Last night Jools and I spent the evening in Ramsgate, taking in the atmosphere as hundreds of people milled around taking in the scene as veteran ships of the evacuation lay in the harbour, 40s music blaring out, and some people strolled around in period uniforms, whilst taking pictures with modern cameras. I left work at four, and half an hour later a lone Hurricane fighter flew overhead in large, lazy circles, its engine having that distinctive drone. Most people were unaware that it was coming, but a BBC cameraman had given me the tip off as I watched him film a link by an anchorman on the other side of the harbour. Over the other side of the harbour, dozens of preserved military vehicles lined up, and pretended to set up field kitchens or put of fires with stirrup pumps.
The little ships were all bedecked with bunting and flags, and these struggled in the stiff breeze, a breeze that threatened the mass sailing at seven this morning. Crew drank beers, and sang along to “Hang out the Washing of the Siegfried Line” at the top of their voices.
At seven, we had had enough and we headed home; I stopped off at a curry house in Deal on the way back and picked up Korma for Jools and a Madras for me; the Madras was almost as hot as a Vindaloo, and I think I may still be suffering from that all day today.
I did have a sense of humour failure with work yesterday, after six weeks of my mails being ignored, I sent out a mail to everyone I could think of in the country, that unless people under them did start answering my questions, I could not do my work. It may change things, but probably won’t, but it did make me feel better.
At least it’s a bank holiday this weekend, not that we have much planned, but three days of doing as we please will be nice, and maybe sitting in the garden if the weather allows.
Back to work, methinks.
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