bank holiday weather

I should have known that, with the first test match of the season being played, a Bank Holiday looming and schools on half term, the glorious weather of a week ago would give place to cold, damp days. Perhaps appropriately, the week's signs of political and financial insecurity have added to the gloom. Autumn ranges of clothes are already appearing in the shops, although more than three weeks remain before the longest day, and what the television companies call 'a great summer of sport', accurately enough this time, is there to be enjoyed.

I am no ornithologist, but it has been a pleasure this year to hear the cuckoo again, after a cuckooless 2009 and a late appearance this spring. Since the death of Solomon, our much-loved ginger tom, several years ago, we have seen increasing numbers of birds in our small back garden, and have welcomed them with a bird bath and various types of food container. Our fiercely territorial but friendly robin (RVP, obviously) is there all the year round, but woodpeckers, pigeons, tits and many other birds, some of which I can't identify, especially as my cataract ripens, fill the garden with sound. The neighbours' cats regard our garden as an extension of their own, and are made welcome despite what they often leave behind, but they are only a minor threat to the birds, who thumb their noses from their high vantage-points.

The grass will never be better than average (slightly above Wembley's pitch, in other words, which has been laid, I think, eleven times, 'more often than Lady Chatterley', as a Grauniad journo put it the other day), and I am not a keen gardener, but it is a brief annual delight to see the clematis (accent on the first syllable rather than the second, for preference) burst out in purple and mauve between the garage and the fence. There, the Japanese would be proud of me.

turned out nice again

One night less than three weeks ago, Chesham and somewhere in Surrey shared the dubious distinction of having had the lowest overnight temperature in England. We woke to frost-covered roofs and were glad we had brought our hanging baskets into the porch for protection. We had had little rain but skies had usually been grey, interspersed with very few of those warm, sunny days that make people think that the longer hours of daylight really are having a beneficial effect. There were the usual second-wave conversations with friends, after the initial comment on the weather, about how it was hard to know what to wear.

Now everything is different. For the past few days there have been sunny, often cloudless skies and temperatures in the low eighties (or high twenties) over large parts of the country. Last year we were promised a 'barbecue summer' - and any q found trying to pinch the c's place should should be returned to the discotheque where it became confused - but the abuse that rained down on the weather forecasters when we endured another wet summer was largely misplaced, I gather, because apparently it was not the meteorologists who had used the phrase in the first place but a journalist who told us what we were hoping to hear. Not that barbecue summers have any particular appeal, as I am not particularly fond of barbecues, even when my son is skilfully supervising the whole thing. This time we are said to be in for an 'ice cream summer'. That is a far less risky prediction as far as I am concerned, because I am perfectly prepared to enjoy ice cream all the year round, regardless of the temperature. Indeed, when we eat out I am as likely as not to choose ice cream for pudding/dessert/sweet/afters - fight among yourselves - in preference to muctions such as tiramisu, sticky toffee pudding, chocolate mousse or, as we belong to say over to Newlyn, what you mind to.

Already the moaners are complaining about the heat, longing for an end to what will probably be described as Sizzling Britain in tomorrow's papers. I suspect that many of them were complaining after the second fall of snow in the winter, as if any departure from the meanest of average seasonal temperatures indicated that we had somehow become displaced from the Northern Temperate Zone and had no right to be subjected to any departure from the norm. I appreciate that sustained high temperatures can cause severe problems, as can sustained low temperatures and any number of climatic conditions and events over which we can have little or no control, but, perhaps selfishly, I intend to enjoy the long days, the better light - despite the difficulty it causes my cataract-clouded right eye - , and all that goes with them, including, this year, World Cup football, test matches, and meals in the garden. Whatever the meaning, often disputed, of the saying about not casting a clout 'till may be out', I have put away my winter clothes, taken out what I like to regard as my summer wardrobe, including shorts and sandals, and hope the present fine spell lasts until October.

a stranger in these parts

I am a newcomer to what are now known as the social media. As silver surfers go - and I'm still partly a pepper and salt surfer, thank you very much - I have a fairly limited mastery of the various technological means of communication. I use my five-year-old computer, which now makes even me look sprightly, for emails, web searches, writing on Word, this blog and, tentatively, Facebook. I say tentatively because I have only a few 'friends', all of whom invited me to join their list. I issue no invitations of my own, give little information away and refrain from the common practice of telling the world how I am feeling every five minutes. In a way, I suppose, I am not playing the game; but isn't that the point? We have a choice. Similarly, I use my mobile phone only rarely, almost always to make a call when I am out, and very occasionally to send or respond to a text. I do not use it to surf the web, take photographs, play games or do any of the other things I could choose, and pay, to do. In short, it is used only on the most important occasions, such as when, on holiday, I texted from St Mark's Square, Venice (yes, that one, not the one in Milton Keynes) to find out the result of an Arsenal match. Some things really matter.

As in an earlier post on my attitude to English 'accuracy', some may see me as a dinosaur, others as a bit of a groundbreaker (What, he's sixty-eight and is on Facebook?), and a few may see my abilities as about right for a crumbly, although I do have my own teeth and hips. What I do find annoying is the assumption I have heard from several people of my age that all these media will never be more than trivial timewasters. There is every scope for bombast and self-indulgence, but why should we measure the worth of something by its least welcome uses? Now that we live in Chomski's global village, these media enable us to gather around the parish pump for the purpose of relaying the phatic, the fatuous or the fateful, as we choose.

choices

Those weekend blog posts seem to be turning into midweek catch-ups, not that it matters. A quick tour d'horizon, if that's the phrase, is all I feel I want to write about at present. Just back from a long weekend in Worcester, I almost felt that I got close to the spirit of the much-derided speech John Major made about a country at peace with itself. Oh yes. We went to Evesham for the day, our bus going through pretty villages like Wyre Piddle with cricket pitches being prepared for play, found a rowing regatta going on by the river, walked around a delightful park full of families enjoying the excellent, unvandalised facilities, looked around a couple of churches and came back to Worcester for an organ recital in the cathedral. If it sounds like twee Middle England it didn't feel like that, just a slice of the not-particularly-posh Midlands enjoying its weekend. Then on Sunday we went to Evensong at the cathedral. A good choir, or rather Kwa, as the (female) priest kept calling it (in fact ordination seems to require the kind of RP Alan Bennett made fun of almost fifty years ago, for everyone had the cut glass C of E accent and intonation), sang Britten's Rejoice in the Lamb, with its setting of what must be among the most eccentric texts used in a place of worship, Christopher Smart's poem in praise of his cat, mice and musical instruments. I buy my tuna fish by the pound wouldn't have been a bad encore, with its decent tune and words that at least make sense. I suppose my wish to hear something by Adrian Batten was pretty optimistic, but I would at least have liked to hear something Elizabethan. The weekend was very relaxing, and we had a meal at perhaps the best Italian restaurant I've come across outside Italy. Unlike Chesham and Worcester, Evesham had plenty of political posters and declarations of allegiance. That kind of thing seems to have fallen out of use since 2005.

Monday's defeat at Blackburn left us feeling utterly fed up. It was a feeble performance, admittedly by a team weakened by yet more injuries and illness, but we still haven't secured third place and there's only one game to go. With Man. U. or Chelsea as champions in waiting , Man. City and Spurs vying for the last Champions League place and tomorrow's General Election likely to lead to several years of continuing national decline, things aren't looking too good. Oh well, we may buy a player or two, you never know. Chamakh looks as if he may be the first, but if we play badly on Sunday I think there will be a lot of discontent at the Emirates, not all of it due to the election result, our immature democracy or the greed of the wunch.

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.