Now that the ash has settled

The absence of a blog post for almost a fortnight may have been due to the amount of rubbish spouted into the atmosphere during the election campaign, or perhaps I was just too busy or too lazy, or had nothing worth saying (No change there then, Main Man). Although I have no one theme this time, I do have a few comments to spread before an uninterested world on this St George's Day.

First, on that very topic, I saw three flags bearing St George's cross flying from house windows in a nearby street this morning. Perhaps the day is being celebrated by the owners, but the flag has several other political or sporting connotations, so I can't be sure. The media found time, amid the protracted discussion of last night's political debate on Sky (now I know why they call it analysis) to air the usual discussions of what Englishness means, and there was a quick burst of Jerusalem on the radio, but although I shall happily support England during the World Cup, my two flags are St Piran's (I refer mystified readers to my earlier posts) and the Union Jack - all right, Flag.

Back to politics, or, more specifically, the language of politics. I am equally amused and annoyed by the tendency of some politicians to pronounce the indefinite article ay instead of a. Perhaps the ay form sounds more emphatic and weighty than the usual zero or Schwa vowel. Another pronunciation that caught my ear, this time from Nick Clegg, was crate for create. I have often heard this before, usually, for some reason, from men in their thirties. Whether this is temporary or the beginning of a permanent change I'm not sure. It is probably what my grandsons would call random, which seems increasingly to be used of anything bizarre, unusual or even mildly interesting. That's the way language changes, so fair enough.

Finally, I must come to the defence of the useful word nice, not in formal written language, outside informal dialogue, but in everyday speech, where it usually means no more than that the speaker likes or approves of whatever is so described, without needing to go into detail. It may also, now I come to think of it, carry subtext without strain. These peas are nice, Norma, may be ironic but may also convey gratitude, and even if the word only hints at the pleasure the speaker is deriving from the taste, perhaps the most difficult sense to express in words, surely that is enough? There is usually no problem for the listener in understanding what the speaker means, so the description of a meal, person, day, time, house, job, car or holiday can be suggested rather than given in detail by this convenient adjective. Perhaps we make too nice ay distinction at times, and so crate ay problem where none need exist. I wonder what the National Institute for Colloquial Excellence thinks.

The Companionship of the Long Distance Walker

When Sue's leukaemia was diagnosed, just over two years ago, I naturally decided to help her in any way I could, but it was only when the chemotherapy began that I realised that I wanted and needed to do more. This led to the idea of doing a sponsored walk in aid of Leukaemia and Lymphoma Research (the charity's new name) from our house to Wycombe Hospital, following the scenic route via Holmer Green taken by the bus, our preferred mode of transport for the increasingly frequent hospital visits. The distance is about fifteen miles, and although I would have liked to walk (and would like to have walked) a slightly longer distance, the symbolic route seemed appropriate. Family members, friends and Sue's consultant liked the idea, so I approached the charity with my plan, receiving enthusiastic encouragement, sponsorship forms, bright red t-shirts with the new logo, posters and a large banner. I began to collect sponsors months in advance, aiming at raising £1,000 but without any expectation that I would make four figures. I walked the route twice, using the pedometer Sue had given me as a Valentine's Day present. The main reason for the first 'training' walk was to see whether my old trainers, what the incomparable Robert Pires would have called 'my Pumas', were up to the job. The were, despite the snow that fell but did not lie that day, and I caught the bus back with some satisfaction. The second walk was to see whether I could improve on my time of four hours, not that the real thing would be concerned with speed-walking. Despite drizzle and then heavier rain, I walked the route in three hours and forty-five minutes.

The real thing, on Easter Monday (5 April), was very different. Responses to my plan had ranged from embarrassingly fulsome praise for 'someone of your age walking that far', although I played it down by using the modest, diffident 'shambling wreck' persona, to surprise that it was only fifteen miles and that I was only walking it. Many people had paid me their money in advance, and quite a few had added 28%, without incurring any extra expense themselves, by ticking the Gift Aid column on the form, so by Monday morning I had collected over £1,200. Six of us walked: Martin, my daughter's partner; three grandsons; John, a good friend who is a serious walker with many charity walks under his boots; and I. (Pedants, language nerds and people who don't get out much may care to notice my use of semicolons there, without which a reader unfamiliar with my family and friends could have thought there were seven of us.) Sue and Julia, my daughter, drove 'support cars' to provide food, water, lifts, first aid and rendezvous

at car parks and public toilets. Wearing our t-shirts (Come on you Re-eds!), we took photographs outside the house and set off at ten o'clock on a grey, coldish but dry day, just right for the walk. Reuben and Joseph walked the first and last sections, down to Star Yard, Chesham, aand from RGS, High Wycombe to the hospital, and did very well, but Zachary was an absolute star, walking all the way to Holmer Green playing field, where we enjoyed a windswept picnic lunch (sandwiches, tomatoes, cucumber, Tunnocks), and then the last part with his brothers, a good ten miles in all. Our arrival at the hospital was the antithesis of the London Marathon, not that it mattered to us. The doctor had rung to wish us all the best but to tell us that he wouldn't be there, as he had hurt his back gardening over the Easter weekend, and the hospital reception area itself was deserted as it was a bank holiday. That didn't matter to us; all had gone well during the five hours of the walk, nobody had blisters, was in a strop or felt anything other than quiet satisfaction ('Can we do it again?' asked Joseph), and although Zachary was aching when we went out for a family meal in the evening, we all felt we had done a Good Thing. I now think the final total will be somewhere near £2,000, but I don't think I shall accept the doctor's offer of one of his five guaranteed places in next year's London Marathon.

Five days after the event, Sue has finished her last cycle of chemo for the foreseeable future and is feeling pretty rough still, but we are looking forward to better times.

Easter

Easter, as well as being the principal event in the Christian calendar, always brings back memories, sacred and secular, of past years, especially thos in Cornwall over fifty years ago. It was the custom to walk to Lamorna and back with friends on Good Friday, either after church or instead of it. There were two routes, the main road and the beautiful coastal path via Mousehole, and the object for many, although not especially devotional, was to walk and talk on a quiet, restrained sort of day. I don't suppose anybody does it now, as in later years there were stories of drink, drugs and violence, but I suppose the growth in car ownership and the growing reluctance of many people to walk anywhere have had their effect. We always had fish, often a tin of salmon, on Good Friday, either for 'dinner' or 'tea'. The touring rugby teams from the London hospitals and Welsh clubs would come down and play on Easter Saturday and Easter Monday, but never on Good Friday, against the Pirates at the Mennaye Field. Easter Day itself always involved at least one service and sometimes more, but this was not unusual at a time when on a normal Sunday I attended morning and evening services as well as Sunday School in the afternoon. All these years later, I shall be going to just one service today, and we shall have a family meal here this evening, remembering 'absent friends', but my thoughts are increasingly turning to my charity walk tomorrow, of which more later in the week.