots of red wine (oh, by the way, I'm drinking Swiss vodka right now - I don't know if you've ever drunk Swiss vodka, but it's absolutely delicious - who knew that the Swiss could make vodka better than the Russians or the Finns?). So yes, some serious R&R is in order, and I don't care what happens back home.

The trouble is, I aim to be leaving home at about eight o'clock tomorrow morning and it's nearly midnight now and I haven't packed a thing. I'm also attending a very smart society wedding on Saturday (in Devon) so I should really be thinking about packing some smart attire. And planning my route too. Oh, bugger! It would seem that I can't get the badly-needed R&R right now. More stress.

I went over to cut my dad's lawns today (he died recently, and although that should have relieved some of the stress, I still have to tend to his garden - accidentally I have killed his tomatoes in the greenhouse, which I am sure he would be cross about). We've had such deliciously hot weather today that it brings to mind the phrase "Indian Summer" although of course, such a thing does not exist.

I'll update you from Cornwall. No doubt with a much-expanded waistline!

Toodle pip!