For those of you who watch those programmes where unqualified people suddenly decide to build a house that they design themselves out of old paint tins. They then manage the project claiming it will be built on schedule in 10 days or similar, (Grand Designs?) I am sure you have realised there is a subplot. This subplot is that most people who make these moves end up loosing their shirt-the show presenter (Mcleod?) did it recently himself. Any way that is not the point.

A number of years ago now for a series of reasons I cannot now justify, on any level, I employed an Irish architect, who it turned out not to be one. Well my request to him to help us remodel an existing property resulted in the development of a plan that would have been at home in Cape Canaveral- or where ever it is they make space rockets. It is now my family home and yes I love it but there are days when the pain of the process of its construction come to my mind and I shudder. The aforementioned ‘architect’, before I sacked him along with awful threats that I could not believe I was saying at the time, led us to believe that our ‘spaceship’ could be constructed for a given figure. It was all worked out, cost per square metre, percentage contingent fund, optional extras, the lot. Ha the numbers were rubbish!

The day I arrived at our house to see no roof, no windows, loads of half demolished walls and a gang of young labourers working away caused me to consult exactly where we were up to. I felt very uneasy . I sacked the project manager and his team on the spot-see later- and I sacked the ‘Irishman’ too, he wasn’t an architect as you now know now.

Calculations were done and the very bad news was that with all the on costs left in the demolition of the existing shell we had already passed our budget for the ‘whole project’. I will not explain just how we picked the Irishman but we did and all the rest is history.

Two good friends who are ‘master builders’ came to our rescue. One of the first problems we faced was the fact that the ‘demolition team’ had removed the supporting structures that held up the road alongside our house and a particular foundation for the main supporting part of the whole structure had been ‘overlooked”.

Nightmare. Liz and I worked late into the night under torchlight trying to put some metal siding sheets in place to stop the road falling in! No good the road was beginning to show signs of cracking.

Matt and Barry (our builders and great mates) announced the need to properly excavate the hole and after digging footings etc (to support a bridge like structure) we would need to fill everything back in to road level.

Yellow pages and a man arrived. Shy, almost retiring but with great references. ‘I am in the JCB display team’ he informed me, ‘so is my wife!?) – (He was and so was she we checked)

Now this was to be a big hole and although I knew the power of JCBS his final figure of £15,000 estimate actually seemed reasonable at the time. At eight the following morning he was there. Descended from its low loader the beast got to work. I do not have a picture of the hole but it was huge. Pillings inserted the soil that had been taken off in trucks the previous day returned, minus a handling charge of ‘quite a lot’!.

Over a coffee I got talking to Mr JCB and not only was he very nice but amazingly open. ‘I have great recommendations you see he said’ “‘in general most people are scared of demolition and the like and have little idea how to price it”. ‘Only last month I won a contract to demolish a primary school.” We priced the job and told the contractors it would take ‘the men’ between two and three weeks to do the job” “in fact my wife and I did it in three days”. “25 grand for the job” ” What is more the people were so delighted how tidy we were etc they have promised to recommend us to anyone who asked.” I was now very curious as the man ‘unpeeled the orange’. He had a home in a prestigious area he gave me a website address of ‘the best family pub in the world’. This pub was his ‘hobby’, he owned it and he told me quite simply without any boast or embarrassment. ” Most people would look at me standing there in my yellow work wear and think mmm a JCB driver. This JCB driver is a millionaire” !!

I have read that many injuries around the home are caused by personal negligence. Indeed I recall that 60% of all A& E consultations are routed in incidents involving a domestic fridge. It seems we are less careful with ourselves than sense dictates.

I was busy hammering nails into a horse paddock fence one afternoon in mid summer. One of Jo’s horses used a particular rail as a scratcher and in time the friction had caused a rail to come free. My attempts to hammer the offending piece of wood back in place went wrong as I mishit the nail bending it. The hook bit on the back of the hammer engaged I gave a mighty pull. Out shot the nail but unfortunately the force of the hammer was such that it only stopped when it connected with my left eyebrow. ‘Damm’! A moments pause then the worst thing. A drop of blood then a stream and soon, because that part of the body is loaded with blood vessels , a torrent of the stuff. I was soon looking like a war victim and I headed for the house bleating ‘Liz’. She gulped but did not panic, reached into the deep freeze and produced a bag of peas and placed it firmly over the wound before wrapping my head in a turban.

At the local A& E I was inspected and immediately congratulated on my ‘quick thinking’. ‘Self hammering are way more common that you might think’ the nurse said. The consequence of the ice pack was such that I was offered two alternatives. A visit to Exeter for the attention of a plastic surgeon or else glue. I opted for the latter and today you have to look closely to see the wound.

Wind the clock forward 3 years and I was about to set off to Sweden in my VW Transporter on an athletic adventure. For the first time ever in my life for some reason I chose to check my wheel bolts. 3 wheels done I approached the last one. The wrench on the bolt I detected a small bit of give. ‘Thank goodness’ I mused ‘that could have been nasty’. A muscular twist of the wrench and it slipped, coming off the wheel nut and hitting me square in the right eyebrow. Yes you know the drill. Blood everywhere, “Liz”? the bag of peas.

I arrived at The Honiton A&E just as it was opening at about 8:30 am I seem to remember. The nurse in charge looked at my eye and offered me exactly the same treatment choices. Glue was again ordered but she asked for a pause as she needed to log on and access my records. A few moments later she returned almost gleeful. ‘We see a lot of ‘self hammering’ she said but this is the first time I have ever seen anyone on the anniversary of a previous incident. Three years to the day, first my left, then my right. I was unsure whether to laugh or be ashamed. I was asked a whole series of questions that I suspect were geared to establishing my state of mind. The right scar is all but invisible too.

In the past I had sought the services of a plastic surgeon in fact. I was in Scotland on a business trip. I was escorting The Finance Director of William Morrisson Supermarkets around some of the major Investing Institutions in Glasgow. My company was Morrisons officials agent in the city and this sort of thing goes on all the time. The largest shareholders get a ‘one on one’ and the smaller ones share the executives time via a lunch. I was effectively a ‘bag carrier’ making introductions and hosting the lunch and briefing the Finance Director on the various clients he would meet.

Arriving at Glasgow airport it was a cold drizzle filled murky day. A Black cab approached the rank. I was temporarily distracted and as I was the passenger opened the cab door whilst it was still moving and hit me square in the face. My lower lip started to produce blood-not as bad as eyes. The Glaswegian Taxi driver had no sympathiey and laughed at my plight. ‘Pour some after shave in it’ he said ‘that will dry it up’. I stopped in the city centre with around 15 minutes to go to my rendezvous with the Finance director. I entered a Boots and the lady behind the counter winced at the site of my by now ‘hanging lip’ “you need stitcha’s” (glasgow accent) she said. I opted instead for a large plaster which covered my lip and most of my chin. Whilst this was useful as a shield so as not to offend the squeamish it did inhibit communication. ‘Dud munin mita Kelto I am afwaayed i av Kurt me mowf’ was my introduction to the important man. I got through the meetings as I knew all of the people but lunch was a real struggle. First of all a formal introduction and the obligation for me to make a speech outlining just how valued a corporate client Morrisons were to my firm. Eating and drinking were a no go of course. Someone later told me I looked and sounded like a ventriloquists dummy. A bad one. ‘Tant u vewy much for cumin’ was my departing announcement. I shook the hand of the director and headed off into the Glasgow late afternoon as it was then.

I took stock as my plane was at six o’clock and I had a school parents evening scheduled in which I had promised to join Liz for the last part of the proceedings. All parents feel a strong obligation to show their faces at such event even though in their heart of hearts they know they are being told a pack of lies.

I rang my good friend Ian Lynn who was a senior man at a firm called Murray Johnstone. ‘Stay were you are’ was his order. Shortly his Range Rover rolled up. He laughed at me and spent the next minutes telling me what an idiot I was as he drove. He swept into the driveway of a large house on the outskirts of Glasgow. The sign BUPA was on the gate. Hurrying me to the reception desk he demanded to know if there was anyone who could fix ‘this idiots lip”?

We were sent to the third floor and got immediate entrance to a large surgery. A man steeped out of a side office greeted me warmly and announced his credentials. Checking later I discovered this was Scotland’s leading plastic surgeon., or top three for sure. He placed me in chair, illuminated my face with a bright light and placed a huge magnifying glass over my face. This magnifying glass was obviously used to ensure his delicate skills were performed with the maximum of precision. The reverse of that facility was my ability to scrutinise, in minute detail, the inner hair follicles of the man’s nose. It was all very weird. he told me he had inserted around 14 stitches both sub cutaneous and surface. The finished job was excellent such that I no longer even needed a plaster. Ian had watched the whole thing and whilst the surgeon had done his work Ian engaged him in light hearted banter. The surgeon seemed to enjoy the whole thing and shook my hand firmly when he was done. The anaesthetic in my lip made talking even more difficult. ‘Ow mooch du i ow oo” ? I said. He beamed and in that lovely accent, that hails from Edinburgh not Glasgow, he said ‘no worries that one is on me, I hope you catch your plane’. I did thanks to Ian.

The following morning I was something of a hero much to my deep embarrassment. There used to be, probably still is, a gossip column in the Daily Telegraph. The headline was something like. ‘Hero Elliott carries on despite a serious injury’.

About 15 or so years ago something wonderful happened. I need to say up front that most will bore of this section. For most it will make no sense at all and will be utterly tedious. So if the going gets tough move on.

I was playing cricket for Harpenden CC a marvellous club in Hertfordshire. The town itself, where I lived, a commuter hub full of lovely houses great shops restaurants etc. Its cricket club whose main ground was a wonderful bowl at the entrance of the town beside a main road. Large crowds would park their cars, enjoy a drink or cuppa and watch a high standard of sport.

The club was growing rapidly and demand for pitches was high. Two council owned grounds, that were shared with the local school, were already being used and a committee meeting was called to see if another ground could be found. Apparently a local school ground where cricket was now a minor sport had traditionally been a place where the standards had been high. Reports suggested that below the rough mown school playing field there lay a gem of a ground. In recent years St George’s Harpenden has been often mentioned in the Rugby world as Owen Farrell, Maro Itoje and George Ford were all former pupils there.

Enquiries were made and an agreement was drawn up such that if the cricket club took responsibility for care of the ground then they could use it at weekends. The hope was the school would renew its interest in cricket and provide talent for the club. The main club groundsman was a miserable fellow. He took no notice of anyone else and in truth the pitches he provided on the main ground did the magnificent setting scant justice. As soon as the question who would like to take responsibility for the ground was asked I found my right hand shooting up.

Ever since our first tiny house with a tiny lawn and a very large mower, I had loved tending to grass. I had many mowers. I read extensively around the subject and my own lawn in Harpenden at the time had won an award in a local ‘open garden scheme.’ I told Liz who looked at me and shrugged. A hint of resignation in the movement.

The club contacted the ECB (English Cricket Board) and soon I was on my way to the local county ground to ‘go on a course’ with a man called Wood. The countries top groundsman. He had formerly been head groundsman of the best ground in the country in those days. The Oval. His job was to teach county and top club groundsmen that groundcare was a precise science and not an art. Lucky for me most groundsmen thought they new better, ours was not the only one, such that on this particular course there was only one participant, me. Chris Wood is a Yorkshireman. He struggled with my ‘back story’ but soon he realised I was keen to learn and he could not do enough to help me. I on the other hand was in heaven and I was the best pupil there could be.

Of course equipment is absolutely vital and in the case of a cricket ground rollers and mowers are the key bits of kit. The best are very very expensive way out of the reach of HCC so I had to find another way. Liz had a brainwave. One of Tom’s school mates and a rugby player too had a Dad who owns a motorway construction company. You will all know the name but I will keep it private here. I contacted him and enquired if he had any old rollers we could buy and I of course identified their purpose. The main ground’s roller was on its last legs and in the end we took delivery of two bright yellow rollers. Many miles on their clocks but still perfect for the job we had in mind. They had been serviced, given a lick of paint and even delivered on a low loader. Sooo exciting.

In the old days Town Councils would mow the grass verges. They would look very smart relative to todays ‘hacking’. Typically the machines would be a ‘Dennis’ and have a ‘sit on’ facility. I somehow heard that somewhere on the outskirts of Luton in an old farm building there was a man who ‘liked mowers’. I went round to visit him and could not believe my eyes. In an old corrugated iron shed sat an old man in a black overall with a woolly hat on his head. There was a large work bench with hundreds of tools laid out neatly. Best of all around the shed were around a dozen ‘Dennis sit on mowers’. All looking in good condition. “They made me take early retirement he said sadly. They outsourced the grass cutting. I used to be the council mower engineer and my job was to service these machines and keep them going. They have not been used for around ten years. I asked if I could keep them and the council were only too happy that I did. My mate the farmer brought them here and he lets me use this old shed. I could not think of anything else to do so I set up a little business servicing mowers and garden equipment. I don’t have many customers but it is what I know. It is all I know”

I told him of my project and his eyes lit up. He really was genuinely happy. ‘You can take the two best mowers and any time you need them servicing or you have a problem ring me up and I will be there”. To me it was like being gifted two Ferraris or similar. ‘Stan’ also provided a scarifier, petrol driven, and having learned my own house mower was a top of the range ‘Ransome Marquis’ he prescribed and fitted a sixteen blade ‘sports cutter” to it in order to ‘fine cut’ the square.-I told you this one was for the discerning.

Well over the next six months Mr Wood taught me about rolling, in order to manage the pace of the wicket. The best grass seed to use for the playing service and the outfield. How to feed it and make it grow green. How to cut it and and how to repair it after a game had been played. The main square was divided into ‘pitches’ and a strict rota of use was established. I was taught how to mark out the ground and even make sure that when the stumps were hit the actual pieces of the wood would cartwheel in the way all fast bowlers and spectators love. (just in case you want to know you thoroughly soak the stump holes before play).

In time out of an apparently rough ground a ‘gem’ emerged. Chris would turn up unannounced and make picky comments and criticisms. As most ‘normal groundsmen’ would bid him a warm ‘adieu’ at this point he was delighted that I was not only open to the criticism but thrived upon it. We trialed new grass treatment involving seaweed fertiliser financed by the ECB. We calculated the exact amount of top soil the playing surface needed for its Autumnl treatment and ordered it. He actually came and laboured for me. It was such fun.

Now this might seem far fetched but it is true. On the first game payed on the ground after many many years The Harpenden Cricket Club played a local rival. The ground itself looked immaculate. Stripes on the outfield the central Square immaculate and the actual playing strip a straw coloured rock hard surface. The Harpenden openers scored over 100 runs without loss ‘on a magnificent surface’ as I looked on with pride.

I spent may hours working on the ground going up and down on my sit on mower. Later on I was once asked to prepare the main ground for a special match, much to the annoyance of the regular groundsman who was however big enough to compliment me. As is often the case there was a disappointing element to the whole affair. The school did use the ground and I suspect over time produced players for the club. The Headmaster never thanked me. I imagine he saw a ‘groundsman’ on a mower and he thought me a little beneath him. Ha!

No matter what always take the trouble to thank someone who does something for you.

I will not write any more here as I know it is boring for most but if you want to have a beautiful lawn and you don’t know how, I do, and I will help you so get in touch. Interestingly if you ever watch cricket have a look how many county groundsmen fail to repair the ‘ends’ after play and leave them rough, sometimes for months. No wonder Mr Wood, who is still in office I believe, gets frustrated.

Back in the day it was customary, in The City of London, for Broking Houses to stage small formal lunches whereby a director of a company would talk to a select group of fund managers about company progress etc. Events were not as well regulated as they are now (?!!). Typically the MD or Finance Director would give a review of activities, avoiding any price sensitive news of course, and then the invited guests would ask their questions.

David Harvey was 6 foot 6 inches tall and was The Finance Director of the Ocean Group a shipping company with a long history. David had a close relationship with Dan White, my boss and The City’s leading shipping analyst. Peculiar in their relationship was the fact that six months or so earlier Mr Harvey had been attending lunch at Laurence Prust, my firm, when he swallowed a fish bone. He nearly choked fell to the ground and turned red. Fortunately one of the waitresses was a former nurse and she performed the appropriate manoeuvre and Mr Harvey was saved.

There were twelve people around a very grand mahogany table with magnificent silver and crystal glass place settings on this day. Dan White had Mr Harvey on his immediate right and on his left was the most important guest, a director of Singer and Friedlander, I will not mention his name. I was directly opposite Dan and there were 8 other guests.

We ate a starter and the chat was general and social. The main course was served and Mr Harvey was asked to give us his thoughts on shipping in general and Ocean in particular. A particular point of interest was the fact that Ocean had built a huge Liquid Natural Gas Carrier called The Nestor. It had a fault in its tanks such that the too and fro of the motion of a ship in passage cause a ‘swosh effect’ in the corner of its stainless steel tanks risking dangerous fracture of a highly flammable product. Commissioned originally for a Californian based project, as far as I am aware, this ship never ever carried a serious cargo. As a capital investment it was huge for Ocean and therefore any snippet of news was extremely price sensitive and as a result my assimilation of all such minutae pertaining to this vessel meant a qualification by me for the ‘Bore of Britain’ award. Would we learn anything today I wondered.

Any way as Mr Harvey started I looked across at the senior guest. He sort of winked at me. Oh I thought how nice someone so senior is winking at me he probably wants to encourage me as he would know I was new to all this. So I winked back. He looked somewhat affronted and winked repeatedly one, two, three.! Alarm bell, it was not a wink it was a twitch and I had insulted the guest of honour. Mr Harvey’s monologue was now irrelevant. I did of course do what any right thinking man would do I looked at the man on the right of Mr Harvey and winked at him. He winked back. I then offered two or three faster winks, he panicked , thinking like me had made faux pas and he winked to the man on my immediate right. Soon the entire table was winking at each other. I introduced a shoulder shrug I have seen before in a ‘twitcher’ and someone made a sort of open mouth pout with a head flick. It was carnage . I am not sure what a collective of twitchers is but that day we were it.

I had no recollection of what Mr Harvey said. I was glad to get out of the lunch and when ever I saw the man from Singers I would make it my business to say hello but immediately afterwards affect some twitch or other just in case he thought my behaviour on that day was anything but natural.

In my last Summer at school I elected to visit the main RNAS station in Lossiemouth Scotland HMS Fulmar on a course. This was the home of many of the Fleet Air Arm’s training activities including the main strike weapon of the force the Bucanneer Jet. A sub sonic fighter that performed its task at tree top level. Skimming over the surface of the land or sea it would arrive at target climb steeply, drop its weapon then immediately return to the ‘privacy’s of low level flight. A brute to fly the mark One version was known to fall from the sky.

My colleague on the trip was Mac Noel an American from Connecticut USA. Mac was at the school for just 12 months as his Dad was in the US military and was advising on the build of a nuclear submarine at the Camell Laird ship yard in Birkenhead.

For all of the above reasons this ‘All American boy’ was very popular. He seemed to go out of his way to be a ‘nice guy’. On the journey to Scotland I was to learn that maybe the truth was a bit different.

Mac confided in me that his time in our school had been a trial. His Dad had insisted he show all things US in a good light and Mac had done as he was told. However on the way North Mac asked me to ‘let him be himself’ in the week ahead. He asked me to call him ‘Kurt’ ?? and he suggested some of his behaviours might surprise me but would be much closer to the real Mac than I had previously experienced. After two days I was all but to disown him !!!!

The base itself was fabulous. Wonderful aircraft everywhere. There were around 14 of us on the course. We all wore our fatigue uniforms on a day to day basis but for our ‘official tour of the base’ conducted by a Chief Petty Officer, we had our best uniforms on. Standing out in the mix were two young men from Edinburgh who looked absolutely magnificent. They wore tartan trousers, not kilts, all the rest of their uniform was just magnificent to uphold. The CPO noticed them immediately. “Ah’ he said “I see standards will be high welcome to HMS Fulmar gentlemen” These two were members of their school CCF, like us, but their sponsoring regiment was the famed ‘Black Watch’.

The Hangars with their various flying machines were awe inspiring. The gym had everything you could possibly want and then more. The officers mess was magnificent with ‘silver service’ as standard for dinner. The ratings mess (canteen) was incredible. Self service there were all sorts of different service bars. Salad/pasta/curry on and on and this was in 1978 mind! We watched as a group of ratings toasted the Queen and ‘spliced the mainbrace’. (The then traditional naval tradition routed in sailing ships of drinking a tot of rum at lunchtime!!). Best of all where ever I looked there were some of the prettiest women I had ever seen. They say women love a man in uniform well this boy loved a woman in uniform. No pilots then but many of them were engineers. Passing massive flying machines a pretty head would emerge from the workings of the beast. We were a ‘bit of young’ I suppose and they had great fun flirting with us.

On the first night The CPO announced a manoeuvre which was geared so we ‘potential recruits’ (oh that was why the course was run) could bond with each other. We were loaded on a bus and taken to the nearby seaside town of Elgin. On the beach a number of tents were set and a fire was burning. We were given some steaks to cook and left on our own. The light Scottish evening gave no sense of time but soon we were cooking our steaks. Mac or Kurt was suddenly way more assertive that I had seen him before. He of course knew his way around a barbecue but I had never heard the sort of negative barbs he was throwing around before coming out of his mouth.

Around 8:30 there was an alarming development. A group of around 25 local youths had gathered near our camp and they began to throw stones at us. Now I was born in Liverpool and I confess to being a bit more reluctant to be bullied than most but in this case I was genuinely concerned. The odd stone became a hail and finally one boy was hit cutting his eye. One of the Black Watch boys took charge. He ordered us to form up in line of threes. The stoning halted for a few seconds. With the second Black watch at his side and Mac (Kurt Noel) making up the front rank we confronted the intruders. The first BW raised his arms to the skies and spread his legs. He was over six foot tall. The Second BW mimicked the stance as did Mac. With a blood curdling roar number one let out a cry. ‘Come Away The Black Watch’. He ordered us to start moving slowly at first. Left, right, left right he barked as we advanced towards the gang. The stoning now stopped it was possible to discern that the rabble were having second thought as some moved backwards to hide behind their mates. The pace increased and with perhaps 25 yards to go the order ‘CHAAARGE” was given. We broke into a run and as we did the gang turned a headed off in full retreat. The BW leader hurled some oaths and threats then ordered us to stop. We watched the fleeing rabble laughing and in my case anyway relieved. One man did not heed the call to stop. Mac Noel chased a youth down and I watched from a far as he pounded punches into his body. Oh dear! At that moment I decided that I would distance myself from Mac. He clearly was not at all the way he seemed. One message was clear however “Don’t Mess with The Black watch”

Day two started bright and early we went to the ‘Kit place’. I was issued a flying suit, mae west and best of all a white Flying helmet. The helmet had a visor on it in smoked glass with a protective cover. The orderly threatened us with all sorts of consequences if we scratched the thing. We arrived at an area of the airfield where several Wessex Whirlwind helicopters were parked. Enormous ungainly beasts whose role was to rescue downed pilots on land and sea. A group of grinning WRNS greeted us.

Every military airfield, apparently, has a ‘reserve station’ nearby , usually about six miles away. In the event of an attack planes will divert to the reserve station in order to land safely.

One of the Helicopters engines growled into life and 4 boys were loaded aboard. As we entered the craft we were given a basket by one of the WRNS. The beast took off. It was beyond noisy even with the benefit of the noise cancelling in built earphones. We were plugged into the internal intercom and a rating sat in the open hatch looking unbelievably cool as we gained height. Soon we were moving away from the airfield. This was the first time I had flown by the way and I was more than a bit uneasy as the mighty beast lurched along. We gained height perhaps a couple of thousand feet and soon we could see the ‘reserve station’ below us. There came next a cruel trick. Via the intercom we were ordered to ‘look up’ as we did so the rating pointed to the roof of the helo. Suddenly the engine note dropped and with it the mighty bird. It seemed to plummet like a wild fairground ride before levelling up much closer to the ground. One cadet turned white I was summoned to move forward toward the rating. We were perhaps 200 feet up, I dont know but it looked a long way done. I had a sort of sling passed over my head and around my armpits-you know the drill. The rating sort of wrapped himself around me and the which swung out and down we went. On the ground the rating barked an order. I was still clutching my basket. ‘You will have around 15 minuets to fill that basket with mushrooms’ he said ‘ no fill no ride back’. ‘The walk back is six miles’. I watched as he moved back up to the helicopter which moved to another part of the airfield to drop the next cadet and I got picking. After about 20 minutes the Helo returned and the pilot came down toward me its rotor wash making me unsteady on my feet. I was ordered, by sign language, to show my basket-thankfully it was nearly full. The mighty beast rose up to its ‘hover height’ again, the rating descended before we were both winched back up.

Back at the main airfield a rather excited group of ratings were received of their booty and later that evening out side the ratings mess was a table with small punnets of ‘field mushrooms’ -‘2 shillings and sixpence each’ marked on an honesty box.!!

Day three was amazing. The Bucaneer aircraft had two crew. the pilot, who sat in the front, and an Observer. In effect The Observer was in charge because although this plane had all sorts of issues it was at the very edge of technology at its time. The plane had nuclear capability!! The Observer sat behind the pilot working all sorts of wizardry. One draw back we were were told about was that The Observers forward vision was limited and coupled with omni present ‘tree top turbulance’ as the plane skimmed the earths surface Observers would become airsick. It was a fact of life. The Observers were trained on an Otter Sea Prince. The fuselage of the training planes was fitted out with 4 stations that mimicked the rear seat of the Bucanneer. Training missions were flown with trainee Observers being set all sorts of scenarios that might encounter when in action. There were three trainee Observers on the flight. I was in the rear train pod. As we got on the plane I noticed one thing. The seat had a sort of large hole at the bottom of the back panel. The three trainee Observers had parachutes filling the hole. I did not.

My second flight and off we went. Everyone was very busy and I plugged my helmet into the intercom. As the pane gained height the first of many messages came across the airways. “Otter1 Otter 1 Lossie Tower. Bandits 25 Miles North East compass reading XYZ Intercept and identify” was the order or very similar.

The plane itself was twin engined and the weather was stormy and the plane ,moved all over the place. I could not see out and soon I wished more than anything else this ordeal would be over. Alas no it lasted over three hours.

My reflection we were over Norway when the Port Engine spluttered and died. One of the trainee Observers reported the event to Lossie Tower registering position etc. I became alarmed but I kept trying to assure myself this was a ‘training exercise’. Minutes later the Starboard engine followed suit. There was a silence, an eerie silence and the plane started to descend very slowly at first but then uncomfortably quickly. I clutched the arms of my chair. ‘MayDay MayDay MayDay’ was the radio message. ‘Otter One Otter one position something North something West preparing to bail out’. Oh my goodness me I was in total total panic mode. I desperately looked around for a parachute but as I had already scoured the plane for one unsurprisingly none appeared. Then music, sweet music, first the port, then the starboard engine coughed into life. The Otter levelled out and we headed home. It was a training exercise it was!. Climbing out of the plane I was totally relived but that experience stayed with me because for years afterwards flying caused me all sorts of concerns.

The final day was also memorable as we were to watch the English Electric Lightning perform its party piece. We also saw two entire squadrons of Bucaneers, fully laden, who were off to foreign parts on a train mission, take off. To see a formation of these beasts waiting far away down the main runway was a sight to behold. As their engines fired up we first of all saw the smoke and seconds later heard the roar. The whole lot rolled forward together straining to gain speed on a windless evening. At last like some swarm of prehistoric monsters the planes slowly lifted from the ground. We were in perfect position to watch sitting as we were in a bunker by the side of the runway. As the lead aircraft rose up I swear its pilot looked across at us and raised his thumb. Awesome!!

Mac Noel, who due to a whole series bad behaviours I had now disowned, did not return to school as his Dad’s time in Birkenhead was over so I never saw him again. The trip was memorable and as I returned home I formed a view that maybe a service life in the Fleet Air Arm was a possibility. Over time I really became enthused about the idea. In truth the first time in my life I could see a way forward in terms of career. Unfortunately several months later massive cuts in the service were announced and I shelved the plan. Every time I saw a Buccanner however I would regail all around me with its qualities, drawbacks and performance capabilities. Does anyone remember the Torry Canyon incident and the bombs that failed to detonate- another story.!

My round naval cap had the words Birkenhead School CCF in gold writing on it. Having taken part on this course, and passed (not sure what we actually passed but heh) from that day onwards I was allowed to develop my ‘cool’ in front of other boys. My cap bore the identifying logo HMS Fulmar.

A number of years ago now Richard Bradley was ranked towards the very top of ‘richlisters’ in New Zealand and Australia courtesy of his hamper company. Christmas hamper companies allow customers to finance a ‘special Christmas experience’ by monthly payment. Close to the ‘big day’ a hamper arrives packed full of goodies. Still popular in Australia, Canada and New Zealand Richard built a business empire with all the chattels of wealth. I am talking serious money here. One of his houses was recently on the market for £35 million!

As mentioned in the previous post my lambretta was a bit of a basket case but one day when out on a ride I noticed a man wearing smart parkha riding a Vespa scooter. He waved to me. Mods are cool OK? A few days later I went into a local coffee bar and ordered a coke and looked around nervously just in case any ‘rockers’ were about. In truth there were precious few in the whole area but at 17 years of age neurosis on many fronts is part of the plot. Instead I saw the ‘Vespa man’ sitting in the corner. I approached him and we got chatting. Richard had wavy red hair and spoke with a stammer. He was seemingly a very gentle man but very interesting. He had thought a lot about life for one so young and he and I had many conversations re the meaning of life and such like. He had left school at 16 and he had a series of odd jobs. Crucially he was planning to ‘make a lot of money’. He had a simple methodology in order to establish the best business to be involved in.

He would go into our local town and ride his scooter behind the rows of shops. He would notice who had the best cars and by deduction he established who was making the most money. In West Kirby in those days was a hairdresser called Peter Collinge who had built a successful business. He drove something exotic. Exotic enough to persuade Richard the hairdressing business was the place to be.

Now we are talking the swinging sixties here and men and women were going in for new look hair dos. I would see Richard from time to time and I was astonished to see him build a chain of hairdressing shops. The name of his chain was ‘Barnets’. The shops were all sited in conspicuous places on high streets normally in smallish premises. In Birkenhead and Liverpool shops sprang up. A large sign was over the shop but a large portion of the window was covered with hardboard painted in dark blue and marroon paint. They were painted in dark colours inside too and the hairdressers wore cool clothes. Loud music played. The quality of the haircuts themselves was variable at best but people came back for more as the whole experience was cool. Richard’s working week, he told me, centred around making sure all the books were ‘as he wanted them’. It was a cash business and he was making loads of it. Being a cash business meant his staff had temptations and he would dress in disguise so as to spy on them. I remember well him peering in through the window of his Birkenhead salon and seeing a hairdresser ‘trouser’ some change. He was in the shop in a flash and took action. I think in time he sold the business but I cant remember I do know however he started to drive ever more impressive cars.

I was around 20 when I got a call from Richard inviting me to be his best man. He had, how to put this, got a 15 year old girl in the family way and marriage was the way forward. We had to wait for her sixteenth birthday. She was very very pretty and probably the reason I was asked to help in proceedings was because Richard was confident I would perform well in ‘difficult’ circumstances. The thing was this girls Dad was at the pinnacle of local society, The Senior partner of a law firm and obviously very wealthy. The guest list was made up of the local great and the good and I got on my hind legs and delivered a speech that I hope was appropriate in the ever so delicate circumstances.

I totally lost touch with Richard but from time to time I would think of him. He had worked for a hamper company in Liverpool owned and run by a man I payed rugby with who was in fact an Everton Football Club director. (Everton are my one and only ever favourite soccer team). Richard Hughes, the owner, once told me he had had a falling out with Richard and he had left the company and moved to New Zealand.

It must have been 30 years later I got the call. ‘Dennis? Its Richard here. Richard Bradly. I am in London and I wonder if you would like to meet up for tea?’. The meeting place was The Ritz. A very self confident Richard entertained me to tea an cakes along with his wife and some of his children. It was all very weird as we skated around matters. Richard complained about the cakes demonstrating his authority. His wife was lovely and we parted promising future meetings.

Of course the internet provides many answers and soon I was learning of how Richard had moved to the Southern Hemisphere and had replicated and bettered the hamper company he had served on Merseyside. He had made an absolute fortune and he cared for his wife and children and set them all in up in wonderful homes. Of all the people I had grown up with this man had kicked the ball well and truly out of the park financially. I felt really happy for him as I understood Richard had many hidden depths and some of them probably haunted him.

Two years ago I found an email in a defunct address. It was Richard asking for help. Something had gone horribly wrong and he had broken up with his wife and life was on the edge. I had not seen the email and it grieves me I was not able to answer the call for help.

Last year another call. Back on his feet Richard was back in the UK on a trip hoping to meet up. A new partner and an invite to me to stay in his penthouse apartment overlooking The Sidney Opera House. Unfortunately I was away in France. ‘Next time’ said Richard. We will see!

The English Electric Lightning is the only British designed and built fighter jet ever built capable of speeds in excess of mach 2. In the 19960s, 70s and 80s it was the main strike aircraft of the RAF. Notoriously difficult to fly because of its twin engine ‘on top’ set up its most remarkable feature was an ability to turn vertical flight into horizontal flight almost instantly. I was once on a course at the main Fleet Air Arm base at Lossiemouth Scotland whilst in my final year at school. One morning a pre arranged manoeuvre was set up for a promotional photo shoot. A Lightning came down the main runway at tree top level its twin engines howling. As it drew level with the central control tower the pilot engaged its ‘afterburners’ the jet literally sat on its own tail before shooting skyward at an incredible rate. It was just awe-inspiring. Pilots report flying a Lightning was akin to being strapped to a space rocket.

David Pickavance was a ‘free placer’ at my school courtesy of his achievement in being at the top of rankings in the eleven plus. Maths was his main thing. His father was Italian and David was someone who had a healthy disregard for authority. He was one hundred percent his own man. He was impossibly good looking and always wore the latest fashion. He was a ‘mod’ and wore a Parkha with a fur trim. He was an only child and whilst distant with his father he had a remarkable relationship with his Mum. He told her everything. They would openly discuss any topic without embarrassment-a mile away from my situation. He did not have many friends and as I will explain later we teamed up-I became his wingman. He drove an immaculate Lambretta scooter with great panache. I had a beaten up one that was always letting me down. He took me to rock concerts in Liverpool, his Mum bought the tickets. We saw The Who and The Small Faces and others too. He liked nightclubs and despite being legally too young he would nearly always ‘get us in’.

Now the thing about David was he loved women and oh my goodness how they loved him. He was absolutely convinced that women were fare more keen on sex than most of us at that time believed. As a result he was very direct in his approach. He was sexually active from his early teens and thought absolutely nothing of entering Boots or similar and buying Durex condoms. Likewise he would go in any off-licence and buy his favoured Guinness and cider. If he was turned down because of suspicions of his age he was not phased at all. Off to the next shop he would go and bingo success. I found him fascinating because he would insist on giving me detailed blow by blow of accounts of his ‘experiences’ with women. I was at that time likely to go bright red if a girl even said hello.

I had become friendly with David in unusual circumstances. Back in 1966/7 decimal currency was still in the future. An average haircut was 2 shillings and six pence. Our Headmaster was a stickler for short hair and as a result ‘barber bills’ became an item for families like mine. Near the school was a barber shop called ‘Freds’. Fred had a ‘club foot’ and red hair and peculiar as it might sound Fred would always purposefully knick an ear during the haircut and draw blood. You did not know when it was coming but it always did. Watching customers would grin with glee as Fred struck and a boy yelped. Another feature of Fred’s haircut was he would enquire in a stage whisper ‘Anything for the weekend sir?’ of his youthful customers. This comment was linked to the fact that in those days barbers sold condoms. Most boys/youths found this experience almost as embarrassing as the nicked ear but not David Pickavance. ‘Yes please’ he would say ‘a packet of three!’

Now many would ask why on earth people went to Freds given his inclination to wound and embarrass. Well the reason was his haircuts cost 1 shilling and 9 pence a huge saving of 9 pence over the standard rate. Mum would give me 2 and 6 and I would have the 9 pence change.

David saw an opportunity and went to the library to look into the skills of barbering and haircutting. I was his victim and model and I would go to his house in Upton on The Wirral. He would wrap me in a sheet and for over an hour he would snip and snip and work out how to cut hair. The first few attempts were not very good but over time he honestly got quite good. David then broadcasted his skills at school and every break time and lunch time in the changing room by the school gym David set up shop. He charged 1 shilling and six pence -a further threepence saving. He attracted quite a long list of customers. No member of staff ever found out and David’s social life went up a further gear as he had plenty of money to finance his fun. We drifted apart in our final year in school as he was way too busy collecting conquests. He was always happy to help others and he would score all the local girl’s schools for the attractiveness of their pupils and for him, the most important thing, their willingness to please. Holt Hill Convent was his favourite I seem to remember.

Any way after school David’s mathematical aptitude gained him a place at Imperial College London to read engineering. I never saw him again but many years later I learned that David had joined the RAF and had become a Squadron Leader. His squadron flew Lightnings.

Now the other day I was talking to someone about experiences we had that had created a memory that was out of the ordinary. A ‘thrill’ an ‘achievement’. In truth I am happy to say I have many of these but the one I chose to relate came from my school days.

I went to a ‘direct grant school’ a sort of poorer man’s Public School as the local authorities subsidised students from the local community who excelled in the then ‘eleven plus’exam but whose parents could not afford school fees. I lived out side the schools immediate catchment area so I did not qualify for this route and my dear Mum went out to work and saved hard to allow me an education that was first class. The school had a fearsome reputation in all that it did. It believed in excellence in all things. Winning was considered the ‘only thing’ to strive for and being ordinary in any way was just not entertained.

Every Thursday the whole school became Soldiers, Sailors and Airmen for the afternoon. For those who loved it it was a great escape from lessons and every summer we were encouraged to spend a week at a summer ‘posting’ to experience military life first hand. I will relate stories of dangling from helicopters, experiencing a Mayday call over Norway and what it is like to go in a decompression chamber in a later post.

The CCF, as it was known, was a very high standard and once a term the whole lot would ‘parade’ before a church service followed by a march past of School Governors and some former school dignitaries. Almost every parent would attend with friends and as a result there was always a large crowd of onlookers.

The School ‘Corps Of Drums’ was a fiercely independent organisation and elected and trained its own. The school music master had offered help and the rebuke he received irked him to such a degree that he banned anyone who played in The Corps of drums from the school orchestra. Now the afore mentioned Professor SK Smith and myself had taken up the trumpet and one of our great delights was playing the descant in Land of Hope and Glory when the Orchestra gave recitals.We had joined in our second year.

Now 16 we had a difficult choice as the “Drums” as they were known, were recruiting. We decided to apply and both of us, given our trumpet back grounds, became soloist at the church parade. It was quite a thing to play the ‘last post’ on your own! Any way the decision to join the ‘drums’ meant we were summarily banished from the orchestra. There were snare drummers, two tenor drummers who, I am ashamed to say, wore animal skin aprons and played their drums with swirling, swinging white drum sticks. A big Bass Drummer whose beat set the tempo for marching. Finally there were around 12 burglars who were directed in their timing by a number of signs they learned to understand and react to from the man in charge ‘The Drum Major’.

One particular church parade I played ‘The Retreat’ faultlessly and as this rendition coincided with my entry into my final year the vote from within the drums for the new Drum Major resulted in my unanimous selection. Very pleasing. My uniform was naval ‘number ones’ with the cross creases in the trousers. When on ‘drums’ duty I wore white gators, a white belt and my chin strap that normally was hidden was pulled down in sight. To top it all I wore large white gauntlets. My boots shone like mirrors my brasses were immaculate and my gold uniform badges looked splendid. As I was now IC the Corps of Drums I was promoted to equal highest rand in the school Royal Naval section, Petty Officer. The other Petty Officer was Hugh Dalgleish who went on to command a nuclear driven warship and he was the commander of The Royal Yacht Britannia!!-wait for that story!

Any way I cannot tell you just what a feeling it was to line up at the head of the whole school CCF before leading them around the block of the school before the church service. The ‘Sergeant major’ would address the six hundred boys who had just been inspected by a dignitary to ‘Shoulder arms”. ‘Parade will move to the right in threes Royal Naval section leading, Parade right turn.’ It was my turn. My heart pounding I let go the following command. ‘Drums by the centre QUICK MARCH’ Of we would go a three beat followed by a seven beat of the drums and my rolling mace would signal the buglers to break into ‘General Salute’ or some other marching tune. Me at the front in all my finery six hundred young men in my wake.

After church the CCF would line up on the parade ground and the ‘Drums’ would march up and down in front of the parents on the school field that overlooked the main quadrangle which served as the aforementioned ‘parade ground’.

Now there is a movement involving the mace that signals a short pause in a tune a sort of staccato break in the rendition. Difficult to explain but of no matter. The move involves first positioning the sharp end of the four foot mace on the palm of the gauntleted hand before tossing it upwards. Three complete spins before catching the thing, wait for this, between the first two fingers of the right hand followed by a series of circling movements all timed to signal ‘the pause’ followed by the continuing tune. It is a very tricky manoeuvre and whilst known to all recent Drum Majors and often practiced, the manoeuvre but it had not been seen at Church parade in recent living memory. Dropping the mace was just unthinkable. That was about to change.

I led the ‘Drums’ away from the spectators up the field , I signalled a ‘counter march’ and we headed back toward the dais with dignitaries awaiting there to receive our ‘march past’ and formal salute. Word on the street was I was ‘going to do it’ and I suspect there was an expectant hum amongst the parents and onlookers. My mates in the Rugby Teams would surely be squinting up toward the field from the main troop to see what happened. I signalled for a bugle tune with my revolving mace and added the command ‘Rabbits” which was a particular tune with the necessary pause in it. My intentions confirmed to my ‘band’ of brothers. My heart thumping I lead the Drums forward towards the large crowd and just as the tune hit its critical point I hurled the mace skywards its solid silver crest and chain sparkling in the sunlight. The catch was perfect as I approached the dais and dignitaries and my head was held high as I ordered ‘Eyes right’ and I saluted. I was in truth quite the hero. Strange to think that something like that gave so much pleasure and strange to think I can so vividly recapture the moment these many years later.

Back in the late 90s I worked for the Investment Banking arm of Barclays Bank-BZW.

In truth for most of the time I had an amazing job there as Head of International Equity Sales my role was to visit all the major Institutions in the Investing world out side of The UK and The USA. I will write at a later date of some of my experiences in this role but not now. Suffice it to say I ran up a load of air miles and went to some amazing places.

Anyway BZW was so ‘public school’ and ‘Oxbridge’ it was not true. The complete and utter opposite of Phillips and Drew. There were loads of Old Etonians on the staff a number of hereditary peers. Whilst I somehow excelled in the environment it certainly was not because I was one of the typical BZW ‘boys’.

I was on all sorts of committees and developed a very close friendship with a man called Robert Lister. A classicist by education he was one of the funniest and most intelligent people I have ever met. He was of the opinion that in a job interview any candidate should be given the ‘chance to shine’ by asking them appropriate ‘open questions’. One of the committees I was a member of was responsible for hiring new recruits as trainees. I had threatened to resign from this group on many occasions as the people we hired were always the same. Well bred, well educated but from all the best Public Schools and almost exclusively Oxbridge. On this particular day I skimmed through the CVs and announced to me colleagues that this would probably be my last appearance as the whole process was all but a formality. One or two looked uncomfortable in the meting and the first man, nearly always men, was called, super self confident in a tailored suit. I was bored.

A succession of ‘me too’s’ appeared and most around the table crooned their approval of the ‘Mini me’s’ of their own incarnation. I offered a stinging rebuke to those around the table and given that all had learned that my contribution to the firms business was based on a wholly different background to the norm and their own some even seemed embarrassed.

At last a man from Dublin. I took notice. I will leave his name out of the article so as to protect his privacy. Anyway he walked in looking awkward and wearing ‘the wrong sort of suit’. He sat down and Robert, who despite his own back ground being like most of the others shared my views asked a few introductory questions before the big one. This mans chance.

So “Patrick’ (or what ever) “tell us about the best day in your life” Patrick sat up suddenly animated. ‘Oh for sure that would be easy’ he drawled in his lovely Irish burr of an accent. ” Now my father has a business” he said ” and he saddles a few race horses” (race horse owner of some repute I later learned) Any way “last Easter we were at the Curragh with a group of my best mates and we were there to watch my father’s horse in the big race. And the crack was good”. “Now on that day in the big race me sister, who is a jockey, was riding my fathers horse” The interview committee had now become entranced and all were listening intently. He became visably more confident and he drew his body forward across the table and his voice dropped a few notes and the volume was a sort of stage whisper.

“Anyway they were off me with my mates the crack good and me sister on me dads horse. They came down the straight and I saw me sister wave her whip and she came along side the leading horse and all my mates were going mad. His voice rising in volume as he went rather like a commentator on th TV. All of a sudden it was over me sister had won and she threw her arms in the air and my mates jumped up and down and we all hugged each other” ” Oh to be sure that was the very best day of my life”. The reaction was startling one of the grey Eton, Oxford types jumped to his feet. ” You sir are hired’ he said with out any consultation. No problem though as all were agreed this was a very special young man.

Now the truth is Patrick was an excellent hire and his career blossomed indeed he is still working in the City in a senior position and is very well known to many as someone who not only is an excellent businessman but a delightful character to boot.

The year before last I was at the retirement party of a good friend who had risen to lofty heights enjoying a beer and catching up with old friends when a familiar face appeared. “Hello Dennis” he said in a soft Irish accent. It was ‘Patrick’. “I just wanted to thank you he said because I was informed how big a role you played in encouraging BZW to break the mould and hire me. I have had a wonderful career and I am so grateful some one had the foresight to see that sometimes being different is an advantage” We had a lovely chat and I had the great pleasure of introducing Patrick to my son who had been invited to the party as the man’s career we were celebrating was a family friend. I had told the story of this Irishmans hiring many times as I thought it a humorous tale. Tom was therefore delighted to put a face to a story so to speak. I had one final question for Patrick. “Patrick” I said I am so pleased to hear of your success but one thing has always troubled me” “what ever happened to your sister”? “Oh’ said Patrick ‘she only went and married AP Mcoy!!!!!

I could honestly write a book on the adventures we enjoyed with David and Mary Laing. Two delightful people, David is worth ‘Googling’ as he is a very important man. Mary’s achievements are less public.

David has who is a senior liveryman in The City had invited Liz and I to a Mansion House Function in which we would meet The Lord Mayor and his wife and enjoy a piano recital. This recital was given by The Lord Chief Justice who was a concert level pianist aside from his ‘day job’. Hugely impressive.

The instructions were clear meet at 7 for 7:30 at The Mansion House-black tie. Liz had accompanied The Laings to the event and I was to join them. Now working in The City it is quite normal to attend a Black Tie dinner. I always feel uncomfortable walking around in one but if there is one place where you don’t get a second glance it is in The City. We had been busy and as I changed I realised my timing would be tight.

Arriving at the side entrance of the mansion house I passed through a security scanner and entered the main hall where a large crowd were enjoying evening cocktails. My heart sank. I was the only man in a DJ.

Now in the City of London there are a lot of people who are arrogant. To be absolutely honest they are so far up their own backsides the light of day has disappeared. I would meet many of these people in my business life and what marked most of them out was a behaviour whereby when it suited they would greet you but when it didn’t, and this often would happen when they were in the company of their own arrogant mates, they would totally blank you.

As I stood there like a rabbit in the headlights I noticed a goodly number of these characters staring at me. Some of them grinned, one caught the sleeve of his friend and pointed, both of them giggled. I thought of running back to the office to change but my watch confirmed ‘too late’. At the moment of maximum despair a tall thin woman in a long dark blue dress, pearls around her neck appeared. She put on the pair of glasses she was wearing on a chord around her neck and producing a clipboard she enquired ‘are you with the mayoral party, could I have your name’. I obliged and she ordered me to follow. I glanced back and saw one or two more of the ‘upthemselves’ laughing. We climbed a grand staircase and stopped out side some large double doors. I noticed a man dressed in a DJ pacing up and down his hands making movements in the air. I had a sense of relief and approached him and blurted out something like ‘ I see you have the wrong dress too’. The woman pulled me away and in a scolding way informed me the man was the soloist ‘visualising his performance’ oops another cock up.

The doors were swung open and an amazing site greeted me. A positive overload of colour featuring a sort of central dais where the Mayor and his wife The Lady Mayoress stood chatting with some guests. There were men in fine uniforms of liverymen leaders and a sprinkling of military uniforms too. I gulped. A foot man stepped forward and asked my name. In a booming voice I heard ” Mista DANIS EDJA” or words to that effect. Certainly not my name. I stepped forward and shook the hand of the Mayor and his first lady. I quickly discovered at that level small talk was not my strength. I quickly began to flounder. Thankfully Mary Laing rescued me and led me off to join Liz and several others.

We ate two course of food and we were instructed to move down stairs to an assembly room. We could see through to the main room where the cocktail drinkers were now seated. A stage at the end of the room had some very fine seats elevated above a grand piano. The footman boomed out ‘form in twos and process’. The mayor at the head we assembled and on a further announcement demanding the audience ‘be upstanding’ we set off. It was a slow march accompanied by a slow hand clap from the audience. All very weird. As luck would have it the tall woman was at my side-perhaps she was my minder. A bit further back Liz looked lovely with a military man offering her his arm. The first few halting, embarrassing steps, changed into a sort of strut. I flashed a winning smile at any woman who caught my eye. After a few rows I noted the first of the ‘upthemselves’ who clearly had a realisation as he sort of waved at me. Half way down the room and loads of them were now trying to ingratiate me in some way by smiling.

On the stage The Soloist appeared and a woman with a cello joined him. The concert began- desert was to be enjoyed after the concert. From our elevated position overlooking the main audience I had an excellent view of proceedings. The music was by someone Russian I never of. His visualisation paying dividends the man played for around an hour apparently without error. Although you would need to be a musical maestro your self to notice if indeed a note was missed.

As I became bored I played a game which after a while became great fun. Identifying an ‘up themselves’ I would look straight at them until my stare was returned. Normally the recipient of my stare would offer a grin in a cheesy sort of way, one or two hand waves came my way. I offered in return a thin lipped movement that confused all. Was it a grin or a grimace? looking confused they would look away. Honours even!

It was a very interesting night and one of the results of the experience was that from then onwards I was treated with a good deal more respect from the ‘upthemsleves’ than before. Not sure I cared though!