Return to Writing

Tuesday 1st August 2023

The long-awaited First of August. Earmarked for at least two months as the ‘Return to Writing Day’

when ‘writing’ really means finishing a children’s book, ‘The Tear Collector’ and a historical novel,

‘Thomas J. Philpott’.

You find me at Coffee #1 with the requisite Flat White and Biscoff cheesecake, gentle foot-tapping music, and the general hubbub of milk frothers, rippling conversation, dull traffic outside, and plates, mugs, and cups colliding. Sunshine is pouring through the glass frontage and the steam, rising up from the coffees of those sitting by the window.

A perfect setting to lose myself in whatever writing is; the internal mystery that impels someone to write. To attempt to say something in words on a page. I hadn’t completely abandoned writing in my sabbatical. Poetry, for example, had not abandoned its own capability of putting its hooks in my distracted self, and drag me out of various reveries to let the words pour out. But the attempt to prepare for A-Level English Literature exams put paid to the level of attention required to push on with the books.

After the exams in June the priority shifted to neglected chores and preparing for a kitchen make-over. I had hoped this phase to be complete by July 31st but it will linger on.

Meanwhile, the writing starts today.

This blog post is just a warm-up.

A perfect setting to lose myself in whatever writing is; the internal mystery that impels someone to write

I’ve left the books for so long now I will need to re-read both for some time to be re-absorbed in their narrative before editing the grammar and considering more wholesale changes…not necessarily in that order.

Let’s see. How long should that take? I’ll give myself to the end of September. Included in that will be gaining some advice about how to approach publishers. The holy grail still seems to me to be when someone else sees something in your writing worth publishing. Worth the financial risk.

Is that too constricting?

I close this post with that question not only hanging in the air.

Rant: very annoying words & phrases

So… Ignoring, dismissing the question and carrying on with own message

Up it Instead of increase it

Amount Baby language instead of length, volume, mass, weight, number…

Bigger/big Baby language instead of larger, fuller, heavier, significant, telling etc

It is what it is Empty of meaning, unnecessary phrase

There is lots No distinction made between one and many, singular and plural

Them When it is 'those' e.g. "them players" No! No! No!

Medal i.e. 'to medal' No! You win a gold medal you don't medal a medal - rediculous

"He played brilliant" You can say 'he played brilliant chess' or 'he played brilliantly'

"I'm good" No! 'I'm well' perhaps. Good is too vague. Good at what? Morally good?

Match up Just 'match' will do, or contest

Ongoing An oldie…unnecessary words e.g. ongoing problem = problem

Top of the programme Just say 'the start'

Optics O dear! Words fail me. Say what you actually mean. Too obscure.

Lean into What? Commit maybe? You can lean or lean on something…forget 'lean into'

Reach out Ask

Referenced Referred to…he didn’t ‘reference Shakespeare’ he ‘referred to Shakespeare’

To 'source' as a verb Find or buy. Source is a noun - a source - not a verb. Resist this.

Heads up Remove this from your sentence and nothing changes

Going forward Ditto

I hear you Usually condescending…you don’t fool the speaker or the audience.

Call out I loathe this. It is judge & jury instead of ‘accuse’.

Journey Geography usurped by emotion

Gifted As in 'he gifted me with a…' No! it's 'gave'. Adverb not a verb: 'gifted drummer'

Issue Problem

Train station ‘Bus station' is used to distinguish it from a railway station which is a ‘station’

Takeout Take away

Acclimate Ugh! It is acclimatise

Drill down Please don't

Signage Just 'sign' or 'signs' putting -age on the end doesn't make you look clever

Paris ’24 – 11th July. It’s not just professional sportsmen and women…

I am a true amateur. The amateur image is a ‘normal’ everyday man or woman holding down a full-time job, maybe children to juggle, shopping to do, holidays to save up for, the dentist to avoid, the deny all hygienists oxygen.

The thought of an ordinary pleb having a back-up system of physios, sports psychologists, weights, ice baths, and so on, just to don your shorts and stumble outdoors…is as unlikely as it is often quite true.

This 65-year-old has just spent an hour being manipulated by an osteopath, tomorrow I have a physio appointment, then a muscular-skeletal doctor’s advice about choosing either surgery or steroid injections following an MRI on my left foot.

As for sports psychology…I would, of course, but I can’t afford it.

All this just to get out and try and run sub-30’ 5K and maybe sub-25’ 5K before the leaves turn yellow and maybe a sub-55’ 10K before roasting chestnuts and thinking about sprouts.

That will leave 6 months to beat the 10K qualifying time of 27 minutes.

Maybe I need to sign up for the Sports Psychologist after all, if only for pre-Olympic-failure-counselling?

The Pendeen Ashes 2013

The mythology surrounding the mustard pot filled with the remains, the ashes, of a 100 piece jigsaw has its genesis in a shopping expedition prior to Xmas 2022.

A jigsaw of an appropriately Christmas-themed collection of sprouts finally had its opening during the early days of the family escape to Pendeen, Cornwall in the first week of July 2023.

Whereupon it was discovered that not only were the pieces all individually unique and shaped randomly without any straight edges…but fiendishly…double-sided. Not in the Christmas spirit one bit!

A decision was made to incinerate the impossible puzzle and consign its ashes to an urn or similar and to be preserved as a prize for the winner of the annual holiday quiz of equivalent.

The ashes now reside in an unused mustard pot but may move to a more secure location in the near future.

Until the Summer of ’24.

Paris ’24 – 4th June 2023

It’s been a while and, no I haven’t been training at altitude, or investigating the legality of oxygenated blood transfusions prior to racing, or pulling enormous tractor tyres, or cricket-square rollers across the Downs, or anything remotely eye-catching.

I’ve just had an MRI scan on a dodgy nerve in my left foot, visits to two physiotherapists (shoulders and back), and an increasing range of hilarious exercises from the physios and an osteopath to keep me super-supple.

That’s the state of play of this 60+-year-old even attempting to return to running, let alone meet the qualifying time for the 10K ready for Paris ’24.

But I’m on the way back – hence the return to the blog.

3 x 5K runs and I’ve lopped 5 minutes off my first time just over a week ago. At this trajectory, I will break the land speed record for a Walrus in a few weeks and be outpacing old Labradors before you can say ‘Allez France!’

 The next step is to run 5 miles, not 5K, then 10K…by the end of June.

 Expect a follow-up report in detail.

English Literature and Cold Turkey…Report One.

My normal routine: get up, kettle on, R4 on, either a tea-bag or looseleaf tea in small pot and, cereal, R4 off, wander into lounge and Ahhhh! That first sip of a cuppa to remove the night and start the day.

 About 11 am, coffee beans ground to dust, cafetiere in operation, and…Relax…with coffee and maybe a slab of Cadbury’s plain. Perfect.

 A normal day consisted of one coffee and maybe 5 cups of tea.

 Until Saturday.

The centre-of-gravity of this story is my attempt to pass A-Level English Literature. In a few weeks’ time I shall be sat amongst impossibly talented 18-year-olds trying to control my thoughts, telling my pen-writing muscles not to cease up, and (for a 65-year-old, the greatest fear) not having to ask to be excused more than twice in the 3 hours of exam hall torture.

 So…preparations – apart from intense revision – include:

1.      Fasting the day before the exam (let the reader surmise the reason why)

2.      A break from tea and coffee…i.e. caffeine, tannin, and all other diuretics

 Sensible?

 So, I Googled the likely side effects, the ‘cold-turkey’ side-effects of giving up tea and coffee:

 The invisible addiction: is it time to give up caffeine? | Coffee | The Guardian

The scientists have spelled out, and I had duly noted, the predictable symptoms of caffeine withdrawal: headache, fatigue, lethargy, difficulty concentrating, decreased motivation, irritability, intense distress, loss of confidence and dysphoria. But beneath that deceptively mild rubric of “difficulty concentrating” hides nothing short of an existential threat to the work of the writer [Edit and exam reviser]. How can you possibly expect to write anything when you can’t concentrate?

Three days in and I can report, darn it, ALL of the above symptoms. I don’t know what dysphoria is but I’m not sure I care…the incessant headache, leg aches, lethargic waves that roll over one, and stranger periods of distress…darn it, it’s all true!

Three days in and I can report, darn it, ALL of the above symptoms

But I’m told this will ease after nine days…so…a week to go of hoping the benefits will outweigh the longing for that first taste of something better in the morning than the dried inside of one’s mouth and sour lips after a night’s sleep, snoring - and sneezing in the hay-fever season.

Meanwhile, it’s back to Othello, Jane Eyre, Post 1900 Poetry, Spies, Skirrid Hill, and Streetcar Named Desire and wading through critics of Patriarchal societies, literature as a Marxist class struggle, and attempting to view the above books through modern, post-modern, and meta-modern lenses.

The moral of this tale? Not enough energy to enter a debate about morals…until it’s over. The abstinence, that is.

Expect Report Two…when I feel human

Paris ‘24 - 29th January 2023

It’s a Sunday. January 29th to be precise and the start of a new week. A week in which I will fail once again to escape this game of physiological snakes and ladders.

My hopes that a return to 10K running have been dashed into a new dismalness and gloom.

A visit to the doc resulted in swift action (thank you NHS) of a telephone consultation with (another) physiotherapist and an X-ray…of my right knee; a new injury I had been attempting to ignore whilst the others had released their uninvited grip.

So…here I sit and stand and stroll with a walking pole, trying not to wince in public with one of those stabbing pains that leaves you helpless and unable to move forward.

Verdict pending, I am reduced to walking…for now.

No running for the past two weeks.

Progress towards Paris ’24 must be faced with a dollop of Gallic Shrug, a smidgen of hope, and a full tank of thankfulness for all the previous running injuries and recoveries, a miracle of healing thrown in, and a generous ladle of faith in God.

We press on.

Knocked down but not knocked out.

Paris 24 - January 8th 2023 Blog 11

Paris ’24 Blog 11

Time has come to get serious…

December was a write off. A nasty anti-runner virus came my way as soon as the ice had melted and wiped this would-be Olympian out. Recovery consisted of 48 hour straight dedication to the sofa and uncountable episodes of Netflix and – oddly (?) ITVX.

Ugh…

Despite the post-viral patheticness, Christmas jolliness took priority and was enjoyed by all. After four straight days of family fun, chat, food and medicinal measures of this and that I was ready.

Ready, that is for a post-convivial conversations further relapse. The sofa beckoned for another day of TV and zero energy.

BUT…Paris ’24 was never forgotten. Another temporary set-back number ? (I’ve lost count now).

January has arrived. Bitingly cold mornings. And chilling rain. The discipline of run/walk/Pilates/stretching and shoulder exercises is upon me once more.

Today’s early morning jog. Only the 5K Harbourside flat-ish run, nevertheless I was encouraged. The first half was sluggish. My aim: 25’ for 5K. Today 28.30’. But the last 2.5K was 26.30’.

Two aims really for January 2023:

• 5K in less than 27’ maybe on Parkruns

• 10K as near to 55’ as possible

And then progressing to make 10K runs the norm with 5Ks as slow and fast runs. I told you I was serious. Don’t laugh.

Yes I know, the body and mind of a 64yr old, well, this 64yr old, may well not always be the same thing, but…the word NEVERTHELESS is sometimes the most important word in the Universe.

Some of you might be thinking ‘why not make Common Sense your watchword Mr Stevens?’ There’s little hope of that. For Christmas, daughter 4 bought me a wonderful small t-pot. The sort where you put the tea leaves in a small cage, then pour the boiling water over the leaves into the pot, leave and pour without tea-leaves entering your cup. That’s great IF you remember to put the leaves in the cage. If not, all is not lost. Simply pour through a tea-strainer.

NEVERTHELESS is sometimes the most important word in the Universe

Excuse me whilst I use my teeth the filter the leaves once more, having forgotten to execute either of these steps. It’s a good thing I haven’t got my finger on the Nuclear Button or you might not have had the joy of reading this post.

Happy New Year! May God bless all your attempts to run faster than me!

Running Blog - November 29th 2022

Fog

Cumberland Basin, Hotwells 7 am

An aborted early morning training attempt, following the Bristol 10K route.

Perhaps the main story isn’t the 64-year-old, inappropriately dressed all in black running in the dark, early morning, pre-dawn dense fog, but the fog itself.

I do like a good fog. None more so than when the pools of light cascading down from the street lighting catches a sort of avant-garde, jazz-like, Parisienne cum Whitechapel murders feel - difficult, isn’t it to quite put your finger on it.

I do like a good fog

Car headlamps and bike flashing lights loom from a distance like blurred candles and somehow the sound of traffic is dulled and, maybe, moving slower. I certainly was.

Sadly, another part of my athletic frame decided it wanted to get home early for a hot shower. Perhaps in years gone by I would have ploughed on to achieve my aim…to make 10Ks my usual training run and 5Ks more of a speed thing. Ha! One thing after another vies to be the preeminent cause of setbacks. This time it was the right hip that put in its protest in triplicate, and I bowed to its demands.

Cumberland Basin, Hotwells…towards Avonmouth

One day soon though, it’ll be a 10K Champagne Day, and we’ll see, scientifically, statistically, and psychologically just how close I am to ‘the line of improvement’ homing-in, as I am, on the qualifying time for Paris ’24.

In the meantime, is it not time for St George to slay a Dragon in Qatar?

Showdown 7pm.

Running Blog - November 11th 2022

Paris ‘24

It’s an odd time to be reporting on one’s own preparations for the Paris Olympics when a certain other sporting event has stolen all the headlines pitching us into a fraught battle of wits between sport, politics, ethics, and entertainment.

I refer, of course to FIFA’s decision to stage the World Cup in Qatar, a nation rather at odds with its guests’ national political climates with respect to human rights in various forms.

I will be watching. If FIFA’s decision-making policies need to be reformed, so be it. In the meantime, let the footballers dance, dribble, and delight us all. Let them have their day under the Qatari sun, win or lose.

When I consulted Strava after the event, it appeared that the Earth had been rotating slower than usual under my feet

And meanwhile, those of us not blessed with the requisite almost telepathic skills required to hypnotise us with the fast-moving beautiful game, will don our running shoes and hit the pavements and footpaths. We have gold medals at the forefront of our minds, not golden boots - even if those gold medals are the ones occasionally awarded via Strava rather than the IOC!

My most recent run, this morning, a 10K more or less following the Bristol 10K route went really well. I was comfortable. Indeed, I have to report a certain unusual feeling: I felt stronger at the end than at the beginning and ran faster towards the end than at the start.

Explanation? When I consulted Strava after the event, it appeared that the Earth had been rotating slower than usual under my feet on the outward half, so, my average pace was, in fact, slower over 10K (60mins) than on my previous attempt on the 1st of the month (58mins). Explanation? I can only blame Gordan Fee who was blasting his way through a lecture on 1 Corinthians in my ear…it was so engaging that I must have slackened my pace? No, I can’t blame Gordan Fee. If he slowed me in the first half, he was also to blame for the rather slicker response during the second half.

No, I shall not over-analyse. Just rest up. And perhaps push a little harder next time.

My intermediate aim is 10K in 55’. By March ’23.

Weather conditions were close to perfect. Cool, 12C (I’m best at 10C or a bit colder really), and the breeze was with and against in equal measure. Beautiful pre-dawn mauve glow in the clouds over the city centre.

Lastly…come on Ingerland. Can you? Can you? Can you avoid Brazil, France, and Argentina, to name but a few long enough and somehow progress further and deeper? I shall seek to meditate on that from my post-run ice-bath sofa

Running Blog - October 25th 2022

The ‘Road to Recovery’ and the ‘Road to Paris ’24’ once again stretch ahead into the distance.

The problem is that despite a return to pain-free running (Hoorah!) and visions of L’Arc de Triomphe, the Eiffel Tower, berets, and cheese and wine, and the melodic wistful sound of accordions over the horizon, there are a mere 62 weeks remaining before the medals are awarded.

My time from this morning’s run, adjusted for 10,000m, is 56.64’ and the qualifying time for Paris ‘24 is 27.28’.

You can appreciate the task lying ahead.

I should say, to retain neutrality in all things, that the qualifying time for women is 31.25. An easier target but the surgery required…

I should say, to retain neutrality in all things, that the qualifying time for women is 31.25. An easier target but the surgery required…

Some maths:

• The gap between 56.64’ and 27.28’ is 29.36’

• Steady improvement over the remaining 62 weeks = a 28 second reduction each week over each week

• My personal best for 10K is 47’ and some seconds…let’s say 48 minutes…achieved maybe 15 years ago when I was a mere youth with salt and pepper hair. Now it’s all salt.

Twenty-eight seconds a week?

Place your bets.

If any of you are as old as I am you may remember David Bedford breaking the 10K world record one summer’s evening in 1973 with a time of 27.30. It’s strange to think he wouldn’t even qualify for Paris ’24.

Nevertheless, David Bedford shall be my inspiration, andI shall wear red socks to honour the great man. The moustache, however, is beyond me, like many things.

Running Blog - October 4th

 Paris ‘24 - and 100 weeks to go…

September has retired, it’s work done. It has tidied up summer and taken autumn to the ball. And Autumn has arrived bedecked in a full array of colours: red and yellow leaves on trees and bushes fluttering to the ground, slower than the falling Ferrari seeds in a hurry to die. And fallen leaves: a joy simply to walk through or to scuff, kick, pick up and throw, or roll around in whether you are an Alsatian or a child in adult skin.

 I digress, intoxicated as ever by October.

 This is ‘comeback month’. Walking and indoor fitness regimes consigned to the past, I press on.

…intoxicated as ever by October

 Pressing on consists of hiding away in Dorset, donning my trainers, and setting off through the gentle fields, dells, and…endless rolling hills. In reality, first one has to risk life and limb crossing the main road that feeds heavy lorries and fast cars around the tight bends of the village. The road, originally designed for one careful horse could curtail my preparation for Paris ’24 permanently. Step two is bliss, running along an unmade road and footpath stretching gently uphill beside a gently flowing stream. On this first run, just for one minute followed by one minute walking.

 Easy does it. Achilles recovery in mind. At this rate, I’ll reach my peak just before Paris ’24 and will be lethal over 20m.

 Run completed and road crossed without incident, I am filling up nicely with bubbles of joy. Walking has been enjoyable in September watching as summer was displaced by autumn, but to return to running feels pretty good - even if the sheep over the fence carried on munching hugely unimpressed and pheasants thought twice about being fearful of the human missile.

 10K Paris ’24 Countdown: 100 weeks and counting.

Running Blog - 23rd September

September is one of those kindly, transitional, months.

From summer to autumn, from scorching hot sun still, to a chill in the air and early morning dew, from green leaves to fewer leaves, from long to short days, from summer holidays to trudging back to school.

 Thursday 8th September: Queen Elizabeth II dies and King Charles III succeeds her with immediate effect. And on Monday 19th the nation stopped to watch the State Funeral.

It is now Thursday 22nd and the deep impression left by the State funeral hasn’t quite repaired itself. It’s not easy to blog away about running/walking, to be intentionally trivial at such a time. Not easy but the show must go on.

‘Oh, before I sign off; the stair-walking. I should explain. Snowdon before Paris’

 Preparation for Paris ’24 apace. Apace meaning at a slow, slow slug-like pace. At walking pace. At least 5K per day has been the September plan, and often 10K. Also arm lifting 5kg weights (surprisingly heavy), walking up and down the stairs for 20 minutes, soon to be 30’, stretching, and some home-made Pilates.

 September acting again as a transition from ‘crippled with Achilles pain’ through walking to October and a gentle ‘Return to The Jog’.

 Much of the above accompanied by podcasts: Rob Bell, More or Less, The Curious Case of Rutherford and Fry, Bryony Gordon’s MadWorld, and others rather than endless music.

 Oh, before I sign off; the stair-walking. I should explain. Snowdon before Paris.

 Snowdon is approximately equivalent to up and down my stairs four hundred times. Everest is…no I haven’t calculated that. But I’m hoping to reach base camp for Snowdon for a winter assault before Christmas. There will be rucksacks, stops for Mars Bars, tea from a flask, scenic photos, and a flag.

The 400

Running - actually a ‘not running’ blog 28th August

It’s walking boots not trainers for September

• Big decision: Abandon running ‘til October

• Why? Achilles

Welcome to the Stevens’ September Challenge

1. Morning Pilates – home-made version

2. Walk – at least 45’ but at least one 2-hour walk per week

3. Stairs – at least 20 up & downs + 1 x 100 up & down by end of September*

4. Others – an every-other-day smorgasbord

*The equivalent of climbing Mount Snowdon is approx 400 ups and downs - attempt sometime in 2023

October – tentative return to running: build up from 30” run + 1’ walk back to 4 x 5K (November) then 1 x 10K (December)

That’s the plan.

Being Half-American/ Half-Brit I’m torn between ‘Go for it!’ and ‘Believe it when I see it, John’

At least I have three days left in August to delete/edit this post and claim you only imagined reading it if you mention it in the future.

Running Blog - 6th August 2022

It’s one year and eleven months before the opening ceremony of Paris Olympics in July 2024.

Big questions persist over my participation.

Strangely though, despite, or maybe because of my latest setback, I am fortified and have that steely look sometimes – well, expressionless anyway – when I stumble to the bathroom and make the mistake of looking at myself in the mirror prior to shaving.

I’ve not only been feasting on the athletic prowess on show in Birmingham at the Commonwealth Games but enjoying feeling I have, at last, joined the athletic ‘community’ who prevail despite multiple injuries, Covid, and other pitfalls in life. It seems to be an athlete these days one must have a good ‘back-story’.

Mine continues; I suspect to be Anno-Domini’ related. I barely recover from one injury and then incur another. This week is a case in point.

Bad back followed by Covid out paid to any running until two weeks ago. My first recovery run was on July 23rd but ended up in A&E as reported in the previous post. Once the bruises subsided, I repeated the same course 6 days later July 29th…this time without falling over.

But I did feel a slight twinge in my left Achilles.

Four runs later and the ankle is in ice. It’s not good. Maybe I shouldn’t have even attempted to run yesterday but it felt better. Upon return though, clearly not.

So it’s ice and Ibuprofen. Am I frustrated? There are no words.

My back story may be enhanced but my running pace remains slightly below the required standard.

There’s still time, isn’t there?

Running Blog 23rd July - ended in A&E

I’m sure you’ve heard the same wise voices as I have, sharing their miserable theories that running is bad for your health and we’d be far better off sitting in an armchair eating olives and attempting 3-across on the Times Crossword?

After this morning’s ‘Recovery Run’ I can feel their supercilious smiles and ‘told you so’ eyes sparkling away. I should explain.

The day started so well. I woke up at 5 to a very still and bright morning. Running kit on. Fitbit watch strapped to my left wrist. Satsuma for afters. Water and towel. Car keys. Ready to go. The drive across the deserted Downs and down through Hotwells to my usual parking slot at Cumberland Basin was uneventful and calm; I was lost in my early morning thoughts.

Setting off in the sunshine, I decided to take the clockwise route around the Harbour perimeter. One or two dog-walkers were up but, otherwise, no-one else was around. From the sky I could hear loud whooshes from a hot-air balloon and all was well.

A mile or so from the start and I am running on a straight path with no obvious obstacles, no steps up or down. Sunglasses are reducing the glare from the dawn sun low on the horizon, then Bang! I tripped over something, maybe a loose paving slab, I don’t know, and I’m falling. In less than the second it took to hit the deck I remember thinking ‘O no this is going to hurt!’ not due to falling but having to break the fall with my left arm which is currently troubled by serious bursitis in the shoulder. The last time I had to extend my left arm to grab a handrail I was on the floor in extreme pain. Maybe therefore I didn’t extend the arm, or couldn’t, but before I knew what was happening, I’d cracked my forehead on the pavement and was rolling around feeling rather sore.

Recovering, and leaking blood from my head wound with drops of blood falling on the path, I tried to stem the flow with my nice blue t-shirt…and, yes, I can confirm red + blue still = purple!

Somewhat shocked I got to my feet and walked and ran past the few others up early with ‘You should see the other guy’ comments ready should anyone ask. But we’re British, and no-one noticed, or, if they did, they didn’t enquire.

An hour or so later and after calling 111, I ended up in Southmead hospital A&E. The NHS nurses were professional, attentive, listened patiently to my ridiculous story, and – thankfully – used a local anaesthetic (thank you!) before cleaning out the various cuts and abrasions and the mess above my left eye and wielding needle and thread.

Will I take to olives and newspaper crosswords? Watch this space.

So far, my prep for Paris 2024 is yet to be as boring and methodical as perhaps I’d prefer - far too much drama.

Running Blog 21st July 2022

When I’m Sixty-Four

It seems starting a running blog at the age of 64 is faintly amusing. In fact starting anything at 64 is likely to produce wry smiles from those of insufficient years to understand that underneath this 64-year-old exterior lies a 17-year-old lad who plays rugby one day, kayaks the next, has a full round of gold plus a hot curry, gets up the following morning, and sets out on a leisurely 10 mile run in the sun, with his shirt off, just to increase his sun-tan.

The exterior reality is, shall we say, different.

Difference number one: be careful how you put your running shoes on. Leaning over and pulling on the laces might put your back out – again. Number two: yes, make sure you’ve done a number two before heading out, especially for a longer run. Number three: remember, nerve damage in toe on left foot limits the run to 10K. Number 4: you’ve just recovered from Covid, before that a bad back after sneezing put it out, and before that a muscle tear in the right calf…so maybe a very slow 5K.

And off I go. An hour later.

I don’t think I look too embarrassing. The shorts, black, are appropriately long without looking trendy and my shirt, black breathable fabric, is modest but not from the 1970s unlike my 17-year-old inner man. I’ve learnt not to pull up my short socks, somehow that would look silly, and does. But I do have outrageous orange shoes and I’m proud of the fact that the link to a more rebellious past isn’t completely broken.

Early morning - quiet

It's 6 a.m. and I’ve driven up to the scorched and tanned Clifton Downs and parked in the shade. It’s 6 a.m. because, despite retirement, my body seems to have a secret alarm that goes off at 5 or 4 but rarely 7 or 8. The advantage to me is that I can run without having to trip over other groups of athletic younger things and their training camp exercises, or battle through the earnest Nordic walking crowd with their ridiculous ski poles, struggling along on level ground (Yes, I know. I can hear you whispering…'with your bad back and feet maybe you should be stop running and start Nordicking?’ Over my dead body...is my presumptuous reply).

Freedom is leaving your poles by the nearest tree

The sun is up. I do my stretches. Careful! Manage to survive those and set off. It’s warm already, and quiet, just the swish of impressively fast bikers on expensive racing bikes and padded lycra. The early morning sun means I’m running into my long shadow and I wonder if the Nordic walkers will overtake me chattering away about health and wisdom, I’m running very slowly.

At the top of the first small rise, I can feel my heart rate and breathing are different to when I’m slouched at home writing a blog. Press on, down to the lookout point where you can peer down on Clifton Suspension bridge to your left and along the Avon to Shire, Pill, and beyond to Avonmouth...and buy ice cream later. I don’t stop. Before long I’m running back up Ladies’ Mile Road, past the Water Tower, and around to the long slightly downhill stretch to the small crossroad where all the camper vans are parked with their two fingers raised at the parking restrictions, and I’m back at the car. It’s a 5K route.

I am so very happy to have finally gone out for a run. I don’t care a hoot that I could have been overtaken by unidexters, frightened slugs, or slowworms. I have completed a 5K in glorious early morning sunshine, my back’s OK, my legs can still operate the accelerator and brake, and I didn’t stop.

Right at the end of my jog, just along from where I parked the car is a tree stump, the council having felled the diseased tree before it took out a whole set of Nordic Walkers or pedigree dog-walkers. From this stump I can now see a small branch sprouting a bunch of very healthy looking green leaves. It makes me think of all those of us whose lives are curtailed and restricted in some ways, even nations that decline and lose territory and identity…but not completely, and seemingly from nothing, from the apparent end, against all the odds, recover and the first shoots of recovery are seen.

In a very small way, that’s how I feel after so many weeks of looking plaintively at my orange trainers lying by the front door, and the shorts and shirts redundant in the drawer, simply to have jogged very slowly round the Downs.

On a larger scale of course, if one knows a few bible passages, is this from Isaiah 11: ‘A shoot will come up from the stump of Jesse; from his roots a Branch will bear fruit’ a passage that weaves together history and Messianic prophecy. Just for the moment, though, I’m going to drink in the hope, that this 5K is like a new shoot.

From the stump of Jesse…

Paris 2024 isn’t far off, I better get training.

Cubicle 2…or Navigating the 21st Century WC

For those born after 1980, WC is an acronym for Water Closet, itself a rather underused term these days and for many decades known as a loo, a toilet, the little room, rest-room, a Khasi, bog, a…well, you know.

Water Closet

I’m assuming for the sake of this post that you are male and in need of making full use of the facilities. I’ve only once used ‘the ladies’ and that was by mistake – the blobby ‘male’ ‘female’ cartoon outside the WC didn’t work for me. I escaped unscathed, wasn’t arrested, and curiously pleased that my stay hadn’t required me to read low-quality graffiti, and it smelt…different.

Back to the male urinals and cubicles.

First it seems more likely these days to have to join a queue awaiting your turn. Add to that the average length of use – which has similarly, and mysteriously, been extended – and there is a nervousness amongst the duly assembled. No-one speaks. Of course.

Time passes slowly and, finally, you’re the next one to find an open door. You hear the flushing and the shuffling inside cubicle 2 and, if you weren’t desperate before, your body seems to have taken over urging you onwards. The fella appearing from Cubicle 2 looks close to death, so you’re now very wary of Cubicle 2, but all is well.

Inside you long for a hook that isn’t hanging by one long screw so you can put you rucksack somewhere other than the floor or your lap.

And now your trouble begins.

There should be a law that demands of all citizens to leave at least a few leaves of the loo roll hanging for the next customer. Alas, things have ‘improved’ since the days when one could reach for a non-existent roll, the former resident presumably having taken it home for private use, or to throw on the football pitch, or whatever. Yes, things have improved. The rolls these days last about a millennium. So far so good. And they are security bolted into position. Only the ‘attendant’ (a term that doesn’t mean what it says – thankfully) has the on-line security code implanted on their DNA or held on a sub-cutaneous chip. However, can you find the beginning or the end of the roll? No. It’s worse than the cheapest sellotape.

No need to add anything?

This is why the average wait time for Cubicle 2 has risen to an astonishing 25 minutes. Occupants are reduced to twirling the massive inner roll clockwise then anti-clockwise several times before locating an end, but then it disappears once more. In exasperation, you consider tearing the roll and dealing with the consequences. Either way, if you’re a before and after gentleman, it all takes too much time. By the time you are ‘ready’, and lower yourself on the seat warmed by the previous occupant, your blood pressure now matches that of your treason to be there in the first place.

The minutes spent reducing the inner pressure are, as every fella knows, holy. You can commune with your Maker undisturbed. An oasis of privacy. Those are the precious 5 minutes of legitimate skiving in the working day, or savoured, away from family mayhem at home. It is a holy place to which we all retreat in times of need.

Shhhh…peace and quiet

In my house I cater for guests who need to fill those minutes with works of literature. A range of books from ‘What to do with Poo’ or Peter Cooke’s ‘Tragically I was born an Only Twin’ to Bill Bryson’s excellent book on Shakespeare is on a shelf just within reaching distance. Some have been known to occupy the bathroom for days on end. Washing-up can be avoided, chores postponed, and instead of the unmentionable noises, peels of laughter can be heard all the way to the end of the garden; I don’t know what the neighbours must think but there’s a limit to how much one can care.

Care, too, has to be taken not to lean back when one is in the sitting position. Not in my loo, I hasten to add but a 21st Century WC. Behind you is likely to be one or two black circles, buttons, recessed into the wall. If one or both are depressed whilst you are resting a noise, somewhat like a hovercraft or helicopter, builds to a crescendo as all the ‘contents’ in the loo are suddenly vacuum-pumped away. It’s best not to jump.

Your time now ended, rucksack retrieved, belt and zips checked you leave Cubicle 2 and advance to the wash basins or troughs or sinks. And now you are presented with an IQ test. Various unspoken questions arise, choking any sense of feeling at one with the civilisation you have already spent several decades trying to master. Simple questions like ‘Which is the tap?’ Or ‘Do I press this knob, or ‘twist that handle’ or just ‘stand still and wait for a miracle’? Actually, the final option can prove successful. Having blunted one’s wrist pressing the non-tap tap, a violet glow hits your open palm and, once a human hand is detected, a ration of liquid soap is dispensed onto your hand if you weren’t shocked by the light and withdrew your hand. Then water appears from another pipe and away you go. Your hands are now covered in soap and the water has stopped. Once resolved your hands are cleaned and on you go to battle with paper-towels, pull-down towelling, air-blades, up-turned air-funnels and the like. Arguments for and against the efficacy of each method to re-distribute pathogen microbes into the air cloud your mind until your hands, semi-dried, are withdrawn and you walk away, hoping that by the time you have to shake hands with someone they are reasonably dry.

How does that tap work?

The ordeal over, you move on to the nearest café to collect your thoughts and collapse behind a flat white and an almond slice.

At the café, you have time to reminisce and long for the average 1970s loo with all its imperfections but lack of mental strife.

All that was needed back in the day was the nous to nick some loo roll from Cubicle A before entering Cubicle B, to suspend your sense of smell for the foreseeable, ability to hover above the non-existent seat, and be fairly philosophical about the chances of finding a functioning flush. Any holes burnt into the side walls with cigarette lighters or pen-knives were no trouble, after all, there are various uses for toilet tissues beyond the normal. And one’s foot can be employed to keep the door closed if you’re embarrassed about being interrupted, the locks having been loosened maybe years before. The water in the sink, cold, was left on by previous occupants, occasionally flooding the floor, and soap hadn’t been invented.

Immune systems of the average 1970’s homo sapien was robust.

Five Day Trip to Calais

Day Five, Monday

The very acceptable evening meal at Le Hovercraft was, of course, digested on top of the uncooked burgers from Dunkirk…spelt more correctly as Dunkerque by Sir Gaffa in his comment. His comment using a more Anglo-Saxon term referring to his post-burger fear ‘Will I, won’t I puke?’ needs to be honoured in this final Calais chapter.

But all was well. Our robust British digestive systems had seen off any threat from le continent.

I woke up to gentle Restaurant-disapproving-rumbles coming from the other side of the room quite early, maybe 5am, and eventually took myself off for a wander along the sea-front esplanade. It was a gloriously sunny and warm start to the day, quiet, still, and deserted.

Beach huts on Calais beach

Not that I was wearing my Panama but the walk gave me time to be filled with a ‘hats off to Calais’ feeling. Whoever pushed through the redevelopment of the seafront, the town square, and general ethos has lifted Calais from its image of a pre-Christmas cheap beer and booze-infested English supermarket. Or simply a town that one passes through, and he/she deserves the Gold medal that its neighbour just up the road has forsaken.

Again, it impressed me that the whole esplanade is graffiti-free. Not one black marker pen streak, or gang postcodes, no ‘I woz here’, no hearts with arrows, no swear words with letters missing…just clean surfaces that all ages enjoy. I ambled along the whole length recording different sounds and images mainly on sub-standard videos rather than photos…well no-one was around to worry over some old codger talking to his mobile phone.

Turning around at the end the whole scene changed. Looming up behind me was a huge invading black cloud. It made for a contrasting image, the yellow sand illuminated by the early morning sun, hence the stick-man-like shadows, set against the monstrous and ominous dark cloud.

Calais beach

It was just before 7 when I returned. Not a car was moving. Not one. Does anyone go to work? Maybe the truth was that Sunday night which had been so pleasant, with everyone eating out, that the whole population had simply given a characteristic Gallic shrug ‘Work? It can wait’. Maybe we can learn a few things from our French neighbours.

Eventually, though, the chess set was packed along with all our belongings, and we were sitting in the queue at the port ready to embark on the ferry crossing back across the channel.

We ended as we had begun, tucking into cooked breakfasts, this time care of Irish Ferries, before indulging in one of our stranger habits walking round the decks of the ferry, I’m not sure how many times.

With the white cliffs of Dover approaching fast we re-entered the sanctuary of Dover Harbour and before long were driving to Canterbury and meandering through its familiar streets to take the road to Chestfield and, ultimately, Whitstable.

The White Cliffs of Dover

A quick pit stop and I was away on the return journey to Bristol feeling quite jolly; the gaffa tape still holding the visors in position.

Until the next time, it’s a wave from Sir Seagull, vowing to renew his interest in ants, cows, chess and much else thanks to Sir Gaffa.

God speed.

Five Day Trip to Calais

Day Four, Sunday Evening

Power-nap completed we re-entered the day wondering what would befall us in terms of the evening search for a restaurant in Calais town centre.

Paul, in his response to the last post mentioned the curious noises that, apparently, I make to express doubt when exploring menus or discerning how much cutlery noise would be heard in a restaurant. Strangely, I think Paul would agree, it has a striking resemblance to the cows-of-wisdom he mentioned earlier.

The acid test though is whether it works. In Dunkirk…no…less said about Dunkirk the better.

High Street, Calais

Being locals now, we sauntered along the wonderful esplanade veering inland and across the bridge dividing the harbour from the sea and into town. A few cattle noises later we arrived at the restaurant we had sampled on the first night: the glass cage in the sun. On this occasion we didn’t bother asking about the tables in the shade, entering the cage as confident returnees. But were met with a second baffling ‘Non!’ There were three waiters standing around doing…nothing actually…and many empty tables but the ‘Non!’ was firm and professional and we had to beat a retreat.

Let me just say a few words about the atmosphere in Calais. It’s good. It has that outdoor European feel. At 9pm and on. There are one or two bars you might like to avoid if you don’t own a Harley and sport a beard the Danes, or a Russian Orthodox priest would consider manly, but generally, it’s…pleasant.

Wandering down the high street with the colourful plastic strips above we ended up at Le Hovercraft. Not, you might think, the most French or the most inviting of venues. Paul, cocked his ear waiting for the usual indecipherable sound, but nothing emerged from my lips so we entered, sat down at a table, and were presented with a menu.

Le Hovercraft - Welsh?

From the photo you may begin to see why we were not far from losing it entirely once more; encore une fois.

Sir Seagull: ‘Tell me, Sir Gaffa, am I missing something?’

Sir Gaffa: eyebrows raised

Sir Seagull: ‘The Welsh. I’m not aware of their historical connection to hovercraft?’

Sir Gaffa: ‘I think you might be onto something, Seagull’

Sir Seagull: ‘And, if I’m not mistaken, the hovercraft service from Pegwell Bay to Calais…’

Sir Gaffa: ‘Ended in 1982, Sir Seagull’

Always a man of sharp attention to detail, Sir Gaffa.

And then to see the word Welsh placed conspicuously as the first word on so many of the dishes on the right-hand side of the menu was too much and some tittering followed.

The food and wine was excellent, though, and the waitress: a distinct improvement on the troubled lady of Dunkirk. Would we recommend Le Hovercraft? Oui.

Amongst all this tourist visiting Calais, Le Chatelet, Abbeville, and Dunkirk were some reminiscing of days we held in common at Swalecliffe Free Church (Baptist) during John Hosier’s tenure as Minister. Halcion days. So many came from far afield the evening services, and students from Kent University. Monthly Sunday lunches were well attended. Memorable summer trips to Dales and Downs Bible weeks. A sense of expectation during church services. We also discussed griefs over reversals in church and personal fortunes, and harder times in life. And looking ahead.

Well, looking ahead over the sea on our walk back from the town centre was remarkable. The photo may not really do it justice. The rusty post-sunset reds on the horizon contrasting with the vast dark clouds stretching from horizon to horizon was stunning. https://youtu.be/1mUUK-gfn1w

End of the final day in Calais. It’s up and away tomorrow morning.

Sunset across to Dover from Calais

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