For the last two weeks or so, people what been retweeting the wisdom of former stalking horse, John Redwood, regarding Brexit and Covid.
John Redwood has been an MP for over 30 years, has been awake most of that time, we sspect, and yet shows on a daily basis a cno almost complete understanding of the issues he actually votes for and creates laws and so on.
In a post over the weekend, he called on the Government to reopen the "Nightingale" hospitals, saying these should be used to reduce the burden on hother hospitals.
Now I will take this slowly, John.
Nightingales are just buildings with beds.
They have no ICU staff.
They have no ICU equipment.
Any patient transferred to one needs to come with at least four members of trained staff, and all required equipment.
Apart from that. Fine.
Nurses and doctors take years, nearly a decade to train. Beasic medical school, then work placements and then specialisation in ICU care. There is only a fininite amount of ICU staff, I am pretty sure they are all being used in the hospitals they usually work in.
If this is what he thinks about COVID, hospitals and staff, imagine his lack of knowledge in other areas like trade, fishing, poverty and so on.
The mind boggles, and yet its not going to change.
Monday, 30 November 2020
Horrifically complex
The Health Protection (Coronavirus, Restrictions) (All Tiers) (England) Regulations 2020 was published today. It is a Statuatory Instrument, it will be laid before Parliament on the 2nd, but will still become law even if voted down.
There will be no amendments allowed. This is how it is.
Adam Wagner who has been keeping track of all the COVID related legislation, calls this document, which stretches to 30,000 words, horrifically complex.
The interpretations now stretch to 6 pages.
There are pages and pages of exceptions. It is mad.
Should be simple, but is everything but.
This document is likley the rule book on how all our lives will be controlled for the next four weeks, and probably months after that.
Ignorance will not be an excuse, we are supposed to know what we can and can't do. The Police are supposed to know so they can get the law right.
The Government has got used to ruling by decree, there will be little turning back unless Parliament forces them to. If they get the chance.
With Brexit, it will be declared an emergency, more SIs will be issued, with no scrutiny, and more freedoms will be curtailed. And as a country we will travel further from being a liberal democracy.
There will be no amendments allowed. This is how it is.
Adam Wagner who has been keeping track of all the COVID related legislation, calls this document, which stretches to 30,000 words, horrifically complex.
The interpretations now stretch to 6 pages.
There are pages and pages of exceptions. It is mad.
Should be simple, but is everything but.
This document is likley the rule book on how all our lives will be controlled for the next four weeks, and probably months after that.
Ignorance will not be an excuse, we are supposed to know what we can and can't do. The Police are supposed to know so they can get the law right.
The Government has got used to ruling by decree, there will be little turning back unless Parliament forces them to. If they get the chance.
With Brexit, it will be declared an emergency, more SIs will be issued, with no scrutiny, and more freedoms will be curtailed. And as a country we will travel further from being a liberal democracy.
Sunday 29th December 2020
After the glorious weather on Saturday, Sunday was cold, grey and miserable. It seemed remiss to do much that you could consider fun, and in these dark, grim days of a COVID winter, what fun is there to be had?
I was awake long before five, no real reason, but it was a morning when I knew I wasn't going to go back to sleep. I lay in the dark as the clock ticked round to half five, then six. Still dark, no birdsong from outside.
Scully jumped on my feet, walked up my legs, this is her way of telling me it was breakfast time. I long for the time they can send a text or e mail.
So I get up, feed the cats and make a coffee.
Jools gets up, we sit at the table. We agree there was no plan.
No plan.
We have first breakfast of fruit and another coffee, and then at half nine, croissants and yet more coffee.
It wasn't really light by then either. The table lamp on the dining room table stayed switched on all day. Ready for dusk when that cam soon after two in the afternoon.
By then I had made lunch, corned beef fritters, using up some out of date beef, boiled three spuds and mashed them. Came out well with a simple pasta mixed with roasted vegetables.
Yummy. I sat down to watch the first game, and then Jools called me: Come here, NOW!
I go, and on top of the hedge is a sparrowhawk eating some poor small garden bird. Possibly a sparrow. I run to get my camera, put the big lens on it and go to rattle off a load of shots, no time to do anything other than press the sutter. One had the brod looking straight at me, yellow eyes ablaze!
Wow.
I go back to the football, at least Southampton v Man Utd had goals, so was very watchable. The next game, Chelsea v Tottenham was a stinker. Three shots on target all game, and no goals. I hated myself for wasting two hours of the weekend on it. I tell myself I wasn't going to watch the evening game.
Instead I write and we listen to the radio, have more cheese and crackers and wine for supper.
Then I watch the second half of the Arse v Wolves game, which the Arse lose.
I was awake long before five, no real reason, but it was a morning when I knew I wasn't going to go back to sleep. I lay in the dark as the clock ticked round to half five, then six. Still dark, no birdsong from outside.
Scully jumped on my feet, walked up my legs, this is her way of telling me it was breakfast time. I long for the time they can send a text or e mail.So I get up, feed the cats and make a coffee.
Jools gets up, we sit at the table. We agree there was no plan.
No plan.
We have first breakfast of fruit and another coffee, and then at half nine, croissants and yet more coffee.
It wasn't really light by then either. The table lamp on the dining room table stayed switched on all day. Ready for dusk when that cam soon after two in the afternoon.
By then I had made lunch, corned beef fritters, using up some out of date beef, boiled three spuds and mashed them. Came out well with a simple pasta mixed with roasted vegetables.Yummy. I sat down to watch the first game, and then Jools called me: Come here, NOW!
I go, and on top of the hedge is a sparrowhawk eating some poor small garden bird. Possibly a sparrow. I run to get my camera, put the big lens on it and go to rattle off a load of shots, no time to do anything other than press the sutter. One had the brod looking straight at me, yellow eyes ablaze!
Wow. I go back to the football, at least Southampton v Man Utd had goals, so was very watchable. The next game, Chelsea v Tottenham was a stinker. Three shots on target all game, and no goals. I hated myself for wasting two hours of the weekend on it. I tell myself I wasn't going to watch the evening game.
Instead I write and we listen to the radio, have more cheese and crackers and wine for supper.
Then I watch the second half of the Arse v Wolves game, which the Arse lose.
Brexit reality
If there is just one thing that brings home the sheer stupidity of Brexit, it is the ending of free movement. When it was ended last month, the PM and Home Secretary crowed about it, the Home Hoffice posted celebration videos.
Gammons cheered.
But, readers, there's more.
The ending of freedom of movement goes both ways, as it was always going to, and yesterfay the Sunday Torygraph and today's Daily Hate Mail leadw with news that UK citizens who have holiday homes or who have retired to anywhere in the EU, will be limted from staying in their own houses, homes, for three months out of every six.
Just like citizens of any other third country.
A rule change they both shout, but the reality is, dear reader, this is a consequence of Brexit. Ending free movement of EU citizns to the UK also limits your, ours, in the EU.
Who'd have thought it? Well, me for one.
"Furious ex-pats blast EU's post-Brexit travel rules which will ban them from spending more than three months at a time at their holiday home from January."
What did they really think would happen?
I would laugh, but Jools and I would like to retire to an old French farm to grow old and grow vegetables. We can't now. Not until the UK sees sense and allows free movement, so the EU would do the same. Its not just the rich who want to retire to the sun, why not us? We have both worked for nearly 40 years, paid our taxes, paid our bills, and so on and on, so why shouldn't we be able to?
Because some red-faced gammon doesn't like to hear Polish on the bus. That's why. It'll help wreck the economy, because most who voted Brexit won't go to farms next spring to pick fruit and vegetables instead of the young from the EU. Nor will they retrain to become care workers. Not enough money in either, really.
What a sad little country we have become, and maybe one day, we will think about the consequences of our actions BEFORE we take them, not years after.
That's be nice.
Gammons cheered.
But, readers, there's more.
The ending of freedom of movement goes both ways, as it was always going to, and yesterfay the Sunday Torygraph and today's Daily Hate Mail leadw with news that UK citizens who have holiday homes or who have retired to anywhere in the EU, will be limted from staying in their own houses, homes, for three months out of every six.
Just like citizens of any other third country.
A rule change they both shout, but the reality is, dear reader, this is a consequence of Brexit. Ending free movement of EU citizns to the UK also limits your, ours, in the EU.
Who'd have thought it? Well, me for one.
"Furious ex-pats blast EU's post-Brexit travel rules which will ban them from spending more than three months at a time at their holiday home from January."
What did they really think would happen?
I would laugh, but Jools and I would like to retire to an old French farm to grow old and grow vegetables. We can't now. Not until the UK sees sense and allows free movement, so the EU would do the same. Its not just the rich who want to retire to the sun, why not us? We have both worked for nearly 40 years, paid our taxes, paid our bills, and so on and on, so why shouldn't we be able to?
Because some red-faced gammon doesn't like to hear Polish on the bus. That's why. It'll help wreck the economy, because most who voted Brexit won't go to farms next spring to pick fruit and vegetables instead of the young from the EU. Nor will they retrain to become care workers. Not enough money in either, really.
What a sad little country we have become, and maybe one day, we will think about the consequences of our actions BEFORE we take them, not years after.
That's be nice.
One month to go
Just a reminder as to where we are:
Political Brexit happened on 31st January 2020. At midnight on that day, the UK was no longer an EU member state by automatic operation of (international) law.
An transition period then begun, which was for the UK and EU to agree "everything else".
But because the A50 period was extended and extended, this took away from the 22 months of the transition period, meaning that the same issued had to be agreed and ratified in half the time.
The WA and PD outlined the legal and general agreement framework of that WA period. The WA was legally binding under international law, the PD although not legally binding, was a show of good faith.
The UK, in bringing forward the WAB, showed the EU that it was prepared to break international and domestic law. Renaging on what had been agreed and breaking the terms of the WA.
The IMB is still with Parliament, and there can be no agreement whilst it is a live issue. The EU will seek stronger legal measures to ensure compliance because of the IMB, and which is wht level play fields and governence are such difficult issues, as, quite rightly, the EU does not trust the UK Government to keep its word and obey international law.
But hey.
Despite what was promised during the referendum by Vote Leave, May decided that Brexit meant eaving the SM and CU. This mandates a hard border. Denying it for years didn't change the fact it was needed. Maybe starting preparations based on this would have admitted that "project fear" was real after all, so live in denial and do last minute preparations.
The UK could, until the end of July, extended the tranistion period by a year. But refused.
Even though it was likely that a second, and maybe third wave, of COVID would be happening at the same time, now Ministers complain about the timeline.
The EU has been preparing for years, lorry parks in Calais, vets and so on ready to sring into action, and their software programs have gone through development, testing and were operationally tested last week. All good. The UK's lorry park in Ashford floods when it rains hard. And is not complete. The UK's software has yet to reach beta testing.
Ratification of trade deals usually take 6 months, they can be done quicker by the EU, but the quickest ever, if replicated, would be done in February. We have 32 days.
Until there is a trade deal, there is no deal on anything else: no crime cooperation, nothing on visas, car insurance, whether UK registered and maintained planes can fly. Nothing. So, not much riding on it, then?
January 1st 2021 will not be the end of Brexit, meerly the end of the beginning. Deal or no deal, the UK and EU will be talking, negotiating, well, forever, as rules and governance changes. Oh what joy.
And we will have to trade with the EU, and will have to accept their terms, accpt them as a prerquisite of any future talks starting.
But hey, I remember food, fuel, medicine shortages being written on the side of the big red bus, don't you?
I saw a post from a Brexiteer, asking how did Brexit end up costing so much when it was supposed to be the easiest deal in histroy, have no downside, etc, etc, chiz, chiz. All good questions, and one to pose to Johnson, Gove, DD, Raab et al, as they have negotiated us into imposing economic canction on ourselves, in the name of soverignty, sovereignty that the bill giving permission to the A50 notification said Westminster always had.
2020 has been shit.
2021 will be worse, all of this and Brexit.
Political Brexit happened on 31st January 2020. At midnight on that day, the UK was no longer an EU member state by automatic operation of (international) law.
An transition period then begun, which was for the UK and EU to agree "everything else".
But because the A50 period was extended and extended, this took away from the 22 months of the transition period, meaning that the same issued had to be agreed and ratified in half the time.
The WA and PD outlined the legal and general agreement framework of that WA period. The WA was legally binding under international law, the PD although not legally binding, was a show of good faith.
The UK, in bringing forward the WAB, showed the EU that it was prepared to break international and domestic law. Renaging on what had been agreed and breaking the terms of the WA.
The IMB is still with Parliament, and there can be no agreement whilst it is a live issue. The EU will seek stronger legal measures to ensure compliance because of the IMB, and which is wht level play fields and governence are such difficult issues, as, quite rightly, the EU does not trust the UK Government to keep its word and obey international law.
But hey.
Despite what was promised during the referendum by Vote Leave, May decided that Brexit meant eaving the SM and CU. This mandates a hard border. Denying it for years didn't change the fact it was needed. Maybe starting preparations based on this would have admitted that "project fear" was real after all, so live in denial and do last minute preparations.
The UK could, until the end of July, extended the tranistion period by a year. But refused.
Even though it was likely that a second, and maybe third wave, of COVID would be happening at the same time, now Ministers complain about the timeline.
The EU has been preparing for years, lorry parks in Calais, vets and so on ready to sring into action, and their software programs have gone through development, testing and were operationally tested last week. All good. The UK's lorry park in Ashford floods when it rains hard. And is not complete. The UK's software has yet to reach beta testing.
Ratification of trade deals usually take 6 months, they can be done quicker by the EU, but the quickest ever, if replicated, would be done in February. We have 32 days.
Until there is a trade deal, there is no deal on anything else: no crime cooperation, nothing on visas, car insurance, whether UK registered and maintained planes can fly. Nothing. So, not much riding on it, then?
January 1st 2021 will not be the end of Brexit, meerly the end of the beginning. Deal or no deal, the UK and EU will be talking, negotiating, well, forever, as rules and governance changes. Oh what joy.
And we will have to trade with the EU, and will have to accept their terms, accpt them as a prerquisite of any future talks starting.
But hey, I remember food, fuel, medicine shortages being written on the side of the big red bus, don't you?
I saw a post from a Brexiteer, asking how did Brexit end up costing so much when it was supposed to be the easiest deal in histroy, have no downside, etc, etc, chiz, chiz. All good questions, and one to pose to Johnson, Gove, DD, Raab et al, as they have negotiated us into imposing economic canction on ourselves, in the name of soverignty, sovereignty that the bill giving permission to the A50 notification said Westminster always had.
2020 has been shit.
2021 will be worse, all of this and Brexit.
Sunday, 29 November 2020
4832
Andrea "Small" was born in Novi Sad, in the former Yugoslavia in 1972. She was the only child of two professionals, and they doted on her.
I guess that being an only child and getting everythign your parents can provide either produces a well-balanceed adult, or doesn't.
I am an only child, and I care about others. Andrea only cared about herself.
Sadly, her parents knew this and hoped they would be around to "advise" when her instincts to be selfish took over.
Novi Sad is in the area of Yugoslavia, now Serbia, known as Vojvodina.
Although Serbian, Andrea was of ethinic Hungarian extractions, and so after a day n schools she would go to evening school to learn Hungarian. Ulike most of Serbia, which was Orthodox, she and her family were Catholics.
If Yugoslavia was complcated, then it was in individual areas too.
She went to school, was taught that Muslim men were lazy, sat around smoking while their women did all the work. THis was in school, remember!
At school, the class would go away together for two weeks holiday, from the age of 5! I saw the pictures. And once lder they did lessons in Marxism and so on, as Yugoslavia wasn't Warsaw Pact, it was aligned.
As her parents were professionals, her Mother worked in the Vojvodina Archive in Novi Sad, they had a summer house, grew their own fruit and vegetables, Bela made his own hooch: plum and pear bandy, and Piroska made a kind of apricot butter I will remember the taste of on fresh bread until the day I die.
And they used to go to the coast in Bosnia for their holidays, which is where they met my parents one year.
Yugoslavia was falling apart at the beginning of the 90s. Tito had kept the union of nations that made up Yugoslavia together with an iren fist, but also favoured Serbia. This bred ancient resentments and hatred.
Once he died, the country was up for grabs, and along came the nationalists.
Andrea's parents knew war was coming. They wanted the best for their daughter, and on the brink of war, she failed her exams in language, thus killing her ambition of becoming a tour guide for Brits.
Andrea had come to England in 1988, when on invitation of my parents she came to stay with us for two weeks.
None of us can imagine what life was like for her back home, I paint a middle clasy idyl, but shops were empty for weeks, then nothing but washing powder, or nutmeg would come, and people would have to queue to get what there was. Money was always tight. When she came over, she saw me, going to a cash machine and apparently getting free money to spend.
She wanted some of that.
So, her parents wanted her to come to the UK to learn English so she could retake her exams. Andrea wanted to come and never leave.
A letter arrived at my parent's house, Mum opened it and called to say Andrea could come to stay and study. She failed to mention this to Dad. Or me. I had just graduated from Cosford for the first time, and was working at RAF Marham, learning to be an armourer.
I got a call to say Andrea was coming Friday. I would have to register this with the RAF Police, and there was a chance that Andrea would be seen as a security risk, and I would be banned from going to my parent's house as long as she was there.
But the political world changes quickly. What was once communist was breaking down, and the RAF said she posed no security risk, though I would never be trusted with certain roles if I were to get to the heady heights.
I knew nothing of this.
Andrea had to learn, but she also wanted to stay. Forever. There were three choices. The young and handsome Jelltex, my friends James and Douglas.
It was close, but she chose me, and fell hook, line and copy of the Angling Times for her.
At first it was great, just weekends spent going out, drinking, dancing and then more.
But soon it bacame clear that her visa was going to run out and she would have to go home.
I proposed.
I told my parents and Dad was horrified, called me all sorts of names having, as hesaw it, betrayed the confidence of her parents.
Andrea was crafty. She played my parents off against me, sided with me at home, then once I left on Sunday nights to go back to base, she was sweetness and light once again.
I have no idea if this is true, it was piecing what she and Mum told me, and quite frankly they were as unreliable as each other.
When we got married, it created such bad feelings that Andrea and I walked out of our reception as Mum was causing such a scene, and when time came to move our stuff out of their house, Dad had cleared just about everything, it felt like I was being expelled.
I did not speak to my parents for nearly two years. Until we were in Germany, and Andrea wanted Sky TV. To get that, you needed a box and an address in the UK to register a smart card. She wanted my parents to do this for us. I said that if we do this, it meant a restoration of communication, we could not just use them and drop them.
She had no qualms.
THat last summer before coming to England, she did not finish with ehr then boyfriend as she did not want to spend the summer alone. THis was Andrea all over, all about her, not caring about anyone else.
I was blind to this at first. But years, even just three years, sharing the same house, you get to see. And one morning wake up and realise that you don't even like, let alone love, the person you married and share your hosue and life with.
The harder you try to make her happier, the worse she gets and the worse she treated me, as if she wanted to punish me as feeling as bad as she did. Had she kept quiet, and not made my life a misery, we might still be together.
As it was, we split and never got back together. And even if she was the richest person in the world, offered me all the gold in the world to go back, I wouldn't.
I have no idea if she ever loved me. She said once she had grown to love me. But as the same time tried to change me in so many ways it is hard to see what it was she could have fallen in love with in the first place.
I loved her like a person can only do so with their first love.
I have no idea what she told her parents, but I suspect they were not surpised, and I am sure they gave her hell.
And support.
She was their only child, after all.
I licked my wounds and jumped into a relationship with someone even more damaged. Oh dear.
I guess that being an only child and getting everythign your parents can provide either produces a well-balanceed adult, or doesn't.
I am an only child, and I care about others. Andrea only cared about herself.
Sadly, her parents knew this and hoped they would be around to "advise" when her instincts to be selfish took over.
Novi Sad is in the area of Yugoslavia, now Serbia, known as Vojvodina.
Although Serbian, Andrea was of ethinic Hungarian extractions, and so after a day n schools she would go to evening school to learn Hungarian. Ulike most of Serbia, which was Orthodox, she and her family were Catholics.
If Yugoslavia was complcated, then it was in individual areas too.
She went to school, was taught that Muslim men were lazy, sat around smoking while their women did all the work. THis was in school, remember!
At school, the class would go away together for two weeks holiday, from the age of 5! I saw the pictures. And once lder they did lessons in Marxism and so on, as Yugoslavia wasn't Warsaw Pact, it was aligned.
As her parents were professionals, her Mother worked in the Vojvodina Archive in Novi Sad, they had a summer house, grew their own fruit and vegetables, Bela made his own hooch: plum and pear bandy, and Piroska made a kind of apricot butter I will remember the taste of on fresh bread until the day I die.
And they used to go to the coast in Bosnia for their holidays, which is where they met my parents one year.
Yugoslavia was falling apart at the beginning of the 90s. Tito had kept the union of nations that made up Yugoslavia together with an iren fist, but also favoured Serbia. This bred ancient resentments and hatred.
Once he died, the country was up for grabs, and along came the nationalists.
Andrea's parents knew war was coming. They wanted the best for their daughter, and on the brink of war, she failed her exams in language, thus killing her ambition of becoming a tour guide for Brits.
Andrea had come to England in 1988, when on invitation of my parents she came to stay with us for two weeks.
None of us can imagine what life was like for her back home, I paint a middle clasy idyl, but shops were empty for weeks, then nothing but washing powder, or nutmeg would come, and people would have to queue to get what there was. Money was always tight. When she came over, she saw me, going to a cash machine and apparently getting free money to spend.
She wanted some of that.
So, her parents wanted her to come to the UK to learn English so she could retake her exams. Andrea wanted to come and never leave.
A letter arrived at my parent's house, Mum opened it and called to say Andrea could come to stay and study. She failed to mention this to Dad. Or me. I had just graduated from Cosford for the first time, and was working at RAF Marham, learning to be an armourer.
I got a call to say Andrea was coming Friday. I would have to register this with the RAF Police, and there was a chance that Andrea would be seen as a security risk, and I would be banned from going to my parent's house as long as she was there.
But the political world changes quickly. What was once communist was breaking down, and the RAF said she posed no security risk, though I would never be trusted with certain roles if I were to get to the heady heights.
I knew nothing of this.
Andrea had to learn, but she also wanted to stay. Forever. There were three choices. The young and handsome Jelltex, my friends James and Douglas.
It was close, but she chose me, and fell hook, line and copy of the Angling Times for her.
At first it was great, just weekends spent going out, drinking, dancing and then more.
But soon it bacame clear that her visa was going to run out and she would have to go home.
I proposed.
I told my parents and Dad was horrified, called me all sorts of names having, as hesaw it, betrayed the confidence of her parents.
Andrea was crafty. She played my parents off against me, sided with me at home, then once I left on Sunday nights to go back to base, she was sweetness and light once again.
I have no idea if this is true, it was piecing what she and Mum told me, and quite frankly they were as unreliable as each other.
When we got married, it created such bad feelings that Andrea and I walked out of our reception as Mum was causing such a scene, and when time came to move our stuff out of their house, Dad had cleared just about everything, it felt like I was being expelled.
I did not speak to my parents for nearly two years. Until we were in Germany, and Andrea wanted Sky TV. To get that, you needed a box and an address in the UK to register a smart card. She wanted my parents to do this for us. I said that if we do this, it meant a restoration of communication, we could not just use them and drop them.
She had no qualms.
THat last summer before coming to England, she did not finish with ehr then boyfriend as she did not want to spend the summer alone. THis was Andrea all over, all about her, not caring about anyone else.
I was blind to this at first. But years, even just three years, sharing the same house, you get to see. And one morning wake up and realise that you don't even like, let alone love, the person you married and share your hosue and life with.
The harder you try to make her happier, the worse she gets and the worse she treated me, as if she wanted to punish me as feeling as bad as she did. Had she kept quiet, and not made my life a misery, we might still be together.
As it was, we split and never got back together. And even if she was the richest person in the world, offered me all the gold in the world to go back, I wouldn't.
I have no idea if she ever loved me. She said once she had grown to love me. But as the same time tried to change me in so many ways it is hard to see what it was she could have fallen in love with in the first place.
I loved her like a person can only do so with their first love.
I have no idea what she told her parents, but I suspect they were not surpised, and I am sure they gave her hell.
And support.
She was their only child, after all.
I licked my wounds and jumped into a relationship with someone even more damaged. Oh dear.
Saturday 28th November 2020
The weekend.
And for a change, the weekend brought with it, at least for one day, the promise of unbroken sunshine and light winds. Perfect conditions for, well, for what? Well, photography, walking in the countryside, walking and snapping.
Where to go?
Well, I have always wanted to a see a certain species of bird, there are a few places in Kent where you can see Bearded Reedlings (Tits), and Stodmarsh was the nearest. And we knew how to get there.
Instead of going to the village, I thought we would start from the Grove Ferry end.
Grove Ferry used to be an actual ferry, which carried cars, lorries, horse and carts over the river, to a level crossing then on up the hill towards the Canterbury to Thanet high road. The Ferry is long gone, but the Grove Ferry Inn is still there, as is the level crossing, though the trains have changed somewhat.
Anyway, that's where to go. We have coffee, then I make bacon butties with smoked back so thick each rasher is like a gammon steak. That's what you get when you buy from an actual butcher. We tidy up, gather our stuff and load the car.
And go.
We drive along to Sandwich, then take the Canterbury road, turning off for Nash, then to Preston, past the butchers and across the marshes to Grove Ferry.
The glorious morning had given way to mist, the sun heavily diffused, but breaking through at times to make trees and buildings erupt in colour like they were on fire.
We park, put on our walking shoes, but instead of heading out onto the reserve, I feel that the river might offer good photographic opportunities. I was right, the river stretched in either direction, boats moored on either bank were reflected in the mirror-like water of the Stour.
There were fishermen in place, so not wanting to disturb them too much, I take a few shots, stepping over the net-poles they had in the river in anticipation of a catch.
We leave them to it, walk back through the car park, over the main road and into the reserve.
At first there was no need for boots, as the ground was firm enough, if well travelled, so we wandered along, marvelling at the sight of the sun to the south, breaking through the mist creating stunning shapes and patterns through the reedbanks. Whilst on the other side, more reeds rse up, but lit by the sun, and glowing like they had caught fire.
I took shots of everything.
Just in case.
There was a mound to the side of the path, the seats offering fine views over the reserve, so we go up and hope that maybe the birds will come to us. Into the sun, there was a pond, and a large group of birds was making a hck of a noise, I take shots with the nifty and the big boys lens, and thanks to the latter was able to identify them as Lapwings due to their head crests.
A bird landed in the reeds at the foot of the bank, and I saw what I am pretty sure was our quarry; a shame then that this was the only sighting we had of the buggers all morning.
We walk back down and on, looking back to where we had just been standing, I see a small reddy-brown bird. I take shots, hoping it was a Reedling, but review of shots who it to be a Stonechat.
In the bench below I see another bird, an as yet identified warbler, but I suspect it to be a Cetti's Warbler.
I get a shot.
We walk on, I talk to a fellow photographer who informs us that a Dartford Warbler had been seen, and that the sunshne should bring out the Reedlings.
It may have done, but we don't see them.
A large slow moving birds swept low over the reedbeds, a March Harrier, on the lookout for prey. I take shots but the camera was on the wrong setting.
Sigh.
We take a path to the river bank, where we find all the mud in Kent had been waiting for us.
We walk upstream for a while, then finding the vegetation didn't thin out, we walk back to the car, slowly picking our way round and through the mud, our boots becoming heavier and heavier with the mud clagging to us.
The bonus of being near the river was able to spot trains on the line just the other side. And near to Gove Ferry, a down service appeared and was reflected perfectly in the still waters of the river.
I take lots of shots.
The only downside was reaching the Ferry, a large family group made of at least three generations, walking down the path, not socially distancing from each other or me, walking bay almost touching my elbow, still enaged in loud conversation. This is why Kent is in the high tier now.
I calm down as we get back to the car, change footwear and climb into the Audi; it was half eleven, and we were hungry. Should we call in at a shop or go straight home?
Straight home it was, with the day now clear as all mist and fog had lifted.
We get home, put on the kettle and make a brew.
We eat the Portuguese custard tarts, but still hungry break out the cheese, crackers and wine.
That's better.
And so begun the grand review of 400 shots, listening to the radio, and surrounded by hungry cats and kittens.
At three, the football begun, Norwich are in the middle of their worse injury crisis ince the last one, with 11 players out for one reason or another, and having no fit strikers. We take the lead, and it seems the patched-up team would hange on, but in the last minute coventry level.
Oh well.
Outside it was dark, and there was another pass of the International Space Station, so on our way to the car, we stop in the garden and look for the slow moving bright light. Jools sees it, a dull red dot passing silently overhead, and on that dot were several people. We wave at them, then go to the car
Jen wanted to cook for us, and we did not complain, so we drove to Whitfield, only to find the road off the roundabout blocked by a long queue of cars waiting to get into McDonalds.
Really?
Yes, really.
But there is another way, so we go down towards Pineham, then take the road back through the estate, and arrive at Jen's with the meat just finished cooking, and cooling ready to be carved. I carve, Jen dishes up, and we eat well. Very well. Nothing like a roast at the end of a busy day.
And then down to cards, two hands of Meld which Jen wins both of, and so is very happy.
Too late for another game, so we go home where we have cheese and wine for supper.
I slept well.
And for a change, the weekend brought with it, at least for one day, the promise of unbroken sunshine and light winds. Perfect conditions for, well, for what? Well, photography, walking in the countryside, walking and snapping.
Where to go?Well, I have always wanted to a see a certain species of bird, there are a few places in Kent where you can see Bearded Reedlings (Tits), and Stodmarsh was the nearest. And we knew how to get there.
Instead of going to the village, I thought we would start from the Grove Ferry end.
Grove Ferry used to be an actual ferry, which carried cars, lorries, horse and carts over the river, to a level crossing then on up the hill towards the Canterbury to Thanet high road. The Ferry is long gone, but the Grove Ferry Inn is still there, as is the level crossing, though the trains have changed somewhat.Anyway, that's where to go. We have coffee, then I make bacon butties with smoked back so thick each rasher is like a gammon steak. That's what you get when you buy from an actual butcher. We tidy up, gather our stuff and load the car.
And go.
We drive along to Sandwich, then take the Canterbury road, turning off for Nash, then to Preston, past the butchers and across the marshes to Grove Ferry.
The glorious morning had given way to mist, the sun heavily diffused, but breaking through at times to make trees and buildings erupt in colour like they were on fire.
We park, put on our walking shoes, but instead of heading out onto the reserve, I feel that the river might offer good photographic opportunities. I was right, the river stretched in either direction, boats moored on either bank were reflected in the mirror-like water of the Stour.
There were fishermen in place, so not wanting to disturb them too much, I take a few shots, stepping over the net-poles they had in the river in anticipation of a catch.
We leave them to it, walk back through the car park, over the main road and into the reserve. At first there was no need for boots, as the ground was firm enough, if well travelled, so we wandered along, marvelling at the sight of the sun to the south, breaking through the mist creating stunning shapes and patterns through the reedbanks. Whilst on the other side, more reeds rse up, but lit by the sun, and glowing like they had caught fire.
I took shots of everything.Just in case.
There was a mound to the side of the path, the seats offering fine views over the reserve, so we go up and hope that maybe the birds will come to us. Into the sun, there was a pond, and a large group of birds was making a hck of a noise, I take shots with the nifty and the big boys lens, and thanks to the latter was able to identify them as Lapwings due to their head crests.
A bird landed in the reeds at the foot of the bank, and I saw what I am pretty sure was our quarry; a shame then that this was the only sighting we had of the buggers all morning.
We walk back down and on, looking back to where we had just been standing, I see a small reddy-brown bird. I take shots, hoping it was a Reedling, but review of shots who it to be a Stonechat.
In the bench below I see another bird, an as yet identified warbler, but I suspect it to be a Cetti's Warbler.
I get a shot.We walk on, I talk to a fellow photographer who informs us that a Dartford Warbler had been seen, and that the sunshne should bring out the Reedlings.
It may have done, but we don't see them.A large slow moving birds swept low over the reedbeds, a March Harrier, on the lookout for prey. I take shots but the camera was on the wrong setting.
Sigh.We take a path to the river bank, where we find all the mud in Kent had been waiting for us.
We walk upstream for a while, then finding the vegetation didn't thin out, we walk back to the car, slowly picking our way round and through the mud, our boots becoming heavier and heavier with the mud clagging to us.
The bonus of being near the river was able to spot trains on the line just the other side. And near to Gove Ferry, a down service appeared and was reflected perfectly in the still waters of the river.
I take lots of shots.The only downside was reaching the Ferry, a large family group made of at least three generations, walking down the path, not socially distancing from each other or me, walking bay almost touching my elbow, still enaged in loud conversation. This is why Kent is in the high tier now.
I calm down as we get back to the car, change footwear and climb into the Audi; it was half eleven, and we were hungry. Should we call in at a shop or go straight home?
Straight home it was, with the day now clear as all mist and fog had lifted.We get home, put on the kettle and make a brew.
We eat the Portuguese custard tarts, but still hungry break out the cheese, crackers and wine.
That's better.
And so begun the grand review of 400 shots, listening to the radio, and surrounded by hungry cats and kittens.
At three, the football begun, Norwich are in the middle of their worse injury crisis ince the last one, with 11 players out for one reason or another, and having no fit strikers. We take the lead, and it seems the patched-up team would hange on, but in the last minute coventry level.
Oh well.
Outside it was dark, and there was another pass of the International Space Station, so on our way to the car, we stop in the garden and look for the slow moving bright light. Jools sees it, a dull red dot passing silently overhead, and on that dot were several people. We wave at them, then go to the car
Jen wanted to cook for us, and we did not complain, so we drove to Whitfield, only to find the road off the roundabout blocked by a long queue of cars waiting to get into McDonalds.
Really?
Yes, really.
But there is another way, so we go down towards Pineham, then take the road back through the estate, and arrive at Jen's with the meat just finished cooking, and cooling ready to be carved. I carve, Jen dishes up, and we eat well. Very well. Nothing like a roast at the end of a busy day.
And then down to cards, two hands of Meld which Jen wins both of, and so is very happy.
Too late for another game, so we go home where we have cheese and wine for supper.
I slept well.
Rinse and repeat
I guess one of the most depressing aspects of both Brexit and COVID is the repeated failures of our elected officials to have a basic understanding of either.
With Brexit it the fact that somehow fishing is the hill on which Brexiteers which they will sacrifice the whole economy on, even those in the actual fishing industry who are voicing their alarm at what is being planned and will the new normal are thrown on the bonfire of the ignorance. The possibility of even a hard Brexit is being threatened by a few million pounds worth of fishing, in a sea that is pretty much fished-out.
And the areas of the economy that drive the national economy, like services, are ignored and thrown on, because Farrage and Hoey can sail down the Thames to Westminster on a spreadsheet.
It is pathetic.
As is the idea that there is a balance to be struck between public health and the economy. Ignore public health and the long-term economic hit will be harder and take longer to recover from. This is a lesson from history, and something actual experts say every day, and yet Tory MPs ignore this and play to the cheap seats pretending there is a choice.
But then when they have elected Johnson as leader, knowing he can't keep a promise or actually see anything through, act surprise when they see the response to COVID has been so shit. What about Johnson's past gave them the indication he could cut the mustard as PM?
So, Johnson is left having to send letters to all his MPs, promising a vote in January on whether the tiers will be extended or not. Because the one thing you can rely on Johnson to do, is to keep his promises!
So, another week is to begin with it being the last chance to sign a deal with the EU. Like we said last week. And the week before that. And last month. And in August.
Brexiteers seem to think that no deal will be the end point, but it wouldn't of course, just the start of a new round of negotiations, and a deal will be struck in time, maybe quicker that they could imagine if the chaos is really bad. Which is why I am laid back about it, but the damage to the economy, its people and our international reputation might never be repaired.
Still, no deal Brexit and the third wave of Covid will be a great way to start 2021, just when you thought it couldn't get any worse.
With Brexit it the fact that somehow fishing is the hill on which Brexiteers which they will sacrifice the whole economy on, even those in the actual fishing industry who are voicing their alarm at what is being planned and will the new normal are thrown on the bonfire of the ignorance. The possibility of even a hard Brexit is being threatened by a few million pounds worth of fishing, in a sea that is pretty much fished-out.
And the areas of the economy that drive the national economy, like services, are ignored and thrown on, because Farrage and Hoey can sail down the Thames to Westminster on a spreadsheet.
It is pathetic.
As is the idea that there is a balance to be struck between public health and the economy. Ignore public health and the long-term economic hit will be harder and take longer to recover from. This is a lesson from history, and something actual experts say every day, and yet Tory MPs ignore this and play to the cheap seats pretending there is a choice.
But then when they have elected Johnson as leader, knowing he can't keep a promise or actually see anything through, act surprise when they see the response to COVID has been so shit. What about Johnson's past gave them the indication he could cut the mustard as PM?
So, Johnson is left having to send letters to all his MPs, promising a vote in January on whether the tiers will be extended or not. Because the one thing you can rely on Johnson to do, is to keep his promises!
So, another week is to begin with it being the last chance to sign a deal with the EU. Like we said last week. And the week before that. And last month. And in August.
Brexiteers seem to think that no deal will be the end point, but it wouldn't of course, just the start of a new round of negotiations, and a deal will be struck in time, maybe quicker that they could imagine if the chaos is really bad. Which is why I am laid back about it, but the damage to the economy, its people and our international reputation might never be repaired.
Still, no deal Brexit and the third wave of Covid will be a great way to start 2021, just when you thought it couldn't get any worse.
Saturday, 28 November 2020
4829
Edith Mercy Knights was born in Slougham, Sussex, on 27th November 1900, she would grow up to be my paternal Grandmother some 65 years later.
She grew up just down the road in Warninglid.
During the First World War she worked in the Huntley and Palmer bisuit factory in Reading.
After the war, she went into service with a rich family who had a holiday home in Oulton Broad.
At some point she got friendly with one of the gardners at the holiday home. And when I say holiday home, it was a mansion on the side of the Broad. Anyway, she ended up marrying James Hadingham and they moved into a small house on the Rock Estate, less than half a mile where they used to be in service, and round the corner where I would would end up living once I knew I was leaving the Air Force.
38 was an age back then to fall pregnant, and when Dad was born, he was a couple of months premature. He was lucky to survive, the only effect was him having one layer of skin missing, meaning he was cut easily.
Dad grew up, went to school and then to college as an apprentice ship's carpenter. On 5th January 1960, at the age of 57, James died suddenly of a heart attack wherehe worked on the branch line to the fish docks in Lowestoft.
So, Edith, or Nannie as I called her, spent the long years from 1960 to 1998 alone, once Dad married Mum in 1964, though they lived nearby.
2 Moyes Road was an unusual house, it was a detached terraced house. I'm not sure if the houses next door were bombed in WWII or they never got built, but there was this detached two up, two down that came with a large garden, large enough to have an orchard.
I remember an old fashioned house, with no central heating, just a small coal fine in the living room, and the rest of the house like a fridge in the winter. An extension had been built at some point, so they had a bathroom and indoor toilet, though Nannie did use the horrible shiny toilet paper, so horrible i would never use the facilities there. The elctrics were from whenever the house was connected to the mains, with tiny round pinned plugs and sockets, and she watched a 425 line black and white TV, which was like peering through fog at whatever she was watching.
She watched variety shows, Coronation Street and all-in wrestling. Wrestling was something that ITV put on at four every Saturday afternoon, was a low rent version of what the Aericans call WWF or whatever it is now. And was famous for all these sensible-coated grannies in the front row of the crowd, hitting the "bad" guy with their handbags. Given the chance she would have been with them wielding handbags at Giant Heystacks or Mick MacManus. Her favourite was Les Kellett, who pretended to be drunk and always ended up winning.
Then she would go down the chippy in Hall Road to get small cod and chips for her, and a battered sausage for me, before I was walked to my other Grandparents in nearby Chestnut Avenue.
She lived there until 1982, when we had a dreadful winter, and snow fell off her roof, blocking her back door meaning she was stuck indoors. Thankfully she did have a phone by then, so called and Dad went to dig her out. Soon after she moved into sheptered housing up in Oulton village, and never really looked back.
She had a small kitchen, living room, bathroom and bedroom, and was lovely and toasty warm all year round, and there was a warden on call 24 hours.
No Mother should ever have to outlive her child, but Nannie did by nearly two years. Mum had to break the news to her, I don't know how either survived that. Nannie said that if she started to cry, she wouldn't stop.
Her final years were spent in a care home, where in a metter of weeks they managed to giver her bed sores, she caught pneumonia and once that happened we knew she didn't have long.
I went up from Wiltshire in January 1998 to see her the last time, she cried when she knew it was me. To ease her mind, she asked if I was happy. I was, so told her I was, and she was happy with that.
She passed away a couple of weeks later, meaning I did not have to break her the news I was going to have to go to the Falklands for four months.
And that was that. Sadly.
She grew up just down the road in Warninglid.
During the First World War she worked in the Huntley and Palmer bisuit factory in Reading.
After the war, she went into service with a rich family who had a holiday home in Oulton Broad.At some point she got friendly with one of the gardners at the holiday home. And when I say holiday home, it was a mansion on the side of the Broad. Anyway, she ended up marrying James Hadingham and they moved into a small house on the Rock Estate, less than half a mile where they used to be in service, and round the corner where I would would end up living once I knew I was leaving the Air Force.
38 was an age back then to fall pregnant, and when Dad was born, he was a couple of months premature. He was lucky to survive, the only effect was him having one layer of skin missing, meaning he was cut easily.Dad grew up, went to school and then to college as an apprentice ship's carpenter. On 5th January 1960, at the age of 57, James died suddenly of a heart attack wherehe worked on the branch line to the fish docks in Lowestoft.
So, Edith, or Nannie as I called her, spent the long years from 1960 to 1998 alone, once Dad married Mum in 1964, though they lived nearby.2 Moyes Road was an unusual house, it was a detached terraced house. I'm not sure if the houses next door were bombed in WWII or they never got built, but there was this detached two up, two down that came with a large garden, large enough to have an orchard.
I remember an old fashioned house, with no central heating, just a small coal fine in the living room, and the rest of the house like a fridge in the winter. An extension had been built at some point, so they had a bathroom and indoor toilet, though Nannie did use the horrible shiny toilet paper, so horrible i would never use the facilities there. The elctrics were from whenever the house was connected to the mains, with tiny round pinned plugs and sockets, and she watched a 425 line black and white TV, which was like peering through fog at whatever she was watching.She watched variety shows, Coronation Street and all-in wrestling. Wrestling was something that ITV put on at four every Saturday afternoon, was a low rent version of what the Aericans call WWF or whatever it is now. And was famous for all these sensible-coated grannies in the front row of the crowd, hitting the "bad" guy with their handbags. Given the chance she would have been with them wielding handbags at Giant Heystacks or Mick MacManus. Her favourite was Les Kellett, who pretended to be drunk and always ended up winning.
Then she would go down the chippy in Hall Road to get small cod and chips for her, and a battered sausage for me, before I was walked to my other Grandparents in nearby Chestnut Avenue.
She lived there until 1982, when we had a dreadful winter, and snow fell off her roof, blocking her back door meaning she was stuck indoors. Thankfully she did have a phone by then, so called and Dad went to dig her out. Soon after she moved into sheptered housing up in Oulton village, and never really looked back.
She had a small kitchen, living room, bathroom and bedroom, and was lovely and toasty warm all year round, and there was a warden on call 24 hours.
No Mother should ever have to outlive her child, but Nannie did by nearly two years. Mum had to break the news to her, I don't know how either survived that. Nannie said that if she started to cry, she wouldn't stop.
Her final years were spent in a care home, where in a metter of weeks they managed to giver her bed sores, she caught pneumonia and once that happened we knew she didn't have long.
I went up from Wiltshire in January 1998 to see her the last time, she cried when she knew it was me. To ease her mind, she asked if I was happy. I was, so told her I was, and she was happy with that.
She passed away a couple of weeks later, meaning I did not have to break her the news I was going to have to go to the Falklands for four months.
And that was that. Sadly.
Friday 27th November 2020
My paternal Grandmuther's 120th birthday. Or would have been.
And it is Friday.
Yay.
I should have done a session on the cross trainer. But once up my egs said to my head, are you serious, we ache, man.
So that was that.
But other than that, not much to say about the early morning, other than coffee, breakfast, more coffee.
I knew what work had in store for me, and that was meetings. So, I had to be fed and watered and washed, all ready for four and a half hours of Teams meetings.
It is the modern way.
As yu know by now, every other Friday is the auditor's meetings, where we talk about audits. It never improves, and there is always a sticking point that extends the meeting by half an hour just as you think you've managed to wind it up only half way through.
Then there is the latest news meeting, which for the last three weeks there has been no news, but being told officially there was no news. No change this week in that there was no news either, but we are nearer the point when there might be news.
But not yet.
And straight into another meeting, while all the while, Jools went shopping, then to Jen's to do a yoga session that comes free with her Sky package.
Jools comes back in time for us to have lunch of ham rolls before I have my weekly one to one with my boss, which stretched to 90 minutes.
And somehow, it was two in the afternoon, time for a brew, monitor my inbox for an hour. And that was it.
To provide a soundtrack to putting my work stuff away, I put on a Northern Soul compilation, dance round the livingroon covered in talc (not really) and throw some shapes.
I egg and breadcrumb two sliced aubergines, shallow fry them in olive oil, so we can sit down at five to eat well.
We have to be ready so I can take part in an online pop quiz at six. I don't do well, but OK, not good enough to get in the top ten though.
We watch the story of DB Cooper again. Still as mysterious, and a well made 90 minutes.
And it was nine, time for bed.
And it is Friday.
Yay.
I should have done a session on the cross trainer. But once up my egs said to my head, are you serious, we ache, man.
So that was that.
But other than that, not much to say about the early morning, other than coffee, breakfast, more coffee.
I knew what work had in store for me, and that was meetings. So, I had to be fed and watered and washed, all ready for four and a half hours of Teams meetings.
It is the modern way.
As yu know by now, every other Friday is the auditor's meetings, where we talk about audits. It never improves, and there is always a sticking point that extends the meeting by half an hour just as you think you've managed to wind it up only half way through.
Then there is the latest news meeting, which for the last three weeks there has been no news, but being told officially there was no news. No change this week in that there was no news either, but we are nearer the point when there might be news.But not yet.
And straight into another meeting, while all the while, Jools went shopping, then to Jen's to do a yoga session that comes free with her Sky package.
Jools comes back in time for us to have lunch of ham rolls before I have my weekly one to one with my boss, which stretched to 90 minutes.
And somehow, it was two in the afternoon, time for a brew, monitor my inbox for an hour. And that was it.
To provide a soundtrack to putting my work stuff away, I put on a Northern Soul compilation, dance round the livingroon covered in talc (not really) and throw some shapes.
I egg and breadcrumb two sliced aubergines, shallow fry them in olive oil, so we can sit down at five to eat well.
We have to be ready so I can take part in an online pop quiz at six. I don't do well, but OK, not good enough to get in the top ten though.We watch the story of DB Cooper again. Still as mysterious, and a well made 90 minutes.
And it was nine, time for bed.
Friday, 27 November 2020
4827
RAF Coltishall (aka Colt) was the last operational Battle of Britain base. It was only 13 miles north of Norwich, but along some of the narrowest lanes and roads, and that's once you had battled your way round or through the city. It wasn't somewhere you passed by accident.
But it was just 45 minutes from home, and my house later once it became clear that I would be leaving the mob after 15 years.
There used to be a tradition of when you finished your course at RAF Cosford, you would drive your car round the base on your way out blasting your horn in celebration. We had been told this was now frowned on and we should leave quietly when our time came.
No one was going to tell us what to do, so on the Wednesday afternoon I lead the convoy round the narrow roads of the base, dodging marching courses, a-tooting as we went, driving past weapns squadron for the last time to the main gate, hand in our car pass and along to the M54, turning east for Norfolk.
Colt was a quiet backwater, and apparently largly forgotton by the MOD, little inprovements had been done in decades, the domestic side was ssall, bith barracks surrounding the central parade square, later turned into a car park.
You drive out of Norwich on one of the two roads to North Walsham, heading over the bridge in Coltishall village, before taking the narrow lane leading through Little Hautbois, past the end of the runway, over the old railway bridge and onto the base, past the NAAFI to the main gate.
After leaving Cosford, I drive home to spend the night at Mum's, before driving to base the next morning to report for duty, get assigned a room and begin the arrival process.
I go to the station admin flight, PSF, get an arrivals chit, and go round getting signatures and having my name added to various lists, before finally arriving at my new section, AEF, Armament Engineering Flight. I walked in, said hello to some familiar faces, and walked to the admin office. I had to fill in a next of kin form, and when the sergeant saw the Lowestoft address he asked, Norwich or Ipswich? This could be make or break, but I told the truth: Norwich.
Welcome, and Gaz called out that another Canary had been posted in. I met another fan, Ian, who I would go on to be firm friends with, and indeed still am.
I would be working in the bomb dump, would be my third such posting, so held no fears. The thing about bomb dumps was thet there were quite dangerous places, so usually placed the far side of the airfield, meaning you had to get across the other side of the active runway to get there. You needed a special pass to drive on the airfield, and obey the traffic signals, so until I had that, I would need a lift. Gaz called the dump and they would send the duty driver over.
We talked about football and meeting up before the next home game and them trying get me to go to away games as well. Gaz, Neil and especially Ian relit my passion for Norwich, and I was soon travelling to most away games. Meeting up or travelling with them too.
Colt had no HAS sites, but jets used to be serviced in areas with tall concrete blast walls separating each plane. The revepments still stood, ut were no longer used. The four squadrons of Jaguars were serviced on pans beside the crew huts near the centre of the airfield, opposite the huge hangers, only used to store the aircraft at weekends.
The driver came, and took me round the ring road, along the perry track, across the piano keys, along the perry track the other side to the crewroom and offices, in a portacabin. I would work from here for the next five years. Four and a half as it turned out.
I was shown the tea bar, changing rooms, given foul weather gear and told I could go home, or to my new room, and be in work in the morning at half seven.
My room was in a prefab block, not perfect, but I had my own room, there was space for the bed, wardrobe and the huge TV I had bought the previous weekend, which I had to get a taxi to deliver. A 28 inch Sony super Wega, 100hz, and deeper than it was wide, it took half the free space in the room, was quite a pain until I moved into a block of lats near the Family's club after a few months, where I shared a ground floor flat with two other guys. As the one in the largest room was posted or left, the one in the next biggest took his room, and I would move from the smallest to the middle.
So after a year I had the living room, more than eough room for the TV, a new futon bed, a wardrobe and my hifi and huge speakers.
Life was great, and would have continued like that but for two things. The first was the second Gulf War, and that being an old lag, was one of the first selected to be on standby to fly out to support operations. The second happned after that, when it turned out I had upset my chief, and he gave me average marks in my assessments, thus killing my career.
That was in the future.
I came back to work after Christmas and New Year at the start of 2003. I was duty armourer, and on the first afternoon back not much was happening, I was in the crewroom, when I was told the Flight Sergeant wanted to see me.
The FS was a good old sort, once you got to know him, he was the spitting image of the character Grouty from the sitcom, Porridge. So, we called him Grouty. He was a Wolves supporter, but suffered us Norwich fans with good grace.
I was told that although nothing had been announced, there was to be operations against Iraq, and I was being put on stand by to fly out. Go to stores to pick up desert kitting, and there was a training day two days time to "refresh" our ground defence skills in case we were to operate from contested air strips.
All the jokes you hear about the RAF staying in hotels are true. We are spoiled, or were. Even in most wartime situations, airfields are usually hundreds of miles away from the front line, and so none of really exected to use the rifle we had been trained with, or the bayonnet at the end for anything other than being on gate guard.
But this was serious shit. It was Friday afternoon, we were due to fly to somewhere on Monday. We were taught how to pitch a tent, do patrols, cook using a hexi-block burner and all the other things we thought we needed. Kitting had been a disater, as half the stuff we needed was out of stock, but we were promised it would be waiting for us "in theatre". I went to the Army Surplus store over the weekend to get the things I knew I'd need.
I couldn't sleep, not without a lot of booze.
The weekend passed.
Monday came.
And went.
No news.
Turned out that Turkey would not let us operate from their bases, and so there was no space anywhere else for the Jags.
We were to wait.
We were on four hour notice to move, so nowhere more than four hours from base, and had to have our mobiles on at all time. The stress was huge, more of the unknown rather than being at war.
We were asked to take antrax tablets, I refused. When I explained to the SMO and he could not answer my questions, no one else in the room did either. I was always a trouble maker.
Days stretched to weeks, weeks to months, and with the ground war over, after 73 days, we were stood down. Just like that. It had become obvious weeks before we would not be deployed, so life had returned to normal, but the chaos of those weeks stayed with me.
And then I got my assessments, and my Chief gave me average marks, and while my friends off my course from 99 were already getting promoted, I wasn't even on the list, let alone near the bottom. I had done something to upset him, he wouldn't say what, but that killed my career, in the two years left, I could not get get enough marks to get on the list, let alone near the top. But I had two and a half year's notice, so got used to it.
In time.
But I was angry for a long time.
I still am.
If would have stayed in to 2012, I would have got a full pension and probably be able to survive on that without havig to work. Full time at least, so leaving after 15 years would mean having to find a job.
There was money for courses, so I did an HGV course, did well, and never felt more confident in going into a driving test. Needless to say, I failed and the thousands of pounds I invested in that was wasted.
I had to evict the lady living in the house in Lowestoft, and with a year to serve, I moved back into the house, having to commute to Colt there and back each day.
It gave being in the RAF a different experience, driving out of the gate at half four and being in my own place each night, no uniform was worn, just my protective gear when at work. Not like being in the mob at all.
My second Grandmother had passed away, s I got some money, so I furnished the house and fitted out the small kitchen to make it my perfect pad. I got the internet connected, got Sky TV, my neighbour mowed the small lane out the back. And the paper shop and corner shop were still there, I would want for nothing.
So passed my last year of service, me counting the days when I would get my clearance chit, take three lazy days getting it signed, before taking to PSF that last time, handing my my ID card and that was it.
I was out.
It was June 2005, I had a house, a mortgage, a huge car I had to sell, and needed a job. But would be paid until the middle of September. So, lets play a while.
But it was just 45 minutes from home, and my house later once it became clear that I would be leaving the mob after 15 years.
There used to be a tradition of when you finished your course at RAF Cosford, you would drive your car round the base on your way out blasting your horn in celebration. We had been told this was now frowned on and we should leave quietly when our time came.
No one was going to tell us what to do, so on the Wednesday afternoon I lead the convoy round the narrow roads of the base, dodging marching courses, a-tooting as we went, driving past weapns squadron for the last time to the main gate, hand in our car pass and along to the M54, turning east for Norfolk.
Colt was a quiet backwater, and apparently largly forgotton by the MOD, little inprovements had been done in decades, the domestic side was ssall, bith barracks surrounding the central parade square, later turned into a car park.
You drive out of Norwich on one of the two roads to North Walsham, heading over the bridge in Coltishall village, before taking the narrow lane leading through Little Hautbois, past the end of the runway, over the old railway bridge and onto the base, past the NAAFI to the main gate.
After leaving Cosford, I drive home to spend the night at Mum's, before driving to base the next morning to report for duty, get assigned a room and begin the arrival process.
I go to the station admin flight, PSF, get an arrivals chit, and go round getting signatures and having my name added to various lists, before finally arriving at my new section, AEF, Armament Engineering Flight. I walked in, said hello to some familiar faces, and walked to the admin office. I had to fill in a next of kin form, and when the sergeant saw the Lowestoft address he asked, Norwich or Ipswich? This could be make or break, but I told the truth: Norwich.
Welcome, and Gaz called out that another Canary had been posted in. I met another fan, Ian, who I would go on to be firm friends with, and indeed still am.
I would be working in the bomb dump, would be my third such posting, so held no fears. The thing about bomb dumps was thet there were quite dangerous places, so usually placed the far side of the airfield, meaning you had to get across the other side of the active runway to get there. You needed a special pass to drive on the airfield, and obey the traffic signals, so until I had that, I would need a lift. Gaz called the dump and they would send the duty driver over.
We talked about football and meeting up before the next home game and them trying get me to go to away games as well. Gaz, Neil and especially Ian relit my passion for Norwich, and I was soon travelling to most away games. Meeting up or travelling with them too.
Colt had no HAS sites, but jets used to be serviced in areas with tall concrete blast walls separating each plane. The revepments still stood, ut were no longer used. The four squadrons of Jaguars were serviced on pans beside the crew huts near the centre of the airfield, opposite the huge hangers, only used to store the aircraft at weekends.
The driver came, and took me round the ring road, along the perry track, across the piano keys, along the perry track the other side to the crewroom and offices, in a portacabin. I would work from here for the next five years. Four and a half as it turned out.
I was shown the tea bar, changing rooms, given foul weather gear and told I could go home, or to my new room, and be in work in the morning at half seven.
My room was in a prefab block, not perfect, but I had my own room, there was space for the bed, wardrobe and the huge TV I had bought the previous weekend, which I had to get a taxi to deliver. A 28 inch Sony super Wega, 100hz, and deeper than it was wide, it took half the free space in the room, was quite a pain until I moved into a block of lats near the Family's club after a few months, where I shared a ground floor flat with two other guys. As the one in the largest room was posted or left, the one in the next biggest took his room, and I would move from the smallest to the middle.
So after a year I had the living room, more than eough room for the TV, a new futon bed, a wardrobe and my hifi and huge speakers.
Life was great, and would have continued like that but for two things. The first was the second Gulf War, and that being an old lag, was one of the first selected to be on standby to fly out to support operations. The second happned after that, when it turned out I had upset my chief, and he gave me average marks in my assessments, thus killing my career.
That was in the future.
I came back to work after Christmas and New Year at the start of 2003. I was duty armourer, and on the first afternoon back not much was happening, I was in the crewroom, when I was told the Flight Sergeant wanted to see me.
The FS was a good old sort, once you got to know him, he was the spitting image of the character Grouty from the sitcom, Porridge. So, we called him Grouty. He was a Wolves supporter, but suffered us Norwich fans with good grace.
I was told that although nothing had been announced, there was to be operations against Iraq, and I was being put on stand by to fly out. Go to stores to pick up desert kitting, and there was a training day two days time to "refresh" our ground defence skills in case we were to operate from contested air strips.
All the jokes you hear about the RAF staying in hotels are true. We are spoiled, or were. Even in most wartime situations, airfields are usually hundreds of miles away from the front line, and so none of really exected to use the rifle we had been trained with, or the bayonnet at the end for anything other than being on gate guard.
But this was serious shit. It was Friday afternoon, we were due to fly to somewhere on Monday. We were taught how to pitch a tent, do patrols, cook using a hexi-block burner and all the other things we thought we needed. Kitting had been a disater, as half the stuff we needed was out of stock, but we were promised it would be waiting for us "in theatre". I went to the Army Surplus store over the weekend to get the things I knew I'd need.
I couldn't sleep, not without a lot of booze.
The weekend passed.
Monday came.
And went.
No news.
Turned out that Turkey would not let us operate from their bases, and so there was no space anywhere else for the Jags.
We were to wait.
We were on four hour notice to move, so nowhere more than four hours from base, and had to have our mobiles on at all time. The stress was huge, more of the unknown rather than being at war.
We were asked to take antrax tablets, I refused. When I explained to the SMO and he could not answer my questions, no one else in the room did either. I was always a trouble maker.
Days stretched to weeks, weeks to months, and with the ground war over, after 73 days, we were stood down. Just like that. It had become obvious weeks before we would not be deployed, so life had returned to normal, but the chaos of those weeks stayed with me.
And then I got my assessments, and my Chief gave me average marks, and while my friends off my course from 99 were already getting promoted, I wasn't even on the list, let alone near the bottom. I had done something to upset him, he wouldn't say what, but that killed my career, in the two years left, I could not get get enough marks to get on the list, let alone near the top. But I had two and a half year's notice, so got used to it.
In time.
But I was angry for a long time.
I still am.
If would have stayed in to 2012, I would have got a full pension and probably be able to survive on that without havig to work. Full time at least, so leaving after 15 years would mean having to find a job.
There was money for courses, so I did an HGV course, did well, and never felt more confident in going into a driving test. Needless to say, I failed and the thousands of pounds I invested in that was wasted.
I had to evict the lady living in the house in Lowestoft, and with a year to serve, I moved back into the house, having to commute to Colt there and back each day.
It gave being in the RAF a different experience, driving out of the gate at half four and being in my own place each night, no uniform was worn, just my protective gear when at work. Not like being in the mob at all.
My second Grandmother had passed away, s I got some money, so I furnished the house and fitted out the small kitchen to make it my perfect pad. I got the internet connected, got Sky TV, my neighbour mowed the small lane out the back. And the paper shop and corner shop were still there, I would want for nothing.
So passed my last year of service, me counting the days when I would get my clearance chit, take three lazy days getting it signed, before taking to PSF that last time, handing my my ID card and that was it.
I was out.
It was June 2005, I had a house, a mortgage, a huge car I had to sell, and needed a job. But would be paid until the middle of September. So, lets play a while.
Thursday 26th November 2020
Nearly at the weekend, stay strong.
It is Thursday, it will be another windless, grey and cold day.
Filled with work.
And kittens.
Which is nice. At least the kittens part.
Thursday has a morning meeting at half seven, so have to wake up, get up, properly wake up and do phys before then, and maybe put the bins out too, and put some trousers on.
All in 90 minutes.
I get on the cross trainer just before seven, meaning that by half past I have done my session, cooled down, put the bins out and ready for work. Jools makes second coffee and breakfast and brings it to my like the glamourous assistant she is.
In reality I am her assistant, but there you go.
Jools had a yoga session booked to do online at half nine, and I have meetings, so with me plugged into my headphones, she does yoga in the bathroom. I could hear the head of her fan club, Mulder, mewing sadly for her attention as she tried to do a downward facing dog. Or something.
Lunch is fajitas.
We bought some special spice in Houston last year, first time I made it I used too much and the chicken was too salty, I asked a friend for advice, so had rubbed the chicken with the spice in an oily solution and left for 24 hours. When I got the chicken out, it looked no different in colour, just oily, so I cooked that, fried onions and sweet peppers in a sweet chilli sauce, and the nearest thing we had to sour cream was cream cheese, which worked well as it turned out, and the ckicken tasted great too.
But having it for lunch meant no booze, just an orange squash, but the meal was still good. I even took a picture.
You may be surprsied.
I fail to do an afternoon session on the cross-trainer, but have a shave and shower, so I look and smell lovely.
I find another train video to watch either side of dinner, a single track Swiss electried line, twisting and turning up though mountains, over deep valleys. Adds another desination to the post-COVID plan.
Dinner was either going to be cheese and crackers, or bugers and beer. I let Jools decide, as was glad when beer and burgers won. Wild boar and chorizo burgers, with fresh onions and cheddar.
Lovely.
Jools watches the first series of His Dark Materials whilst I watch another Swiss train journey, rattling through picturesque towns and villages, sometimes on the narrow streets of them.
I need to travel.
It is Thursday, it will be another windless, grey and cold day.
Filled with work.
And kittens.
Which is nice. At least the kittens part.
Thursday has a morning meeting at half seven, so have to wake up, get up, properly wake up and do phys before then, and maybe put the bins out too, and put some trousers on.
All in 90 minutes.
I get on the cross trainer just before seven, meaning that by half past I have done my session, cooled down, put the bins out and ready for work. Jools makes second coffee and breakfast and brings it to my like the glamourous assistant she is.
In reality I am her assistant, but there you go.
Jools had a yoga session booked to do online at half nine, and I have meetings, so with me plugged into my headphones, she does yoga in the bathroom. I could hear the head of her fan club, Mulder, mewing sadly for her attention as she tried to do a downward facing dog. Or something.
Lunch is fajitas.
We bought some special spice in Houston last year, first time I made it I used too much and the chicken was too salty, I asked a friend for advice, so had rubbed the chicken with the spice in an oily solution and left for 24 hours. When I got the chicken out, it looked no different in colour, just oily, so I cooked that, fried onions and sweet peppers in a sweet chilli sauce, and the nearest thing we had to sour cream was cream cheese, which worked well as it turned out, and the ckicken tasted great too.
But having it for lunch meant no booze, just an orange squash, but the meal was still good. I even took a picture.You may be surprsied.
I fail to do an afternoon session on the cross-trainer, but have a shave and shower, so I look and smell lovely.
I find another train video to watch either side of dinner, a single track Swiss electried line, twisting and turning up though mountains, over deep valleys. Adds another desination to the post-COVID plan.
Dinner was either going to be cheese and crackers, or bugers and beer. I let Jools decide, as was glad when beer and burgers won. Wild boar and chorizo burgers, with fresh onions and cheddar.
Lovely.
Jools watches the first series of His Dark Materials whilst I watch another Swiss train journey, rattling through picturesque towns and villages, sometimes on the narrow streets of them.
I need to travel.
Irony overload. Again.
Over the last few days, the ERG has morphed into the Covid Research Group, though now headed by Steve Baker, as previous chairman and ex-Mnister Mark Francois, has not been seen or heard of since an ex-Minister was accused of serious sexual offences. I'm sure its not related, Francois still votes, by proxy, in the Commons though has not been seen or had the whip withdrawn, neither has the ex-Minister who was charged.
Anyway, Steve Baker is against the new three tiers of lockdowns, a month to go before the possibly no deal Brexit his group is pushing which will have disasterous consequences for the economy of which the Government has never officially published ecionomic impact assessments for, so Baker is demanding economic impact assessments for the three tiers.
In short, we cannot afford any economic damage in fighting COVID, but any amount of econoic damage is IK for his version of Brexit?
I believe that is right.
And on top of that, Baker has announced that the ERG will not support any negotiated Brexit deal with the EU. After pushing the Government, Conservative Party to ever more extreme right-wing positions on Brexit, now even that is not enough, and sure as bears deficate in mainly wooded areas, the ERG and Nigel will scream of betrayal of any outcome, even no deal.
So, it seems that the PM would struggle to get any deal ratified by Parliament, or won't be able to do with it without Labour and the LibDems siding with the Government. That would probably break the Tories as a party, though it really will break anyway, but again, I have been saying this for years. And would force Kier Starmer into taking a position on Brexit, meaning sharing the blame when it all goes wrong. He has said thus far he would support a deal, but if the deal is thin and bad, would he then, if he knew it would be a disaster?
The mantra that any deal is better than no deal only holds true to a point, and even with a deal the border on the UK side is not ready. And might not be ready for at least a year, and that would be if all the IT systems, and peple learn how to use them, and it dovetails into the EU's systems perfectly first time.
Meanwhile, Barnier has ended is quarantine, and is on his way to London for more talks, even as the month of November draws to an end. Even with agreement, this would need to be ratified, by at least the EU (Commission or Council, possibly by the EU27 Parliaments and maybe some regional ones too) and Westminster, though on the UK side, the gOvernment could use emergency powers to bypass Parliament, which I'm sure will go down well with the ERG.
It would have been possible at one time to leave grey areas and rely on "Gentlmen's agreements" to sort out later, but the total loss of trust by the EU means this cannot happen, there will have to be clear legal processes in place to ensure UK compliance, that would mean binning the IMB for a start. THree issues might remain, but a long way to go.
And very little time.
Anyway, Steve Baker is against the new three tiers of lockdowns, a month to go before the possibly no deal Brexit his group is pushing which will have disasterous consequences for the economy of which the Government has never officially published ecionomic impact assessments for, so Baker is demanding economic impact assessments for the three tiers.
In short, we cannot afford any economic damage in fighting COVID, but any amount of econoic damage is IK for his version of Brexit?
I believe that is right.
And on top of that, Baker has announced that the ERG will not support any negotiated Brexit deal with the EU. After pushing the Government, Conservative Party to ever more extreme right-wing positions on Brexit, now even that is not enough, and sure as bears deficate in mainly wooded areas, the ERG and Nigel will scream of betrayal of any outcome, even no deal.
So, it seems that the PM would struggle to get any deal ratified by Parliament, or won't be able to do with it without Labour and the LibDems siding with the Government. That would probably break the Tories as a party, though it really will break anyway, but again, I have been saying this for years. And would force Kier Starmer into taking a position on Brexit, meaning sharing the blame when it all goes wrong. He has said thus far he would support a deal, but if the deal is thin and bad, would he then, if he knew it would be a disaster?
The mantra that any deal is better than no deal only holds true to a point, and even with a deal the border on the UK side is not ready. And might not be ready for at least a year, and that would be if all the IT systems, and peple learn how to use them, and it dovetails into the EU's systems perfectly first time.
Meanwhile, Barnier has ended is quarantine, and is on his way to London for more talks, even as the month of November draws to an end. Even with agreement, this would need to be ratified, by at least the EU (Commission or Council, possibly by the EU27 Parliaments and maybe some regional ones too) and Westminster, though on the UK side, the gOvernment could use emergency powers to bypass Parliament, which I'm sure will go down well with the ERG.
It would have been possible at one time to leave grey areas and rely on "Gentlmen's agreements" to sort out later, but the total loss of trust by the EU means this cannot happen, there will have to be clear legal processes in place to ensure UK compliance, that would mean binning the IMB for a start. THree issues might remain, but a long way to go.
And very little time.
Thursday, 26 November 2020
4824
I'm not sure if I have written about these days before, if I have, well, sorry. But I am on a bit of a flow at the moment, so let the words flow!
Estelle lived in Hunslet, Leeds, and along with a friend, had written to the Forces Echo requesting a pen pal. I was single, so I thought I would like a pen pal, and so I wrote.
And, let's say Estelle was keen from the off. Which should have warned me, and let me say now that relationships on the rebound was never going to work, but hey, everything is easy in hindsight.
This was the autumn before Dad died, just when I was posted to Bruggen and leading to my divorce, the final Christmas at home with Dad.
In the New Year, I travelled several times on anovernight bus from Germany to Leeds, our base was the last so there was only ever one free seat free, so I would perch on the seat as we drove down to Calais and learned to sleep sitting up, or leaning forward, head on the seat in front.
It was an adventure at first, leaving Germany at five on a Friday and heading to Calais, boarding a midnight ferry, then driving up through Kent, Essex and into Nottinghamshire to Yorkshire. I would arrive in Leeds about mid-morning, and that first time, Estelle met me off the bus, took me back home and we ended up in bed.
Zut alors.
Estelle was divorced from the wifebeater father of her only child, Matthew. They lived in a nice modern two bedroom house, but inside it was a shit tip.
Frankly.
A month or so later I stayed a week and spent the first morning cleaning the bathroom as I felt dirtier leaving than I was on entering.
Estelle was nearly a decade older than me, and had baggage, though hid it well at first. We had fun, travelled round Leeds in a hire car, and all was fine. Though, I realised after a week that it wasn't going to last.
And then Dad died. The RAF flew me back, and I realised I needed someone beside me. Had Andrea had not been such a selfish bitch, I might have even got back with her, but I asked Estelle if she could come down for a few days until the funeral.
She said yes, so on Saturday Mum and I drive from Lowestoft to Leeds and back to pick her up. It was during that trip that Granddad died, alone, in hospital, his mind having gone the past few weeks.
So, we had two funerals to arrange, deaths to register and all that.
And Estelle and I got on well, she was a rock, and somehow we decided that we would buy a house together.
Just like that.
Which is what happened, we bought a little terrace house in Oulton Broad, looked onto the railway to Norwich and between the papershop and Spar. Perfect. I was also surrounded by both branches of my parent's families.
But I didn't realise.
Matthew came down, went to the local school, and all seemed fine.
And all went well until the bank took the first mortgage payment out five weeks later. Eeek.
By then I had returned to Germany to collect my possessions, say goodbye to my friends and the week after went to my new base: RAF Lyneham.
Lyneham is in lovely Wiltshire, set on a hill overlooking a vale along which the Great Western Railway ran, near to Avebury, and Stonehenge half an hour away. I loved it.
I arrived and was given my barrack room, which overlooked the village church, and on Wednesdays the bell ringing pactice used to drown out my music.
It was a fine life there, I worked in small arms, and part of the job was to travel round Dorset and Wltshire, visiting various Air Training Squadrons, maintaining the rifles they had, and putting in an appearance.
On these I travelled with Rog the Dodge, a Sergeant who knew every road, lane and pub in both counties. We would travel down at about four in the afternoon, we would drive to Bournemouth or Wareham or wherever, do our job, then drive back half an hour to a fine village pub where I would have three or four pints of 6X or Flowers, as Rog always drove. Nealry killed us on several occasions, one time, so close to death we laughed like idiots for 5 minutes at our luch in avoiding an accident.
We also looked after a secret station in the Roman flint mines between Chippenham and Box, venture down into the tunnels, through the deserted base built into the mine to the sub-armoury. Trains passing through Box Tunnel would cause a rush or air, showing there was a way to the tracks. The base dated from the war and in places had art deco murals painted in the 30s and 40s. I wish I took photos, but never did. Sadly.
I returned back to the UK at the end of Britpop, the music on the rsdio was wonderful after three years of BFBS radio, though they did well, but it was safe. I would commute backwards and forwards between Wiiltshire and Lowestoft on Friday and Sunday nights, and in the summer it was wonderful, with Euro 96 on as well, so listening to the matches as I drove or sat in traffic jams on the M25, later switching to the radio for dance music or whatever. Then two days at Hall Road with Estelle and Matthew before driving back to Wiltshire, getting back after midnight, ready for work the next morning.
Once summer turned to autumn, and days began to draw in, those long drives took it out of me, and my money could not support family life in Lowestoft and single life on base. I tried to make it work, but I couldn't.
We were to put the house up for sale, and they were to move back to Leeds, though would have to apply for a new house.
It was horrible, and I realised we had nothing in common. I mean, nothing.
And yet, it all got so sad, that somehow I suggested we could get married, they could come down to Wiltshire, we rent the house out, and the finances should be fine.
That was the theory.
But Estelle liked to spend, eat out, and I know know used to make herslef sick afterwards, so we were literally throwing money down the toilet. And if I refused to take us out to eat, she would refuse to eat, and being diabetic, that wasn't clever.
As time went on, I began to see a sad and lonely woman who wanted to me miserable, nothing could ever make her happy, and she could not say what coupld possibly make her happy. She hated the married quarter, hated Swindon, hated Avebury and Stonehenge which were just rocks and more rocks. Salisbury left her cold.
But she did like the huge ASDA/Walmart in Bristol, and liked Cardiff, oddly. So we used to go there or more nearby Trowbridge each Saturday for shopping, or looking round shops. I put up with it as I wanted to make her happy and I liked driving.
We grew to hate each other. I mean much, much worse than with Andrea, and Matthew had behavioural problems too.
And then she had an affair.
Probably.
She was doing a computer course, and met a guy there, name is unimportant, and when she used our PC to practice on, I found a letter from her describing love.
I was sent on detachment to the Falklands in April 1998, came back four months later to find Matthew was out of control, stealing from her purse.
We struggled on for 15 months, and then, out of the blue, I got a promotion course. This meant going back to Cosford, for 11 months to learn the trade in deeper, more technical depth. And at the end there would be a posting.
I could have got a quarter there, but Estelle refused to go, so I went on my own, living in the block with the other single guys and people in my position.
Christmas 1999, and after her refusing to let me come home at the weekend, we had two weeks together for the festive period. Things came to a head on Christmas Day when I said I was going up to the spare room to watch David Copperfield on TV.
Two hours passed and she came up spoling for a fight.
I refused to be baited and I gave her an ultimatum; stop it or else.
Or esle what?
Or else I will leave.
I am not stopping.
I am leaving.
And I packed and drove back to Cosford that night, returning to an empty base to my single room, I listened to Amanda Marshall's first album, and A Few Small repairs on the way, my mood was dark by the time I reached the base.
Back in my room, I fired up the laptop and looked in the days before the internet, I searched for something to read, and found the files she wrote and the one declaring love for this guy on the computer course.
I developed into a cold dark rage, I called the Samaritans, not because I was going to kill myself, but for someone to talk to. It helped, greatly.
Next morning I called Mum and I drove to Suffolk to spend the rest of the holiday and millennium eve with her.
I thought long and hard what to do, I had time.
I transferred our savings, what little there was, into a different account, and went to see a solicitor to begin divorce proceedings.
When I went back to camp, I had to change my mariatal status, and the shit hit the fan. I was called into various officer's offices and had to explain myself, but I stood up for myself, and I saw a way out of the mess, what with graduating from the course, a 50% pay rise and possibly a posting to Norfolk.
Those were hard days, 8 days of the course, homework, bull nights, parades, dealing with solicitors letters and pissing officers off.
I last saw Matthew in May 2000, when I went down to take him his birthday present and take him out for a meal. It was made clear that I was to have no further part in Matthew's life, he said Estelle had told hom he could no longer tell me he loved me or could call me Dad.
Harsh.
I never retaliated, having one wanker for a Dad was bad enough without becoming a second. I took what wa sleft of my possessions: my hi-fi and record collection. Mainly.
And I never went back, or thought much about them.
I allowed some of the benefits I had to help them out, to get free removal to their council flat in Wootton Bassett.
As spring turned to summer, the weight lifted as it became clear that I was going to pass the course, be divorced and posted to RAF Coltishall just north of Norwich.
The morning we were told of our postings, I called the football club and bought a season ticket.
Life was going to be great from now on. I was going to travel. I was going to follow Norwich. I would go to gigs, buy records. I would be happy.
Life was good once again.
The last weekend of the course, I drove to Crewe to see Norwich play out a 0-0 draw, we were yet to score that season. It seemed grim, but next weekend I would be back in Norfolk.
Estelle lived in Hunslet, Leeds, and along with a friend, had written to the Forces Echo requesting a pen pal. I was single, so I thought I would like a pen pal, and so I wrote.
And, let's say Estelle was keen from the off. Which should have warned me, and let me say now that relationships on the rebound was never going to work, but hey, everything is easy in hindsight.
This was the autumn before Dad died, just when I was posted to Bruggen and leading to my divorce, the final Christmas at home with Dad.
In the New Year, I travelled several times on anovernight bus from Germany to Leeds, our base was the last so there was only ever one free seat free, so I would perch on the seat as we drove down to Calais and learned to sleep sitting up, or leaning forward, head on the seat in front.
It was an adventure at first, leaving Germany at five on a Friday and heading to Calais, boarding a midnight ferry, then driving up through Kent, Essex and into Nottinghamshire to Yorkshire. I would arrive in Leeds about mid-morning, and that first time, Estelle met me off the bus, took me back home and we ended up in bed.
Zut alors.
Estelle was divorced from the wifebeater father of her only child, Matthew. They lived in a nice modern two bedroom house, but inside it was a shit tip.
Frankly.
A month or so later I stayed a week and spent the first morning cleaning the bathroom as I felt dirtier leaving than I was on entering.
Estelle was nearly a decade older than me, and had baggage, though hid it well at first. We had fun, travelled round Leeds in a hire car, and all was fine. Though, I realised after a week that it wasn't going to last.
And then Dad died. The RAF flew me back, and I realised I needed someone beside me. Had Andrea had not been such a selfish bitch, I might have even got back with her, but I asked Estelle if she could come down for a few days until the funeral.
She said yes, so on Saturday Mum and I drive from Lowestoft to Leeds and back to pick her up. It was during that trip that Granddad died, alone, in hospital, his mind having gone the past few weeks.
So, we had two funerals to arrange, deaths to register and all that.
And Estelle and I got on well, she was a rock, and somehow we decided that we would buy a house together.
Just like that.
Which is what happened, we bought a little terrace house in Oulton Broad, looked onto the railway to Norwich and between the papershop and Spar. Perfect. I was also surrounded by both branches of my parent's families.
But I didn't realise.
Matthew came down, went to the local school, and all seemed fine.
And all went well until the bank took the first mortgage payment out five weeks later. Eeek.
By then I had returned to Germany to collect my possessions, say goodbye to my friends and the week after went to my new base: RAF Lyneham.
Lyneham is in lovely Wiltshire, set on a hill overlooking a vale along which the Great Western Railway ran, near to Avebury, and Stonehenge half an hour away. I loved it.
I arrived and was given my barrack room, which overlooked the village church, and on Wednesdays the bell ringing pactice used to drown out my music.
It was a fine life there, I worked in small arms, and part of the job was to travel round Dorset and Wltshire, visiting various Air Training Squadrons, maintaining the rifles they had, and putting in an appearance.
On these I travelled with Rog the Dodge, a Sergeant who knew every road, lane and pub in both counties. We would travel down at about four in the afternoon, we would drive to Bournemouth or Wareham or wherever, do our job, then drive back half an hour to a fine village pub where I would have three or four pints of 6X or Flowers, as Rog always drove. Nealry killed us on several occasions, one time, so close to death we laughed like idiots for 5 minutes at our luch in avoiding an accident.
We also looked after a secret station in the Roman flint mines between Chippenham and Box, venture down into the tunnels, through the deserted base built into the mine to the sub-armoury. Trains passing through Box Tunnel would cause a rush or air, showing there was a way to the tracks. The base dated from the war and in places had art deco murals painted in the 30s and 40s. I wish I took photos, but never did. Sadly.
I returned back to the UK at the end of Britpop, the music on the rsdio was wonderful after three years of BFBS radio, though they did well, but it was safe. I would commute backwards and forwards between Wiiltshire and Lowestoft on Friday and Sunday nights, and in the summer it was wonderful, with Euro 96 on as well, so listening to the matches as I drove or sat in traffic jams on the M25, later switching to the radio for dance music or whatever. Then two days at Hall Road with Estelle and Matthew before driving back to Wiltshire, getting back after midnight, ready for work the next morning.
Once summer turned to autumn, and days began to draw in, those long drives took it out of me, and my money could not support family life in Lowestoft and single life on base. I tried to make it work, but I couldn't.
We were to put the house up for sale, and they were to move back to Leeds, though would have to apply for a new house.
It was horrible, and I realised we had nothing in common. I mean, nothing.
And yet, it all got so sad, that somehow I suggested we could get married, they could come down to Wiltshire, we rent the house out, and the finances should be fine.
That was the theory.
But Estelle liked to spend, eat out, and I know know used to make herslef sick afterwards, so we were literally throwing money down the toilet. And if I refused to take us out to eat, she would refuse to eat, and being diabetic, that wasn't clever.
As time went on, I began to see a sad and lonely woman who wanted to me miserable, nothing could ever make her happy, and she could not say what coupld possibly make her happy. She hated the married quarter, hated Swindon, hated Avebury and Stonehenge which were just rocks and more rocks. Salisbury left her cold.
But she did like the huge ASDA/Walmart in Bristol, and liked Cardiff, oddly. So we used to go there or more nearby Trowbridge each Saturday for shopping, or looking round shops. I put up with it as I wanted to make her happy and I liked driving.
We grew to hate each other. I mean much, much worse than with Andrea, and Matthew had behavioural problems too.
And then she had an affair.
Probably.
She was doing a computer course, and met a guy there, name is unimportant, and when she used our PC to practice on, I found a letter from her describing love.
I was sent on detachment to the Falklands in April 1998, came back four months later to find Matthew was out of control, stealing from her purse.
We struggled on for 15 months, and then, out of the blue, I got a promotion course. This meant going back to Cosford, for 11 months to learn the trade in deeper, more technical depth. And at the end there would be a posting.
I could have got a quarter there, but Estelle refused to go, so I went on my own, living in the block with the other single guys and people in my position.
Christmas 1999, and after her refusing to let me come home at the weekend, we had two weeks together for the festive period. Things came to a head on Christmas Day when I said I was going up to the spare room to watch David Copperfield on TV.
Two hours passed and she came up spoling for a fight.
I refused to be baited and I gave her an ultimatum; stop it or else.
Or esle what?
Or else I will leave.
I am not stopping.
I am leaving.
And I packed and drove back to Cosford that night, returning to an empty base to my single room, I listened to Amanda Marshall's first album, and A Few Small repairs on the way, my mood was dark by the time I reached the base.
Back in my room, I fired up the laptop and looked in the days before the internet, I searched for something to read, and found the files she wrote and the one declaring love for this guy on the computer course.
I developed into a cold dark rage, I called the Samaritans, not because I was going to kill myself, but for someone to talk to. It helped, greatly.
Next morning I called Mum and I drove to Suffolk to spend the rest of the holiday and millennium eve with her.
I thought long and hard what to do, I had time.
I transferred our savings, what little there was, into a different account, and went to see a solicitor to begin divorce proceedings.
When I went back to camp, I had to change my mariatal status, and the shit hit the fan. I was called into various officer's offices and had to explain myself, but I stood up for myself, and I saw a way out of the mess, what with graduating from the course, a 50% pay rise and possibly a posting to Norfolk.
Those were hard days, 8 days of the course, homework, bull nights, parades, dealing with solicitors letters and pissing officers off.
I last saw Matthew in May 2000, when I went down to take him his birthday present and take him out for a meal. It was made clear that I was to have no further part in Matthew's life, he said Estelle had told hom he could no longer tell me he loved me or could call me Dad.
Harsh.
I never retaliated, having one wanker for a Dad was bad enough without becoming a second. I took what wa sleft of my possessions: my hi-fi and record collection. Mainly.
And I never went back, or thought much about them.
I allowed some of the benefits I had to help them out, to get free removal to their council flat in Wootton Bassett.
As spring turned to summer, the weight lifted as it became clear that I was going to pass the course, be divorced and posted to RAF Coltishall just north of Norwich.
The morning we were told of our postings, I called the football club and bought a season ticket.
Life was going to be great from now on. I was going to travel. I was going to follow Norwich. I would go to gigs, buy records. I would be happy.
Life was good once again.
The last weekend of the course, I drove to Crewe to see Norwich play out a 0-0 draw, we were yet to score that season. It seemed grim, but next weekend I would be back in Norfolk.
Out of lockdown
At midnight on the 1st December, all of England will exit the lockdown and enter one of three tiers. Kent entered lockdown on the lowest tier and will leave it to the highest. The borough of Swale near Faversham, has the distinction of having the highest infection rate in the country. Ashford and Tanet not far behind.
So all of Kent will be in Tier 3.
The only areas in tier 1, the lowest, will be Cornwall and the Isle of Wight.
It bear repeating that the tier system has already failed. It failed ever since introduced and there is no indication this time it will be different. So far the only was an area has left a tier level is to enter the next highest. Johnson says the current tiers will be changed is once a fortnight upon review. First review will be December 16th.
As I have written before, through the summer and autumn our behaviour has not changed, we have always been careful, and with the exception of me working in Southampton for those three days, we have stayed away from crowds and places where lots of people gather, except to shop.
And the next two weeks will be no different, as it will be over Christmas and into the New Year.
It is worth pointing out that as an island, we have the benfit that many other European countries don't have in enabling quarantines. We also had the experience of China, Italy and Spain in knowing what was coming, the UK had a well thought out response plan, had run a simulation and highlighted gaps that needed addressing.
But then we elected Johnson and his cabal of idiots into power with an 80 seat majority. And 70,000 people died.
Today 18,213 new infections were reported and 695 deaths, even under the Governments manipulated figures, so that 57,031 have died within 28 days of receiving a positive test, while thousands of more have died for the same reason but not meeting that criteria. It needn't be like this.
And all this pain we are going through now with a 27 day lockdown then most of England under the strictest lockdown rules, only to throw it all away for a five day Christmas piss up. Muslims gave up their festivals, as did other religions, but Christmas must be saved even if untild hundreds if not thousands will die in January and February to pay for it.
And the country will be locked down for longer and harder that it has been these last three weeks.
All that and Brexit to look forward to in January. Oh what larks.
So all of Kent will be in Tier 3.
The only areas in tier 1, the lowest, will be Cornwall and the Isle of Wight.
It bear repeating that the tier system has already failed. It failed ever since introduced and there is no indication this time it will be different. So far the only was an area has left a tier level is to enter the next highest. Johnson says the current tiers will be changed is once a fortnight upon review. First review will be December 16th.
As I have written before, through the summer and autumn our behaviour has not changed, we have always been careful, and with the exception of me working in Southampton for those three days, we have stayed away from crowds and places where lots of people gather, except to shop.
And the next two weeks will be no different, as it will be over Christmas and into the New Year.
It is worth pointing out that as an island, we have the benfit that many other European countries don't have in enabling quarantines. We also had the experience of China, Italy and Spain in knowing what was coming, the UK had a well thought out response plan, had run a simulation and highlighted gaps that needed addressing.
But then we elected Johnson and his cabal of idiots into power with an 80 seat majority. And 70,000 people died.
Today 18,213 new infections were reported and 695 deaths, even under the Governments manipulated figures, so that 57,031 have died within 28 days of receiving a positive test, while thousands of more have died for the same reason but not meeting that criteria. It needn't be like this.
And all this pain we are going through now with a 27 day lockdown then most of England under the strictest lockdown rules, only to throw it all away for a five day Christmas piss up. Muslims gave up their festivals, as did other religions, but Christmas must be saved even if untild hundreds if not thousands will die in January and February to pay for it.
And the country will be locked down for longer and harder that it has been these last three weeks.
All that and Brexit to look forward to in January. Oh what larks.
Wednesday 25th November 2020
One week until Christmas.
The year has dragged and flown by.
Also, I can't believe its Wedneday already, chiz, chiz.
And it is theend of November, the year slipping away and the future is uncertain, and in these strange times, it seems that our elected leaders here don't have the country's best interests at heart.
We open two new saving streams, becasue, because.
Being November, it was dark when we got up, dark when we drank coffee, and only getting light near to seven, light not really coming until mid-morning.
And being a Wednesday, it was a day off from the phys, so I spent the extra time in the morning watching a train video from Japan. The train rattled its way out of a city, through farmland, villages, past factories to a narrow vally and out the other side. Took three hours and 40 minutes, watched over three days.
Kept me quiet.
To work, or move to the chair next to me, open the laptop and log in and start.
Not much to report for the day. It was a cold dull day, no wind, but too cold to go out for a walk. I could have put on a thicker coat I suppose. But don't.
Highlight of the day was the delivery of my Christmas beer collection. That came at midday, so I snap the contents for the picture of the day.
Jools went shopping for a few essentials, other than that, not much really to report. She did buy some rolls for lunch, and bags of crisps, so I have jam and salt n vinegar crisps. And was wonderful.
And that was that. I pack up and with it getting dark outside, I prepare dinner: courgette fritters, and I remember to add the seeds into the batter this week.
I fry them all up, so there is a plate full of golden crispy lovliness, which we did in garlic mayo. I make a bottle of tripel vanish too.
And that really is it. I listen to some football, do some writing, the cats fight and Jools does beading.
Phew, rock and roll.
The year has dragged and flown by.
Also, I can't believe its Wedneday already, chiz, chiz.
And it is theend of November, the year slipping away and the future is uncertain, and in these strange times, it seems that our elected leaders here don't have the country's best interests at heart.
We open two new saving streams, becasue, because.
Being November, it was dark when we got up, dark when we drank coffee, and only getting light near to seven, light not really coming until mid-morning.
And being a Wednesday, it was a day off from the phys, so I spent the extra time in the morning watching a train video from Japan. The train rattled its way out of a city, through farmland, villages, past factories to a narrow vally and out the other side. Took three hours and 40 minutes, watched over three days.
Kept me quiet.
To work, or move to the chair next to me, open the laptop and log in and start.
Not much to report for the day. It was a cold dull day, no wind, but too cold to go out for a walk. I could have put on a thicker coat I suppose. But don't.
Highlight of the day was the delivery of my Christmas beer collection. That came at midday, so I snap the contents for the picture of the day.Jools went shopping for a few essentials, other than that, not much really to report. She did buy some rolls for lunch, and bags of crisps, so I have jam and salt n vinegar crisps. And was wonderful.
And that was that. I pack up and with it getting dark outside, I prepare dinner: courgette fritters, and I remember to add the seeds into the batter this week.
I fry them all up, so there is a plate full of golden crispy lovliness, which we did in garlic mayo. I make a bottle of tripel vanish too.
And that really is it. I listen to some football, do some writing, the cats fight and Jools does beading.
Phew, rock and roll.
Ignorance is bliss
Yesterday, the Chancellor made is much vaunted financial statement to the HoC, and failed to mention anything about Brexit.
At all.
Its as though its all in our imagination. If only.
Are the predictions so bad that he can’t even mention them?
They must be grim indeed.
Indeed there is no money for COVID beyond the end of 2021, and warnings, dire warnings of how it is to be repaid.
Government dent, globally, is currently at record low levels, they will be cruel and heartless because its what they want to do.
When asked why he had failed to factor in Brexit, The Chancellor said, and I quote, “I’m an optimistic guy” and is “hopeful” it won’t be too bad.
Any kind of recovery from COVID will be delayed by Brexit, the OBR suggests the point at which output regains pre-COVID levels would be delayed by a year to the end of 2023 for no deal, 12 months longer than with a deal. No deal will reduce GDP by 2% from where it is now. Recession on top of recession.
But the Chancellor is an optimistic guy, so that’s fine.
Meanwhile Mr Barnier has stated he sees no point in travelling to London this week unless the UK moves its red lines. And at the same time some in Government, that’s you Mr Gove, are accusing the EU of being inflexible in applying their rules. It is at the core of what the EU does, apply rules. And such rules are theirs, but also many will be WTO requirements.
We are truly living in a land of make believe, Brexitlalaland where the sun never set on the Empire.
At all.
Its as though its all in our imagination. If only.
Are the predictions so bad that he can’t even mention them?
They must be grim indeed.
Indeed there is no money for COVID beyond the end of 2021, and warnings, dire warnings of how it is to be repaid.
Government dent, globally, is currently at record low levels, they will be cruel and heartless because its what they want to do.
When asked why he had failed to factor in Brexit, The Chancellor said, and I quote, “I’m an optimistic guy” and is “hopeful” it won’t be too bad.
Any kind of recovery from COVID will be delayed by Brexit, the OBR suggests the point at which output regains pre-COVID levels would be delayed by a year to the end of 2023 for no deal, 12 months longer than with a deal. No deal will reduce GDP by 2% from where it is now. Recession on top of recession.
But the Chancellor is an optimistic guy, so that’s fine.
Meanwhile Mr Barnier has stated he sees no point in travelling to London this week unless the UK moves its red lines. And at the same time some in Government, that’s you Mr Gove, are accusing the EU of being inflexible in applying their rules. It is at the core of what the EU does, apply rules. And such rules are theirs, but also many will be WTO requirements.
We are truly living in a land of make believe, Brexitlalaland where the sun never set on the Empire.
Wednesday, 25 November 2020
4820
It was between Christmas and New Year in 1993, once Jools had moved with me into our quarter, that I went to Budapest to meet up with her parents.
Andrea couldn't go due to her status as an illegal alien in Germany, so I went.
We stayed with a family friend in a Soviet era block of flats, overlooked a tram station. Yugoslavia was an hour or two's trvel away, and going through an economic meltdown, but Bela and Priroska wanted the best for their daugher, so I went to collect some gifts and things from the extended family.
We spent the days wandering the frozen streets, trying to spend as little money as possible, as the benefits from being posted to Germany had yet to reach my pay packet. They did treat me to a different ultra sweet but lovely Hungarian cake in a different cafe each day. I spoke no Yogoslavian or Hungarian, they spoke both. They spoke no English, but could understand much, and I could speak some German, so me made ourselves understood.
For new year we caught an early train to the eastern side of the country to Debrecen, to stay with more family fiends and to celebrate New Year. I wish I had more shots of those days, but I ran out of film before we took the train, so have no evidence of being collected from the station in a Trabant, nor the confusing night in an Hungarian bingo hall, as due to Russia having left the country, such fun was now allowed.
I did not win.
I mention this because at one point, Piroska asked me why I loved Andrea. My Dad would have had an expression for it, and did, but I replied that she had captured my heart and made me so happy. Those days when we were living together in Germany and lining our nest, it seemed all we had dreamed of.
But dreams go sour, and we did not live happly ever after. In the summer of 1994, her two cousins from Debrecen came to stay and she wasn't kind to them, and ripped them off in a situation I won't repeat now, but I saw her in a new light. It came to pass I began to realise that I did not like the person I had married.
That is quite a thing.
She was controlling, and the more you gave in, the worse it was.
We struggled on, even went to counselling at one point, but to her it was a game. She admitted to saying what she though the counsellor wanted to hear.
It was crushing.
Then, May Day 1994, not a holiday in German, she ssaid she was going to clal my commanding officer to tell him I had to treat her better. Whether she meant it or not, I don't know.
I had to inform him such a call might be coming. He sat me down and made me tell him all what was happening. He recommended that I move out of the house for a while, to give us space.
I did within the hour.
And I knew that moment I could never go back. The depth of my unhappiness became clear to me. Thatw as quite a thing.
We were to spend Saturdays together, speding quality time going to museums, parks and so on.
The seriousness of the situation still had not sunk in to her. All her talk of when I would move back so I could speak to her parents as they suspected something.
Then one day as we travelled to Venlo by car, she realised after I dodged the question of returning for the thousandth time.
"You're not coming back, are you?"
No. I'm not.
And that was that.
Against the wishes of my superior officers I began divorce procedings, and so Andrea accused me of all sorts of things. I had a key to the house, as I had all my possessions there, but I had to hand it back, but the lies carried on. And so I was sent to another base nearby, and hour away, RAF Bruggen.
All through this the divorce progressed, and over Christmas/New Year 10995, the divorce became absolute.
I forced my posting back to Laarbruch to be back with my friends, as I would not let my ex-wife control my career. My commanding officer took this badly, and killed my career. Which was nice.
I was posted back, and for a few months I lead a fine life with my fellow divorcees, travelling round, drinking, buying records and living it up.
I used to see Andrea round base, as she could not be evicted or deported, as they didn't know whether to use UK or German laws, as no ex-wife had ever refused to move out after a divorce. She ended up with a new lover, they became a couple, married and had a family.
I hope she has found happiness, but as she tried to get with me through my friend James in about 2004, I don't think so.
And then, that April evening, I saw Andrea walking past the barrack block for the last time, a while later the two officers were at my door, knocking to tell me that Dad had died.
Andrea couldn't go due to her status as an illegal alien in Germany, so I went.
We stayed with a family friend in a Soviet era block of flats, overlooked a tram station. Yugoslavia was an hour or two's trvel away, and going through an economic meltdown, but Bela and Priroska wanted the best for their daugher, so I went to collect some gifts and things from the extended family.
We spent the days wandering the frozen streets, trying to spend as little money as possible, as the benefits from being posted to Germany had yet to reach my pay packet. They did treat me to a different ultra sweet but lovely Hungarian cake in a different cafe each day. I spoke no Yogoslavian or Hungarian, they spoke both. They spoke no English, but could understand much, and I could speak some German, so me made ourselves understood.
For new year we caught an early train to the eastern side of the country to Debrecen, to stay with more family fiends and to celebrate New Year. I wish I had more shots of those days, but I ran out of film before we took the train, so have no evidence of being collected from the station in a Trabant, nor the confusing night in an Hungarian bingo hall, as due to Russia having left the country, such fun was now allowed.
I did not win.I mention this because at one point, Piroska asked me why I loved Andrea. My Dad would have had an expression for it, and did, but I replied that she had captured my heart and made me so happy. Those days when we were living together in Germany and lining our nest, it seemed all we had dreamed of.
But dreams go sour, and we did not live happly ever after. In the summer of 1994, her two cousins from Debrecen came to stay and she wasn't kind to them, and ripped them off in a situation I won't repeat now, but I saw her in a new light. It came to pass I began to realise that I did not like the person I had married.
That is quite a thing.
She was controlling, and the more you gave in, the worse it was.
We struggled on, even went to counselling at one point, but to her it was a game. She admitted to saying what she though the counsellor wanted to hear.
It was crushing.
Then, May Day 1994, not a holiday in German, she ssaid she was going to clal my commanding officer to tell him I had to treat her better. Whether she meant it or not, I don't know.
I had to inform him such a call might be coming. He sat me down and made me tell him all what was happening. He recommended that I move out of the house for a while, to give us space.
I did within the hour.
And I knew that moment I could never go back. The depth of my unhappiness became clear to me. Thatw as quite a thing.
We were to spend Saturdays together, speding quality time going to museums, parks and so on.
The seriousness of the situation still had not sunk in to her. All her talk of when I would move back so I could speak to her parents as they suspected something.
Then one day as we travelled to Venlo by car, she realised after I dodged the question of returning for the thousandth time.
"You're not coming back, are you?"
No. I'm not.
And that was that.
Against the wishes of my superior officers I began divorce procedings, and so Andrea accused me of all sorts of things. I had a key to the house, as I had all my possessions there, but I had to hand it back, but the lies carried on. And so I was sent to another base nearby, and hour away, RAF Bruggen.
All through this the divorce progressed, and over Christmas/New Year 10995, the divorce became absolute.
I forced my posting back to Laarbruch to be back with my friends, as I would not let my ex-wife control my career. My commanding officer took this badly, and killed my career. Which was nice.I was posted back, and for a few months I lead a fine life with my fellow divorcees, travelling round, drinking, buying records and living it up.
I used to see Andrea round base, as she could not be evicted or deported, as they didn't know whether to use UK or German laws, as no ex-wife had ever refused to move out after a divorce. She ended up with a new lover, they became a couple, married and had a family.I hope she has found happiness, but as she tried to get with me through my friend James in about 2004, I don't think so.
And then, that April evening, I saw Andrea walking past the barrack block for the last time, a while later the two officers were at my door, knocking to tell me that Dad had died.
Hard power v soft power
Between February and July 2020. the UK Government spent £12.5 billion on 32 billion items of PPE.
THe usual market price for this amount of PPE would have been £2.5 billion. Meaning the UK paid an average of five times the market value for PPE from mostly sources of their friends and backers.
There is so much PPE that the UK have purchased 36 years of it that has a shelf life of just 3 years.
There is so much PPE arriving on these shores, that the port of Felixstowe is being jammed, and so over a thousand freight containers are being moved out to be stored on former airfields across East Anglia, where the multi-coloured stacks rise over hedgerows and ploughed fields.
THere are so many containers, no one can chack them to see if they contain what the UK has bought, or if any of it is any good.
The UK paid all its bills for these.
I mention this as today the Chancellor announced that the overseas aid budget wuld be cut from 0.7% to 0.5% of GDP so that Government could look after our own.
Their own starving children who for over two weeks Ministers and the PM refused to fund meals for the poorest hungry children over Christmas.
Conservatives will think nothing of spending tax-payers money on goods and services from their corporate backers and friends, but support blue collar workers or the poorest and sickest in society? We have to balance the books is the answer.
A 100,000 children will die as a result of the funding cuts according to Save the Children.
Such spending is cut because Conservatives want to be cruel, its what they do. Fund bailouts for corporations and multinationals, but help blue collar workers pay their bills and stop them being evicted? Oh no, there's no money.
Johnson and his Government are choosing to spend money on the military rather than on humanitarian aid, choosing hard power over soft power. It panders to their gammon faced xenophobic support base and polls well. Apparently those who support aid won't vote Conservative, so feed their base red meat.
THe usual market price for this amount of PPE would have been £2.5 billion. Meaning the UK paid an average of five times the market value for PPE from mostly sources of their friends and backers.
There is so much PPE that the UK have purchased 36 years of it that has a shelf life of just 3 years.
There is so much PPE arriving on these shores, that the port of Felixstowe is being jammed, and so over a thousand freight containers are being moved out to be stored on former airfields across East Anglia, where the multi-coloured stacks rise over hedgerows and ploughed fields.
THere are so many containers, no one can chack them to see if they contain what the UK has bought, or if any of it is any good.
The UK paid all its bills for these.
I mention this as today the Chancellor announced that the overseas aid budget wuld be cut from 0.7% to 0.5% of GDP so that Government could look after our own.
Their own starving children who for over two weeks Ministers and the PM refused to fund meals for the poorest hungry children over Christmas.
Conservatives will think nothing of spending tax-payers money on goods and services from their corporate backers and friends, but support blue collar workers or the poorest and sickest in society? We have to balance the books is the answer.
A 100,000 children will die as a result of the funding cuts according to Save the Children.
Such spending is cut because Conservatives want to be cruel, its what they do. Fund bailouts for corporations and multinationals, but help blue collar workers pay their bills and stop them being evicted? Oh no, there's no money.
Johnson and his Government are choosing to spend money on the military rather than on humanitarian aid, choosing hard power over soft power. It panders to their gammon faced xenophobic support base and polls well. Apparently those who support aid won't vote Conservative, so feed their base red meat.
Tuesday 24th November 2020
Is it the weekend yet?
Apparently no.
It is Jools' last day of work for the week, so the alarm goes off at five and soon she is up and about, feeding the cats and so on. I lay in bed until I can smeel the coffee brewing.
Let's do it!
Jools was going to leave for work early, to have a long walk, as Monday as she took poppy seed and orange cakes with added cheese straws to work so she could celebrate with her colleagues, she had too much stuff to carry, so drove straight to work.
Which meant as soon as I had drunk my offee I go upstairs to do my session on the cross trainer. It clanks, judders and rattles, but I dismiss thoughts of it breaking and throwing me across the bedroom and press on.
I do the session, go outside to cool off before the cool morning air forces me back inside to make breakfast and more coffee.
Work is work, as ever. You set out forst thring with all intentions to change the world, but the reality of sloth and ignorance means you get diverted and saps your very life force.
Typical Tuesday, then.
Outside the clouds at sunrise never really thinned, and it was so cold. A strong breeze blew from the south, but it had an edge to it, and so I banished all thoughts of going out walking out of my head.
I do go out to wander round the garden later, looking for shoots of new growth, see the bulbs near the wildlife pond had gown a little, other than that, not much.
I make scrambled egg and bacon lardons open sandwich for lunch. Man, that was filling, my mind goes into hibernation after eating.
But i have to go back to work, but it is a quiet day. With the end of the year approaching, and most activities closed out, and planning for next year half on hold due to the takeover, and then there is COVID, our desks are less busy than in some years.
I listen to podcasts while I monitor my inbox and Skype.
Nothing happens.
At three I go to do another session on the cross trainer, and survive. I have a shower and get dressed, while outside it was already getting dark.
Dinner was simple, just the cottage pie I made a couple of weeks back, defrosted, more grated cheese added on top and cooked for nearly an hour to make the top extra crispy, served with lashings of baked beans.
We eat well, and a little too much, but no point keeping half a meal, so we clear our plates.
Norwich were playing on a wet Tuesday evening in Stoke, and got it done, winning 3-2 after leading 3-0 and all was going well until Emi got sent off and we conceeded two while holding on, so remaining top of the league.
And that was that, really. The day done, everyone happy.
Apparently no.
It is Jools' last day of work for the week, so the alarm goes off at five and soon she is up and about, feeding the cats and so on. I lay in bed until I can smeel the coffee brewing.
Let's do it!
Jools was going to leave for work early, to have a long walk, as Monday as she took poppy seed and orange cakes with added cheese straws to work so she could celebrate with her colleagues, she had too much stuff to carry, so drove straight to work.
Which meant as soon as I had drunk my offee I go upstairs to do my session on the cross trainer. It clanks, judders and rattles, but I dismiss thoughts of it breaking and throwing me across the bedroom and press on.
I do the session, go outside to cool off before the cool morning air forces me back inside to make breakfast and more coffee.
Work is work, as ever. You set out forst thring with all intentions to change the world, but the reality of sloth and ignorance means you get diverted and saps your very life force.
Typical Tuesday, then.
Outside the clouds at sunrise never really thinned, and it was so cold. A strong breeze blew from the south, but it had an edge to it, and so I banished all thoughts of going out walking out of my head.
I do go out to wander round the garden later, looking for shoots of new growth, see the bulbs near the wildlife pond had gown a little, other than that, not much.
I make scrambled egg and bacon lardons open sandwich for lunch. Man, that was filling, my mind goes into hibernation after eating.But i have to go back to work, but it is a quiet day. With the end of the year approaching, and most activities closed out, and planning for next year half on hold due to the takeover, and then there is COVID, our desks are less busy than in some years.
I listen to podcasts while I monitor my inbox and Skype.Nothing happens.
At three I go to do another session on the cross trainer, and survive. I have a shower and get dressed, while outside it was already getting dark.
Dinner was simple, just the cottage pie I made a couple of weeks back, defrosted, more grated cheese added on top and cooked for nearly an hour to make the top extra crispy, served with lashings of baked beans.
We eat well, and a little too much, but no point keeping half a meal, so we clear our plates.
Norwich were playing on a wet Tuesday evening in Stoke, and got it done, winning 3-2 after leading 3-0 and all was going well until Emi got sent off and we conceeded two while holding on, so remaining top of the league.
And that was that, really. The day done, everyone happy.
Jam yesterday, jam tomorrow.
As I wrote last night, yesterday the French authorities ran a trial of their immigration checks at Dover and at the Tunnel.
It was a bit more than that, as finctional tests were carried out last year, staff recruited and trained, software rolled out and what we saw yesterday was operational testing.
For the UK to get to the same point would require us to do over a year's work in under six weeks, when the system is going live and has to work to enable a single truck to board a ferry or a shuttle train.
When I say system, I mean systems. And these all have to dovetail into EU systems to prove compliance with SM and CU and other requirements.
When Johnson claims the UK is ready, this is the reality.
Not ready, not even beginning to get ready.
The UK can waive requirements on goods incoming to the UK, but that would only help French, Belgian and Dutch ports and operators. Not our own, which would leave miles of waiting trucks stacking up back to London along the M20 and M26.
Meanwhile, an "officially sensitive" document published and shared with all Government agencies, but leaked to the Guardian yesterday warned of “systemic economic crisis” in January 2021: “Winter 2020 could see a combination of severe flooding, pandemic influenza, a novel emerging infectious disease and coordinated industrial action, against a backdrop of the end of the [Brexit] transition period,”
And remember, the jam yesterday was only for checking passports, not freight documentation as that is not required yet. But will be in January deal or no deal, and that would be for each consignment on each truck. One halier has said, on average, they carry 300 consignements per truck, and hundreds of trucks per week. The amount of paperwork needed to continue to trade is going to be huge. And yet this is a consequence of leaving the SM and CU.
Experts warned. Brexiteers claimed it was more "project fear". Who do you think is right?
And remember, the decision to leave the SM and CU was the UK's, all of this could be avoided with just a political Brexit, by May decided over three years ago that's what Brexit meant, and that in doing so would create a regulatory border. Preparations should have begun then, if they had, the UK might have been ready.
But May and then Johnson refused to admit that a border was needed, everything would remain frictionless, even when trade experts said this wan't true.
So when the jams really start, as will the shortages, we will know where to lay the blame for the lack of preparations, and it won't be business.
It was a bit more than that, as finctional tests were carried out last year, staff recruited and trained, software rolled out and what we saw yesterday was operational testing.
For the UK to get to the same point would require us to do over a year's work in under six weeks, when the system is going live and has to work to enable a single truck to board a ferry or a shuttle train.
When I say system, I mean systems. And these all have to dovetail into EU systems to prove compliance with SM and CU and other requirements.
When Johnson claims the UK is ready, this is the reality.
Not ready, not even beginning to get ready.
The UK can waive requirements on goods incoming to the UK, but that would only help French, Belgian and Dutch ports and operators. Not our own, which would leave miles of waiting trucks stacking up back to London along the M20 and M26.
Meanwhile, an "officially sensitive" document published and shared with all Government agencies, but leaked to the Guardian yesterday warned of “systemic economic crisis” in January 2021: “Winter 2020 could see a combination of severe flooding, pandemic influenza, a novel emerging infectious disease and coordinated industrial action, against a backdrop of the end of the [Brexit] transition period,”
And remember, the jam yesterday was only for checking passports, not freight documentation as that is not required yet. But will be in January deal or no deal, and that would be for each consignment on each truck. One halier has said, on average, they carry 300 consignements per truck, and hundreds of trucks per week. The amount of paperwork needed to continue to trade is going to be huge. And yet this is a consequence of leaving the SM and CU.
Experts warned. Brexiteers claimed it was more "project fear". Who do you think is right?
And remember, the decision to leave the SM and CU was the UK's, all of this could be avoided with just a political Brexit, by May decided over three years ago that's what Brexit meant, and that in doing so would create a regulatory border. Preparations should have begun then, if they had, the UK might have been ready.
But May and then Johnson refused to admit that a border was needed, everything would remain frictionless, even when trade experts said this wan't true.
So when the jams really start, as will the shortages, we will know where to lay the blame for the lack of preparations, and it won't be business.
Tuesday, 24 November 2020
Practice jam
Today, French officials tested new immigration systems at the Channel Tunnel. The test lasted eight hours and created a tailback of 5 miles.
This is to be the new normal come January.
Then, there should be more officials on duty, but on top of those passport checks, there will have to carry out checks to be in compliance with SM and CU rules will also have to take place.
Todays extra checks took approx 70 seconds. Previous research indication 80 seconds per vehicle would result in 70 mile james, and 90 seconds would create nationwide gridlock.
So, that's something extra to look forward to when we are enjoying the post Christmas lockdown.
Marvelous.
Still no news on a trade deal with the EU, but there is talk of draft legislation being done in Westminster for domestic law to be raised.
Tomorrow, the Chancellor will announce his spending review. It will contain, I am lead to believe, not a sausage about Brexit and its impacts, just COVID. There will be £29 million for a festival of Brexit, more than the Government did not want to spend on starving schoolchildren over Christmas. But, you know, prioroties and all that.
Brexit is coming, it will be worse than most can imagine.
But Happy New Year. When it comes.
This is to be the new normal come January.
Then, there should be more officials on duty, but on top of those passport checks, there will have to carry out checks to be in compliance with SM and CU rules will also have to take place.
Todays extra checks took approx 70 seconds. Previous research indication 80 seconds per vehicle would result in 70 mile james, and 90 seconds would create nationwide gridlock.
So, that's something extra to look forward to when we are enjoying the post Christmas lockdown.
Marvelous.
Still no news on a trade deal with the EU, but there is talk of draft legislation being done in Westminster for domestic law to be raised.
Tomorrow, the Chancellor will announce his spending review. It will contain, I am lead to believe, not a sausage about Brexit and its impacts, just COVID. There will be £29 million for a festival of Brexit, more than the Government did not want to spend on starving schoolchildren over Christmas. But, you know, prioroties and all that.
Brexit is coming, it will be worse than most can imagine.
But Happy New Year. When it comes.
4815
RAF Germany
(RAFG)
Once you had done the exciting stuff in basic training and then the dull, but sometimes interesting stuff in trade training, you got posted to that much fabled "real" Air Force.
For us all out of training was a heck of an experience, as we were the greenest of the green, and ripe for bulying. The RAF wasn't as bad as some, but at beer calls, it could get nasty, and one time a guy nearly died.
But I digress.
All the way through, each yer at your annual assessment you would be asked where you would like to be posted, and in theory, the RAF would try to get you where you wanted. There were two areas with a lot of bases: Norfolka nd Scotland, the rest were rarer. From trade training I requested and got RAF Marham, in west Norfolk, as my first posting, working in the bomb dump.
My friend Paul and I were posted together off our course to the bomb dump, he worked on receipts and I worked in the "Outer". The Outer was the remote part of the dump, filled with bombs and components, that we had to maintain so when the call came, they would work.
My days and weeks and months were filled with either painting the iron 1000l bombs, or doing cluster bomb servicing. I know what they do, and believe you me I don't approve of them either and am glad that they are now banned.
Anyway.
I lived on base, at first in a shared room, then moved onto a fomrer married quarter with two of my friends from work, as our SNCO ran these houses, he got us to the top of the waiting list. So I shared the house with Dave and Martin, we were good friends, through Martin would steal your food and drink out of the fridge if you were stupid enough to leave it in there over the weekend.
Once a month we made a half hearted attempt to clean it, our SNCO came to inspect it, never made much of an issue, and we carried on with our low pressure work in the dump.
Work was done, but we did other stuff too.
We were bored.
One was HMS Bodge, a model of a battleship we floated on one of the emergency water supply (EWS) tanks. It took us two weeks to built it, paint it and made it watertight. We used loads of stuff from stores. We then filled it with MEK and set light to it, it went up like a roman candle.
Another time we found there was a model shop in Kings Lynn, the nearby only big town, and they sold rocket motors. Rather than buy a kit, we bought the motors and built our own Apollo program, launched from one of the bomb bays, justing missing the final approach flightpath for the station's jets.
Not even the aprt state being increased stopped us from launching, had we been seen letting off explosives in a bomb dump there would have been hell to pay, or one of the rockets, Bodge 1 to 5 hitting a jet or worse.
We made a kite out of tarpaulins and scaffolding poles, and we tried to fly it in a storm. We each had a rope at each corner, and once in the air the kite dragged us from one end of the dump to the other.
That was fun.
In the evenings there was one of the two village pubs down the hill, or the Family's Cumb just outside the base fence, where we could go and ruin our health.
Which we did.
Often.
I had my 26th birthday there, and my drinks, snakebite, were made with Special Brew and Scrumpy laced with double vodkas.
I woke up the next morning in my bed with a hangver you won't believe. Or maybe you do?
Postings came round every three to five years, but you could request a posting, to RAF German and this would come through in about a year.
Life at Marham was OK, but we were poor. By August 1992 I was married and living in quaters with my first wife.
Don't ask.
But she was not British, she was from Yugoslavia, so could not work, meaning we had to survive on my poor wages. We survived, but only just. A posting to Germany would mean the same wages, but you got additional pay, Local Overseas Allowance (LOA) subsidised heating, rations and cheap food and booze.
My wife should also be able to work.
I applied and by July 1993 it came through.
My then best friend was at the same base, RAF Laarbruch, so it would be a jolly fine old time.
There was one cloud on the horizon: there was a great shortage of married quarters, and there would be a wait until your family could join you.
So, the day came, I had a ticket on a plane that flew into a different base, a coach would take us to our new posting, and rooms allocated once we got there.
I remeber the journey to Luton Airport, the only time I flew from there, everything looked so dirty and dull, it was raining. When we landed in Dusseldorf, the sun was shining, there was no litter, everyting neat and tidy. We drove along autobahns with Mercs and Beamers hammering by at 3 million miles per hour...
This wasn't Norfolk.
At work there were some folks we knew, many we didn't. I was in a 12 man room with a load of cooks, who took us out several nights a week to their bar where we could get drunk of 5DM, or two quid.
Each Tuesday the waiting list for quarters was published, and you would look for your name. Placings depended on rank, time served, whether you had children or had served unacompanied before. All this meant that for us with a year or two's service, we might not move up the list in a week, sometimes our name would go down. And all those waiting would then have to phone their wives and families back home to relay the bad news.
All the time, my wife would be in our old quarter at Marham, waiting for me to get one in Germany.
After four months my name had risen just 40 places, and had 80 to go.
It seemed that I would never reach the top and we would live in different countries for the three years of my posting.
I returned for a long weekend in October, thinking this is how it would be for years; an overnight ferry on a Thursday night, two days at home before travelling back on Sunday to be at work on Monday.
Work was fine though, if anything, even easier than at Marham.
For the first four months we did little work, played cards most of the day, changing games at ten for tea break and the arrival of the Mally Wagon where we would buy a slice of cake or a sausage or bacon butty.
Then one day it was announced that the base had taken on a block of Army barracks in Duisburg, dozens were allocated. Next week I was up to 16th, and a week later was allocated a one bedroom house on base, where most people lived in the nearby local town of Weeze in an anrea called Little City.
Andrea was Yugoslavian, and had a visa to stay in the UK, but had no right to live in Germany, or even travel. So in order to get her through immigration, I went back to Norfolk to collect her, so we could travel back on the train/ferry/train.
The start of a new life, one filled with possibilities. Maybe we could get all the things we thought we needed, that we thought would stop us arguing.
If only.
We travelled on Wednesday, 17th November 1993. I know this as England were playing San Morino that night for a place in the 1994 World Cup in the USA, if Holland lost their game.
We travelled to Harwich by train, caught the night ferry while our possessions travelled over in a removal lorry that the RAF paid for.
The next morning we left the ferry, and I showed by passport; no issue. Andrea showed hers, she had no visa, they should not have let her enter. They knew we were going to Germany, and we in violation of some law, but saw my RAF ID and let us through, but she would have to register at the local aulanderampt, immigration office.
We had a week to wait for our quarter to become available, so we stayed with my friend and his wife. James and I got on fine, we had been at the chicken factory together, had the same interests and humour. I thought Andera and his wife were friends too. But it became clear that under the same roof there was going to be trouble.
We used to go out in the evenings, one time watching Norwich lay AC Milan in the Little City grill, before walking back to their flat and its frosty atmosphere.
We got through it, and come the day moved into the house, or possessions, mainly my records and hifi, arrived. The house might have only had one bedroom, but had an attic and cellar, so lots of room and had high ceilings.
We were able to save and buy the things we thought we needed: an oak bed, a sofa and chair, a multi-region video player, as we could go to a nearby US base and buy videos before they were in the cinema on base. We also bought a car.
Back at Marham, we had a T reg Skoda Estelle, which got us around, though was a skip on wheels. We could go to Tesco once a week and shop, sometimes go further afield, but it was unreliable, and sometimes stood for weeks as I saved to buy a part to fix it.
So, buying an 18 month old Golf was luxury. I bought it from an officer on base for less than five thousand pounds, with a loan from the local banks, though my boss had to sign it off so he could lecture me on being financially responsible.
Oh, those were the days.
So, we were mobile too, we could go to the supermarket in Emmerich, or into Hooland down to Venlo to the shop there, which had an Ikea next door. We could also buy tax free furniture, which we did and in a year our house was full of fine new furniture, all paid for as she had a job cleaning in one of the on-base schools.
We had everything we wanted, so we lived happily ever after?
Sadly not. We argued all the time, never resolving issues, so they would explode agan days or weeks later.
On top of that, she hated that everything had to be in my name, as the working Airman. Nothing in her name at all, like she didn't matter. I understood.
But things got worse and worse.
And in little more than two years later we split up, I moved back into the block with all the other single and divorced guys, partied every night and generally ruined my health.
Once I left Andrea, a few other married guys left their partners too, and so three of us, Benny, Lee and myself, along with a single guy, Dave, we went out each weekend in one of our cars, had a meal out and then went drinking.
Those were the salad days. Easy weeks at work, then weekends filled with booze, culture, travel and friendship. Sunday mornings one of us would go to the NAAFI to buy the Sunday Times and we would sit in my room, reading, listening to music and drinking fresh coffee.
My tour was going to end after three years, but came crashing to an end four months early as one evening in April 1996, two officers stood at my door to tell me that Dad had died that evening.
Everything changed at that point.
(RAFG)
Once you had done the exciting stuff in basic training and then the dull, but sometimes interesting stuff in trade training, you got posted to that much fabled "real" Air Force.
For us all out of training was a heck of an experience, as we were the greenest of the green, and ripe for bulying. The RAF wasn't as bad as some, but at beer calls, it could get nasty, and one time a guy nearly died.
But I digress.
All the way through, each yer at your annual assessment you would be asked where you would like to be posted, and in theory, the RAF would try to get you where you wanted. There were two areas with a lot of bases: Norfolka nd Scotland, the rest were rarer. From trade training I requested and got RAF Marham, in west Norfolk, as my first posting, working in the bomb dump.
My friend Paul and I were posted together off our course to the bomb dump, he worked on receipts and I worked in the "Outer". The Outer was the remote part of the dump, filled with bombs and components, that we had to maintain so when the call came, they would work.
My days and weeks and months were filled with either painting the iron 1000l bombs, or doing cluster bomb servicing. I know what they do, and believe you me I don't approve of them either and am glad that they are now banned.
Anyway.
I lived on base, at first in a shared room, then moved onto a fomrer married quarter with two of my friends from work, as our SNCO ran these houses, he got us to the top of the waiting list. So I shared the house with Dave and Martin, we were good friends, through Martin would steal your food and drink out of the fridge if you were stupid enough to leave it in there over the weekend.
Once a month we made a half hearted attempt to clean it, our SNCO came to inspect it, never made much of an issue, and we carried on with our low pressure work in the dump.
Work was done, but we did other stuff too.
We were bored.
One was HMS Bodge, a model of a battleship we floated on one of the emergency water supply (EWS) tanks. It took us two weeks to built it, paint it and made it watertight. We used loads of stuff from stores. We then filled it with MEK and set light to it, it went up like a roman candle.
Another time we found there was a model shop in Kings Lynn, the nearby only big town, and they sold rocket motors. Rather than buy a kit, we bought the motors and built our own Apollo program, launched from one of the bomb bays, justing missing the final approach flightpath for the station's jets.
Not even the aprt state being increased stopped us from launching, had we been seen letting off explosives in a bomb dump there would have been hell to pay, or one of the rockets, Bodge 1 to 5 hitting a jet or worse.
We made a kite out of tarpaulins and scaffolding poles, and we tried to fly it in a storm. We each had a rope at each corner, and once in the air the kite dragged us from one end of the dump to the other.
That was fun.
In the evenings there was one of the two village pubs down the hill, or the Family's Cumb just outside the base fence, where we could go and ruin our health.
Which we did.
Often.
I had my 26th birthday there, and my drinks, snakebite, were made with Special Brew and Scrumpy laced with double vodkas.
I woke up the next morning in my bed with a hangver you won't believe. Or maybe you do?
Postings came round every three to five years, but you could request a posting, to RAF German and this would come through in about a year.
Life at Marham was OK, but we were poor. By August 1992 I was married and living in quaters with my first wife.
Don't ask.
But she was not British, she was from Yugoslavia, so could not work, meaning we had to survive on my poor wages. We survived, but only just. A posting to Germany would mean the same wages, but you got additional pay, Local Overseas Allowance (LOA) subsidised heating, rations and cheap food and booze.
My wife should also be able to work.
I applied and by July 1993 it came through.
My then best friend was at the same base, RAF Laarbruch, so it would be a jolly fine old time.
There was one cloud on the horizon: there was a great shortage of married quarters, and there would be a wait until your family could join you.
So, the day came, I had a ticket on a plane that flew into a different base, a coach would take us to our new posting, and rooms allocated once we got there.
I remeber the journey to Luton Airport, the only time I flew from there, everything looked so dirty and dull, it was raining. When we landed in Dusseldorf, the sun was shining, there was no litter, everyting neat and tidy. We drove along autobahns with Mercs and Beamers hammering by at 3 million miles per hour...
This wasn't Norfolk.
At work there were some folks we knew, many we didn't. I was in a 12 man room with a load of cooks, who took us out several nights a week to their bar where we could get drunk of 5DM, or two quid.
Each Tuesday the waiting list for quarters was published, and you would look for your name. Placings depended on rank, time served, whether you had children or had served unacompanied before. All this meant that for us with a year or two's service, we might not move up the list in a week, sometimes our name would go down. And all those waiting would then have to phone their wives and families back home to relay the bad news.
All the time, my wife would be in our old quarter at Marham, waiting for me to get one in Germany.
After four months my name had risen just 40 places, and had 80 to go.
It seemed that I would never reach the top and we would live in different countries for the three years of my posting.
I returned for a long weekend in October, thinking this is how it would be for years; an overnight ferry on a Thursday night, two days at home before travelling back on Sunday to be at work on Monday.
Work was fine though, if anything, even easier than at Marham.
For the first four months we did little work, played cards most of the day, changing games at ten for tea break and the arrival of the Mally Wagon where we would buy a slice of cake or a sausage or bacon butty.
Then one day it was announced that the base had taken on a block of Army barracks in Duisburg, dozens were allocated. Next week I was up to 16th, and a week later was allocated a one bedroom house on base, where most people lived in the nearby local town of Weeze in an anrea called Little City.
Andrea was Yugoslavian, and had a visa to stay in the UK, but had no right to live in Germany, or even travel. So in order to get her through immigration, I went back to Norfolk to collect her, so we could travel back on the train/ferry/train.
The start of a new life, one filled with possibilities. Maybe we could get all the things we thought we needed, that we thought would stop us arguing.
If only.
We travelled on Wednesday, 17th November 1993. I know this as England were playing San Morino that night for a place in the 1994 World Cup in the USA, if Holland lost their game.
We travelled to Harwich by train, caught the night ferry while our possessions travelled over in a removal lorry that the RAF paid for.
The next morning we left the ferry, and I showed by passport; no issue. Andrea showed hers, she had no visa, they should not have let her enter. They knew we were going to Germany, and we in violation of some law, but saw my RAF ID and let us through, but she would have to register at the local aulanderampt, immigration office.
We had a week to wait for our quarter to become available, so we stayed with my friend and his wife. James and I got on fine, we had been at the chicken factory together, had the same interests and humour. I thought Andera and his wife were friends too. But it became clear that under the same roof there was going to be trouble.
We used to go out in the evenings, one time watching Norwich lay AC Milan in the Little City grill, before walking back to their flat and its frosty atmosphere.
We got through it, and come the day moved into the house, or possessions, mainly my records and hifi, arrived. The house might have only had one bedroom, but had an attic and cellar, so lots of room and had high ceilings.
We were able to save and buy the things we thought we needed: an oak bed, a sofa and chair, a multi-region video player, as we could go to a nearby US base and buy videos before they were in the cinema on base. We also bought a car.
Back at Marham, we had a T reg Skoda Estelle, which got us around, though was a skip on wheels. We could go to Tesco once a week and shop, sometimes go further afield, but it was unreliable, and sometimes stood for weeks as I saved to buy a part to fix it.
So, buying an 18 month old Golf was luxury. I bought it from an officer on base for less than five thousand pounds, with a loan from the local banks, though my boss had to sign it off so he could lecture me on being financially responsible.
Oh, those were the days.
So, we were mobile too, we could go to the supermarket in Emmerich, or into Hooland down to Venlo to the shop there, which had an Ikea next door. We could also buy tax free furniture, which we did and in a year our house was full of fine new furniture, all paid for as she had a job cleaning in one of the on-base schools.
We had everything we wanted, so we lived happily ever after?
Sadly not. We argued all the time, never resolving issues, so they would explode agan days or weeks later.
On top of that, she hated that everything had to be in my name, as the working Airman. Nothing in her name at all, like she didn't matter. I understood.
But things got worse and worse.
And in little more than two years later we split up, I moved back into the block with all the other single and divorced guys, partied every night and generally ruined my health.
Once I left Andrea, a few other married guys left their partners too, and so three of us, Benny, Lee and myself, along with a single guy, Dave, we went out each weekend in one of our cars, had a meal out and then went drinking.
Those were the salad days. Easy weeks at work, then weekends filled with booze, culture, travel and friendship. Sunday mornings one of us would go to the NAAFI to buy the Sunday Times and we would sit in my room, reading, listening to music and drinking fresh coffee.
My tour was going to end after three years, but came crashing to an end four months early as one evening in April 1996, two officers stood at my door to tell me that Dad had died that evening.
Everything changed at that point.
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