Wednesday 19th February 2020

Back in the jugg agane.

Or back on the commute to Denmark. And this means being up at oh so early hundred hours when it is still dark and the cats still asleep. Yes, that early.

Jools makes coffee, and I get dressed. We barely talk, but we are ready to leave the house, or would have been until I checked Twitter and find that that the line between Dover and Folkestone is closed, and my train is cancelled.

Eeeek! What to do? Well, trains are running from Ashford, so Jools says she will take me there and I should be able to get into London easy enough.

So instead of washing up and filling the bird feeders, we are heading off down Jubilee Way then up the A20 towards Folkestone and Ashford. At least we have the choice to do this.

I stumble out of the car and grab my case and bag, walk into the station to get my ticket.

All going well.

Up on the platform, next train was in twenty minutes, and few people around, should be fine.

I wait, and to the left the sky brightens, and stars go out as daylight wins the battle. I take a shot of the sky contrasting with the station lights.

By the time the train arrived, the platform was heaving, and the train was already half full, so I am happy enough to get on and stand the twenty minutes into London.

It is almost daylight, so I was able to look out of the door windows at the passing countryside, while commuters stare blankly at their phones or laptops, ever-connected to an ever-crazy world. I look at the wading birds on Rainham marshes, they watch episodes of The Masked Singer. I believe I get the better deal.

Off at Stratford, walk to the DLR and a 20 minute ride to the airport, where it is quite busy. Very busy for a Wednesday, but it is school holidays, and many of the little darlings are being dragged to the slopes for some skiing.

I check my case in, walk to the security and wait to pass through.

And once through I go to have breakfast. And I am hungry so go for the full English option, with no tomato but toast as a substitute. And coffee. Thing is, the big meal is not that much more expensive than eggs Benedict, so, I tuck in.

That done, I find a place to sit and read. And people watch. Mainly people watch. And wonder who really pays four thousand pounds for a watch that just tells the time. Sure, it looks nice, but my fifteen dollar Timex from Walmart in Cody, Wyoming, still is telling perfect time.

The flight is called and I join the eight other passengers at the gate, waiting for our tiny plane to arrive and incoming passengers get off.

Time passes.

We board, I take my seat in 8A, and the flight makes ready, we taxi to the far end of the runway, wait our turn before the engines roar, and we trundle off down the runway and climb into the misty air, bouncing along until we turn to the north east, giving us on the left and side of the plane a look along the river that The City. Below, suburbia is laid out like a map, jammed with traffic in places, but soon giving way to farmland. We pass over the M25 then follow the A12 northwards to Chelmsford, Colchester and Ipswich before we turn a little eastward and cross the coast over Southwold.

I go back to read Private Eye as we head north, passing over the North Sea.

Denmark is not rainy. Not that much, and isn't hidden under black clouds, but some white fluffy ones. Though passing through them introduces some jumping around by the plane, and we are low enough to me consider how hard the ground would be if we crashed. Saying that, Denmark is pretty flooded. Or if not flooded, then saturated. Ploughed fields look more like paddy fields, and so I consider how well rice might grow this far north. Not that well, I decide.

We land, and once through immigration and collecting my case, the car hire place has my keys ready, so in a few minutes I am in the car wondering why I can't hear the engine when I turn the ignition key.

After five minutes I realise that the car is a hybrid, and the lack of sound is the electric motor ready for action. I see the sign, "ready to drive" light up, so engage drive and away we go, the engine cutting in soon after as I accelerate away.

I know the rad to Aarhus so well that I really don't think about it that much, it seems the car knows the way.

I arrive at the office just before two, so go to my department's offices and say hi to my friends/colleagues, and get down to check mails.

Soon after I arrive, many of them are going home already, as most leave the office just after three. Some will log on at home in the evening, most won't though.

I wait to five before leaving, as the traffic will be unbearable before, then take the road into the main inner ringroad, then along to the art museum and the hotel next door.

I park outside and check in, drop my case and bag in my room, but go straight back out to do some photography before the forecasted rain arrives.

It is getting dark, and the lights of shops and bars reflect off the wet cobbles in a photogenic kind of way. I walk down to the canal, through the old town, then to the main square, past the cathedral and theatre to the Highlander Bar where I decide a pint of something dark and mysterious would be suitable. Especially as the rain had just started.

Indeed, when I leave the bar after the single beer rain was falling harder still, so I walk back down the canal to see if I could get a table at the smokehouse, but it is full as Wednesdays are eat as much hot wings day, so it is rammed. I walk back up the hill to the hotel, take a seat in the restaurant and order burger and fries and a dark beer. They have salted caramel stout, which is powerful stuff.

Turns out that was all I needed, the strong beer soon smothers the sweet notes of the caramel.

But is good.

Back to the room to watch football. Being in Denmark the Champion's League is on free to air, or on one of the channels I could get in my room anyways.

I watch the first half of Spurs v Liepzig, but sleep through the second and the game is over when I wake up. So I go back to sleep.

Goodnight, Vienna. Or Aarhus.

Monday 18th February 2020

All our lives we work, if we can, to put a roof over our and our family's heads, to keep the wolf from the door, to pay for the things we like to do when we're not working. All so that when we get to 60 or 65 or 67, we can retire and not have to work. If we can afford to.

My parents bought their house, off the drawing board in 1964 for two and a half thousand pounds. We bought our house in St Maggies in 2009 for 100 times more. It seemed like an impossibly sized amount of money we had to borrow. And I won't lie, it scared me. Had we have stayed in the flat, we would have paid for it in a few years, and we could have pleased ourselves. But it wasn't big enough, had no parking.

So we both our houses and pooled our cash to buy our house, knowing that to pay for it we would have to work until we were 65 or beyond. We decided we would.

Even now, after juggling mortgages, we are some seven years from paying it off. Seven more years of working for the man. Paying our bills, the insurance, and doing what we can to make the payments. Its easier now than it was, and we have increased payments to pay it off quicker, but still.

And then there was Mum.

I am, or was, an only child. Her estate was always coming to me, but we never thought there'd be anything left. She would have spent it, or all of it would be used up in long-term care. So, it was never a factor for us.

And then there was Mum.

She passed away, if not unexpectedly, but suddenly, and for a few weeks, months, we just dealt with it and the issues. Bills were paid, stuff done. And then it all went quiet.

Then, on Friday, the solicitor said she was preparing a letter for me, and yesterday it arrived. Details of Mum's estate.

We will not be billionaires. We will not be millionaires. But, in time our mortgage will be paid off. And that means we will work for ourselves, not the man. And then, in black and white, seeing enough money to pay of the mortgage. Though we don't have it yet, and there will be charges. Still, all the money we currently pay the bank will be ours to use.

Mwah ha ha.

Sorry that it took Mum passing, in the way she did for this to happen, but you know, well, it is what it is.

That apart, it was another good day in the house.

Up at dawn, or just before. Sit with Jools while I drink my coffee and she gets ready. Then once she leaves, on the cross trainer for another session, third morning in a row, and much easier now on the next level. Scully was sleeping in the wardrobe as I worked out. Happy with her role in things.

Thing is, having cats is like having children. I went for a shower, only to hear the most awful noise once in. So I go the check, and Mulder wants to come into the bathroom. I let him in, get back in the shower and he meows he wants to go out!

He has to wait.

And then breakfast and then onto work. Preparing for more travel, and fixing the unexpected grenade lobbed over the wall to me by my former boss. Cheers.

And firefighting takes most of the morning, meaning the tasks I planned to do, went undone. Just like old times, really.

I went out in the early morning sunshine to take a few shots, before the cloud and wind was due to sweep across. One of our own daffodils was bobbing in the breeze, brilliant yellow in the sunshine.

And then back to work.

I eat at the table whilst working, marmalade and tortilla chip sandwiches. Yeah, you read that right. And were a king among sandwiches.

Morning turned to afternoon, I caught up with the mess, with just one strand outstanding. That would have to wait.

I pack up at four, pack my work bag and case, then prepare dinner: caprese and garlic bread, and as it was International wine drinking day, or something, I thought I had better support the cause.

We dine well once Jools is home, then have a brew with a short cake to make us full, before listening to the radio and discussing the financial news we will have to get used to. Though for a few months, nothing will change.

And that is it. Jools went to bed at nine, as we were to be up at half four in the morning, I stay up to follow the Liverpool score on the radio.

They lost.

Getting some in part 12 and 13

Dateline: 4th March 1991, AWM 218, RAF Cosford.



Dear Mum and Dad,

As you can see, I enclose a cheque for £20.00 for my Visa bill, as well as the cover note.

I am watching the football, Forest won 3-1; what a good result

I am absolutely shagged out, so this will be a short letter.

I woke up at 13:00, which means I had 6 hours sleep, and as always on a Monday we have a bull night, so I've been cleaning toilets as usual.

Very sorry, I can't keep my eyes open, will try to write again on another night,

Ian



P.S. DALE GORDON IS GOD.



Dateline: 14th March 1991, AWM 218, RAF Cosford.



Dear Mum and Dad,

Thank you very much for a great weekend, I am only sorry it so very tiring for you. I honestly didn't realise it was Mother's Day. I mean, having to cook a full Sunday dinner. I was lovely though. I must also thank you for preparing the fish and chips for Saturdays dinner. As Dad guessed, Mark and I were paying for everything with Paddy not stumping up a penny.

Its not been a bad week, in fact its been very laid back. IN the evening I play Mark at John Madden's American Football, and beat him most evenings.

Mark is a bit depressed at the moment, life and the course getting him down. But he's looking forward to the weekend as we're Swindon bound.One of our course, David, failed an exam for the second time, and he is now off the course, they're talking it over with him this afternoon. If he's unlucky, he could be remustered into another trade, or they could even kick him straight out of the Mob.I am just glad I don't fail exams.

Too clever by half.

You'll be glad to know that I have only had one and a half pints since I got back. All bought by Mar. A bottle of Mann's Brown Ale is 42p. I might have a surprise for you when I get back for Easter, no clues. Just, anywhere you'd like to go to on Sunday afternoon?

Now, we got back here Sunday, we had PT on Monday. We all had showers after, except for Paddy who was in and out in a flash. He has not had another shower until PT this morning, Thursday.

URGH.

Also, he has scrounged fags all week, as his fiance hasn't sent him much money to spend. He got some cash yesterday, but never offered to share the fags he bought.

Anyway, I've been in a good mood all week, which is good.

See you soon,

Ian

Monday 17th February 2020

It only seems a week or so ago that it wasn't getting light until half seven or so, now when the alarm goes off at quarter to six there is light on the horizon, and at the back of the house, nearly light enough not to need the lights on.

So starts another week, with the crescent moon hanging low over the horizon, marking where the sun will soon rise underneath. Venus shows bright too. I pause to look at the celestial ballet before me, slowly playing itself out, but the day beckons, not least with the aroma of coffee freshly brewing.

It will be a long day for Jools, but for me, a normal eight or so hours, working hard at the dining room table. But I have a new task, a spreadsheet on which to record my progress in arranging and carrying out tasks.

I like a good spreadsheet.

Jools is all a whirl as she gets ready for work, then is gone, just like that.

Not like that.

And I go upstairs to get the phys of the day done, so I don't have time to think of a reason not to. And I grit my teeth and increase the resistance by one level.

I engage the i pod, some Grace Jones and Big Audio Dynamite, and away I go.

Puff.

Puff.

Puff.

And do twenty minutes, though I was getting pretty tired at the end. But I did it. And as the day went on, I felt more and more healthy, glowing with fitness.

Outside the brightness of the dawn is replaced by clouds. Then gales. And sheets of rain. It gets so dark I put the table lamp on so I don't have to procrastinate in total darkness.

I get on with the spreadsheet, colour-coding it, adding hyperlinks and the such. Oh, its good.

The day gets old and the clouds clear and the sun comes out, so I go out to do some light gardening. As its light. I take of the dead twigs of the two acers and ponder the pruning of the climbing roses. I am joined in my work by two cats who let me know they are there by meowing for food/attention. All the time. I am looking at the wisteria, only for Mulder to jump on the roof of the shelter so I could poke his belly through the slats. Oh this is fun, he thought, so we spent ten minutes with him chasing my finger and purring and dribbling.

Back to work.

Dinner was to be toasted crumpets. Not home made, sadly, I gave away my crumpet rings to someone, and have regretted it ever since. As you do. But these were Tesco finest sourdough crumpets. And pretty good, though not as good as home made. It seemed a slight meal, so I rustle up a batch of Norfolk short cakes to follow the crumpets. And it takes a LOT of willpower not to try one as they cooled on the work surface.

Jools was doing yoga, so I waited until she returned home at quarter past seven before toasting the crumpets and making brews. Then we had a shortcake each. And another. Then it was time for football.

Chelsea v Man Utd, the battle of the has beens, as neither are that good at the moment, but it would be a battle royale to see who would come out on top. Like it matters to me.

Anyway, Chelsea dominate but can't score, Utd score two in the second half after Chelsea have two ruled out by VAR.

And so to bed.....

Sunday 16th February 2020

Second day of Storm Dennis.

Usually, on a Sunday we would be looking at going out, or gardening, or doing something out of the house. But on Sunday the winds continued to blow and the rain continued to fall. So, there seemed little point in going out to take photos of taking photos was almost impossible.

So, after coffee, I do a session on the cross trainer, then go downstairs to cool down, then as Jools did her session, getting cooking the bacon butties.

Heck, there was just the one game to watch on MOTD as I had watched the Norwich game live, so I skipped that and did other stuff while the storm blew itself out. Which it did by half eleven.

Our friends, Gary and Julie, had moved into a new house, and what with work and the weather, we had not been there, so with the wind and rain having eased, we drove over to River.

River used to be a village outside Dover, but now is part of it. And River has a river running through it. The River Dour, from which Dover takes it name.

Anyway.

They have moved into a smart two bedroom house on the edge of River, overlooking Kearsney Abbey gardens and park. Which is very nice.

They have almost unpacked everything, and things are going well, except Gary had just drilled a hole into an electrical cable and shorted the house out. That has to be professionally fixed now. We've all done it, just bad luck to find a cable one time.

Anyway, they have wonderful views over the rooftops to the valley side a mile away, and Gary has already got many species of birds coming into the garden to eat at their feeders.

We leave to go back home for lunch; a large pork pie each.

Pie.

And a brew.

And then to the football.

Many years I used to think how nice it would be to spend a winter's afternoon watching football. That was before Arsenal v Newcastle kicked off, mind. That was a dreadful game. And failed to get any better into the second half, so I gave up and went to make dinner. No sooner had I switched the TV off, did Arsenal score, not once, but twice. I don't care, my Dad would have said they couldn't have scored as long as they had a hole in their bum. And was right.

We feast on warmed up ragu, pasta and garlic bread, and was as wonderful as always. Maybe more so as the flavours had matured.

And somehow, despite doing very little, I was pooped again. Too tired to stretch my brain into a game of Uckers, so we frittered the evening away until it was time for bed.

Getting some in: Part 11

Dateline: 18th February 1991, AWM 218, RAF Cosford.



Dear Mum and Dad,

Thanks for your last letter. I must say, not that I am being sarcastic, but I do know your address by now, no need to put it on any letters now.

It would save you some time.....

Its Monday afternoon and we are doing a 6 hour revision session before tomorrow's exam. I spent most of the weekend in bed watching rugby, football, pop videos, etc. When not in bed, I went to the Cav Club, there was a 12 hour disco going on. I didn't get drunk. Honest. OK, I had a couple of drinks. Snake bites. But that's all. We, Fudge and me, got back at 2 AM. I watched videos you taped for me: Black Rain, Sea of Love and Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure. Again. Ellen Barkin is the new apple of my eye, though not much chance of meeting her in Wolverhampton or Telford.

Mark and I are looking forward to the weekend when we will come to visit. I can't decide where we should go Saturday night. City Lights is crap, so any ideas? I'd take him to Norwich but it's so expensive to get back in a taxi.

Time passes.....

It is now 18:50 and I'm waiting for the radio commentary to start, I hope Norwich win! Mondays means domestic night means bull night. I have to clean my room plus the toilet opposite. What a bitch. We have another exam tomorrow. Oh dearie, dearie me.

Can we have fish and chip at the weekend? And roast beef on Sunday? Pretty please. Then we can have roast beef sandwiches for the journey back. I'm getting hungry already.

You'll be glad to know I've been in a brilliant mood all day, I think I am getting over Vanessa, which is about time.I have decided I need a publicist to tell the world what a wonderful person I am, because something good had better happen soon. According to my horoscope in The Mirrow, I'm going to fall in love today. Some bloody chance.

Anyway, that's it for now, see you Friday.

Ian.

Saturday 15th February 2020

Storm Dennis (day 1)

I, like most Brits, love the weather and talking about it. I am sure that growing up and before I joined the Air Force, there were few flooding events. I'd like to think I would remember.

But this century there seems to be flooding every year, winter and summer. Something has changed. Many things have changed.

And storms like Dennis, an almost record low pressure of 917 mb was heading our way. Strong winds, torrential rain, flooding, building damage. Again, just a week after the last named storm.

Luckily for us, it was due to hit later on Saturday, at least here in Kent, so we could get out and do some stuff first.

First of all was to go to the butcher, as Mark had posted that they had made a batch of wild garlic sausages, made with hand picked ramsons, and these are just wonderful. So, while Jools went on the cross trainer, I got in the car and drover over to Preston to get the meat.

Traffic was very light, except the dick that tailgated me as I drove away from Sandwich. But I arrived safe after inching my way through the flooded lanes at Nash. The guys were, as ever, in great spirits, but the guy who picks the wild garlic has just lost his wife, and it is possible that this will be the last batch they will make.

Oh I know where there are loads, I can get you some fresh ramsons.

Have this steak cheap, have this free cheese. And so on, I think they want me to get the wild garlic.

So I had better do it next weekend.

Laden with meat and pork pies, I walk to the car and drive home. I was now running a little behind as we talked about football so much. But back home Jools had breakfast ready to cook upon my return; croissants to warm through, coffee pot to bring to the boil. Even so once we had eaten ad drunk, there was barely enough time to gather our stuff together and get to Dover to meet our friend, Will.

We had not seen Will since his marriage some five years ago, and since then he and his wife have bought their own house, got new jobs, had a daughter and now waiting for the birth of their second child, a son. So, quite some catching up to do.

He arrived on the twenty past nine bus from Canterbury, and he had just got off as we pulled up, so we let him get in, laden with camera gear, and we set off for Ashford and then the Romney Marsh. His partner had suggested he get back into photography, and he thought of coming along with me on a shoot.

There would be churches I said.

Fine he said.

From Ashford we took the road to the marsh, tailgated again by some throbber who overtook when it was dangerous, and nearly had a head on crash. He got ahead, and then we caught up with him at the roundabout a couple of miles further along.

First stop was the always picturesque Fairfield church.

Fairfield is no longer a place as such, if it ever was The church sits on a island made of drainage ditches and Hastead says people used to reach it for services in boats. What we see now was constructed in the early 20th century, though Hastead again says that the church he describes was not that different to what we see now, and that church was probably a recent construction.

The key is hanging outside the nearest house, so I go and get that while Jools and Will walk to the church.

I soon join them, walking along the top of dykes and over wooden bridges until I reach the church, the large key turned in the lock of a door that is clearly centuries older than the church itself.

And we go inside.

It is as it always is, clean and pure; box pews and a triple level pulpit. Years old hops still hung from the hand-hewn rafters. We get our shots, not taking that long before we go to leave. And meet a dogwalking couple and pass the key to them, with instructions on where to leave it once they were done.

We go back to the car, then turn round and go to nearby Brookland to visit the church there. St Augustine has a unique bell tower, but one I have not seen inside of. Maybe it would be open?

No it wouldn't. Though the church was.

I snap it again, just because we were there, and Will also snaps it, he seems to like snapping churches.

With the wind building, we go into Sussex to go to Camber Sands, as there is a west-facing sandy beach, and we hoped it would be.

Camber is home to a large holiday camp, once the mainstay of the British holiday. This one is hanging on, though not in February when not even the British would consider a seaside holiday.

There are other hardy souls, most with dogs in tow, so we park then walk up the sandy path leading up the dune. It was OK until the slope flattened out, and we got the westerly straight into our faces. Wind-borne sand grit-blasted our faces, and at ground level the sand in the air could be seen making patterns as it flowed through the tussock grasses.

We reach the beach, find we can't speak to each other as our words are stolen from our very mouths, so I indicate I was going back to the car, Jools and Will agree.

Just up the road is Lydd, home of the largest church on the Marsh, though not on the Marsh, really. On the way we see swans and geese in the fields, feeding on winter crops, and on a lake I catch a glimpse of a smew.

Lydd is a fine old town, but the chuch towers over all other buildings, and the nave is on as grand scale too, 199 feet long.

It is open, so we go in and the church is so vast that the wide angle lens isn't really needed, the 50mm getting most of the building in.

I take shots of the monuments and details, and point out to Will some of the features. Not sure if he's impressed or bored. He says the former.

Once that was shot, time had crept on and was now half twelve. We had already decided to go to the Woolpack at Brookland, so went back down the coast road then along to the turn off. We find we were the only ones on the main bar, and after ordering drinks we tae seats in the chimney to warm up, and for me to take a photo.

The Woolpack is a 15th century pub, and not a flat surface or right angle anywhere. Only downside is the poor choice of ales, either Spitfire or Masterbrew.

We then moved to a table and ordered ploughman's all round, and waited until the food arrived.

By then the wind was building outside, so we decide to cut the afternoon short, and take Will back home to Herne Bay.

Back off the Marsh to Ashford then up to Challock to Faversham, and back along the M2 and Thanet Way to his house. We turn down a cuppa as once again I had forgotten my allergy spray, so we had to get home so I could breathe again.

We get home at half three, with the football in full swing. Over a fresh brew I sort through pictures and listen to the footy on TV, multitasking at the highest level.

And at half five, settle in front of the TV to watch Norwich v Liverpool, the return game of the opening weekend.

It was a close game, and Norwich play well, really well, without creating much, but just before half time, its seemed harder not to score, but somehow Liverpool clear. In the second half, Mane come on and scores a blinding goal to win the game. So much effort for no reward, the stroy of the season, really. Pride intact, Norwich are cheered off the pitch, still rooted to the foot of the table.