Memories of a Ruby Wedding Celebration with Friends and Family

This is a proxy story by proxy, i.e., Maggie telling me what happened at our Saturday bash, probably Sunday too, it’s all a bit hazy and confused. The beer man arrived with the obligatory barrel of ‘Autumn Gold’ real ale on Thursday (he was playing cricket on Friday so he left me to tap it on Friday) and the tent men arrived late Friday afternoon. Putting up a marquee that stretched the length of our lawn was a joy to behold – it was a long way from my cub-scout days! The three bay marquee in red and green panels sprang up as if on springs, complete with internal lighting! Long tables went up to take the consumables and round tables plus chairs for the anticipated one hundred and fifty guests! It was magic. But what followed on Saturday morning was even more fantastic when Maggie, ably supported by daughter-in-law Jane, produced a Chicken Korma and Vegetable curry of Gargantuan proportions, plus, in true Ratty from Wind in the Willows style, hamrollsapplesbananaspearspotatocrispstortillacrispspringlesnutsbreadrolls baguettescheesessausagerollskiwifruitspineapplemelonsstrawberriescherries. Got the picture? Geoffrey arrived with two large steaming cauldrons of beef curry (his own beef cattle) and Frank Dandy (a local entrepreneur) arrived with a beautiful set of garden table and chairs that turned out to be a present from Maggie’s rather extensive family. Suddenly we were ready for the off and I took the opportunity to take my first drink of the day, not, I hasten to add, my last… What I think made the day was that everyone seemed to be in a mood to celebrate: three couples celebrating new additions to their families, Greg celebrating the sale of his software company, Geoffrey (a QC) celebrating the course of his current case against Saddam Hussein, Peter celebrating the success of his resolution of Lesotho’s problems, Neal (a sculptor) celebrating the success of a new exhibition, Tony was celebrating all his ambitions coming together in one building housing Squash Courts (he was a Squash champion) an auction room, an antique centre and a bar, Maggie was justifiably celebrating the huge success of her catering, and so it went on. Me? I was just celebrating! The huge diversity of people was as fascinating in itself as the way in which they all intermingled. I, as you might have gathered by now, was well in my cups and unintentionally provided at least one of the highlights of the day when my chair collapsed and left me on my back with my arms and legs in the air like a stranded Turtle. Geoffrey, with wicked glee, proposed a cricket match in the orchard and quickly rounded up half a dozen players too inebriated to realise what was going on – myself included. As standing upright was an achievement in itself bowling was a ludicrous idea. I found myself bowling to a young Asian boy (the son of a consultant neurosurgeon) eager to show off his athleticism and cricketing skills. I bowled, hit a damson tree, an apple tree and three fielders before they took me off! Geoffrey maintained that his team won, but I pointed out that it was my party and we won…period. Christopher, aided and abetted by Guy, made a speech and I have to admit it we, Maggie and I, were very close to tears, nor were we the only ones. The wine and beer continued to flow into the darkness and people drifted in and out of my consciousness. When it all ended I have no idea, only that it was a happy, happy day to be surrounded by so many friends and relatives. As surely as day follows night the clearing up of the debris arrived along with the Paracetamol and very strong coffee. Fortunately friends and relatives arrived to lighten the burden and our neighbour MP arrived and invited us to lunch in the House of Commons! Once again Maggie whipped up a superb lunch and we sat in the hot sun and feasted quietly and contentedly. One day we might even go back to work… but not just yet.

Florence

Finally made it into Firenze at about 7.30pm, just in time to find the one and only camp-site full up. Which, in the circumstances, was just as well co’s we wouldn’t then have experienced the phenomenon of the Piazzale Michelangelo. We were on a road above Firenze, just past the camp-site, when we came across this large car-park with a monument to Michelangelo’s ‘David’ in the centre and a semi-circular balustrade that looked out across the city, across the river Arno and the Ponte Vecchio. A breathtaking view and very moving, 'cos here was the city of Petrarch and Dante - of Giotto, Uccello, Botticelli, Leonardo da Vinci, Donatello, Vasari, Galileo and Michelangelo, etc., etc., ad gloria.

There were one or two caravans and motorhomes about that looked as though they’d come to rest for the night so we promptly rolled into a space and settled in. It was fairly crowded, lot of people about, but not uncomfortable. However, remember the Spanish habit of going ‘paseo’? Well, here they do it en-mass! By about 9pm the car-park was packed to the seams, the spaces in-between and everywhere else was packed with people; a vast imbroglio of light and shade and noise, a veritable tower of Babel with every language under the sun to be heard. A meeting place for street artists, street musicians, peddlers, teenagers and tourists. Coaches poured in and disgorged docile crocodiles of tourists whilst the local buses emptied noisy crowds in a seemingly unending stream - incredibly this went on until at least four am. When I finally fell asleep from sheer exhaustion.

At 6am everyone was woken up by a forceful shower from a sanitation wagon that liberally sprayed the road and anything in the way with a fierce jet of water. Then the sweepers and road polishers moved in and the Piazzale was soon as devoid of dirt and litter as a newly polished floor. The whole place is just astonishing. Called on friends, Peter and Rosemary Diamond, my OU tutor and Chris and Guy’s Eng.Lit. tutor, only to discover they’d left four days ago! Must have heard we were coming - they’ve been here since bloody January.

Absolutely exhausted! Have walked and walked around Firenze. Have drunk in cafes, eaten enormous pizzas whilst walking the streets. Have seen the ‘David’ - I’m not ashamed to say that I stood in front of the David and the tears rolled down my cheeks - it was the highlight of the whole holiday for me. And Botticelli’s ‘Venus’ and bloody near everything else, except that it would take weeks to see everything. One had to be selective, so Maggie chose the galleries and I chose the cafes! Guess who’s pished?

The camp-site, that we finally got on to this morning, is reminiscent of Spanish camp-sites at their worst; I won’t say it’s crowded, but when we leave we’ll take at least three tents with us, two of them have hammered their pegs practically into my tyres! Florence is incredibly beautiful, despite the turistos, and it is still possible to imagine the artistic patronage and political divisions that made the renaissance movement not only possible, but inevitable. There will be a renaissance again soon and, I believe, it will again come from the artists and writers.

God! but this is serious stuff on only two bottles of ‘cheap’ Italian vino, which is a myth 'cos the cheapest I’ve seen so far I’m drinking and that was about 70 pence a litre - 1400 Lira, bloody monopoly money here. Well, I mean, with 100 lira equal to 5 pence and 22,250 lira for 6 gallons of petrol what else is one supposed to think?

Michelangelo's 'Fred'

Florence is a student city, a ‘hippy’ city, outdated as that word might be. It is full of young people, mostly bumming fags, food and money off the turistos. Like Spain, Italy has its quota of beggars and there is nothing more incongruous or pathetic than a beggar outside a Gucci shop; wealth and poverty side by side and each ignoring the other, each so close and yet so far apart as to be in different worlds. I don’t know what’s the matter with me, I keep getting bloody serious and beginning to sound like one of those airy-fairy sociologists; I had a very emotional moment around the ‘David’, I think that must be it. Despite my flippancy the ‘David’ is for me sheer magic, created by a human-being whose power and insight has been unequalled by any, except perhaps his own contemporary, Leonardo da Vinci.

Poetry – 3

Youth - revisited (On going to university at the age of 45)

Youth, you who passed before I knew you, Welcome yet again in median age. Is’t really you that quickens so my step, Sharpens keen the sparkled eye and catches With excitement at my indrawn breath? Perhaps ‘tis only circumspection fled, or Sobriety anaesthetised whilst greater Wisdom hides its face in blushed embarrassment. What'ere it is a spring ‘midst winter flowers, A river, electric, flows with purest energy, Eroding banks of static time and Flushing dead ideas, detritus of dull routine From stale channels, freshing chok-ed roots, Cleansing, renewing, setting new ‘gainst old, Dead ‘gainst live and ignorance against a Fountain of new thought. Apollo and Athena walk with me Whilst goddess Até plays a Pander to my Troilus Outside the rules of royal rime, and engages Me in thoughts of time disjoint with time. Welcome and thrice welcome thou my youth Delayed from time past to time present, let Not these knees unlock or eyes dark mist Before this youth has run the gamut of time missed.

Memory of a Suffolk Tea Party What lingers in my mind is how very extraordinary The ordinary seemed to somehow be. Warm ordinary, friendly ordinary, fresh ordinary, A completely unpretentious ordinary tea. The sausage rolls I’ve had a thousand times, The salad rolls and vol-au-vents and Things on sticks like plates of timber porcupine. But it really was extr’ordinary How delightful the ordinary seemed to be.

A Tribute to My Grandfather (William 'Bill' Oakey, a policeman at Hay Mills until his retirement in 1931) Born upon Sabrina’s banks in verdant Worcestershire, A ferry boy at Lenchford, he plied himself for hire. Cradled in that Severn vale to fullest stature grew, Until the Queen she called him to fight a country new. To fight for life and liberty, Old Kruger called the Boers And grandad went to fight the first of many wars. From rolling sward to blistered veldt, grandad rode his steed, Chasing Boer shadows and cursing at the need. But he grew to love the sun scorched earth and every sun bleached bone; He swore that he’d go back there, when they sent him home, But he was an honest man, straighter never walked; So he signed on as a constable and criminals he stalked. When gas jets hissed and pubs their violence spewed, Grandad strode in fearlessly and peace, with fists, renewed. A Georgian King now called upon this warrior’s time, To serve against the Kaiser in the army’s foremost line. Blood and muck and bullets, goes the modern joke, But not when grandad’s uniform the blood began to soak. When the Somme and Ypres and Passendale had faded from the mind, Grandad joined the police again to be with his own kind. An honourable career with commendations proper, No promotion or commission, just a very solid copper. In the quiet of his life respect he did create From all who ever met him, of high or low estate. He had no time for falsehood or hypocrisy’s two face, He only knew that those he loved earned in his heart a place. Also see the short story "Grandad"

Really There? Yesterday upon the stair, I met a man who wasn’t there. He wasn’t there again today, How I wish he’d go away. Just lately there’ve been many men, Men upon the stair. Men who vanish into prison camps, Men who’re never there. They vanish into limbo, Gone without a trace, Denied by all about them, Men without a face. Were they ever really there? Did they physically exist? Or are they propaganda tools, The illusion of a terrorist? I deny their non-existence, Protest their bland denial. Without our recognition They die without a trial. Can we deny their presence? Cease to ratify their living? Will they really go away If we refute their being? No, they’ll never go away, Those men upon the stair, Because there are a few of us Who know they’re really there.

Stop the World No Nietzsche splendid, predatory animal. No red blood singing in the veins. A dead world of pristine stone Erected from Man’s mind. Earth’s crust a ferro-concrete layer And seas a slowly, heaving, turgid mass. Corrosive on the upturned cheek A prussic acid rain-drop falls From an artificial coloured sky. No birds greet this dawn, just The twittering electronic chatter Of computer controlled humans; Jellied legs petroleum decayed And button dimpled fingers soft. Mindless bureaucrats, paranoid at Nature’s willful intransigence; Trees fill no forms, nor pay taxes And their leaves untidy lie. STOP THE WORLD! I WANT TO GET OFF.

The Wave The wave gathers slowly, far out to sea, rises, curls, Hangs suspended, lunges, crashes in a spume of spray And retreats in shuddering undertow to be renewed Somewhere in the vastness of the deep from whence it came. Thus does passion ride the mind, torment the body And spatter its essence into the chasm of desire Only to renew itself in some hidden corner of the body’s deep.

The Caesars (a tongue in cheek epic of the Roman Empire) Marius, Sulla, Crassus, Pompey, All made a bid the Empire to sway. But Julius arrived to cut out the rot And slit a few throats to cry "That's your lot!" He assembled the plebs and cried with salt tears, "Make me your Caesar and lend me your ears." Casca and Brutus sweetened his wine, Slipped in the knife and made him divine. Cicero, briefly, took up the reins. Anthony caught him and opened his veins. A trio to rule they decided upon, But Augustus Octavian wanted just one. Anthony busy, with the Queen of the Nile, Was caught with his pants down and died without style. Aemilius Lepidus, third of three, Lucky in Carthage contrived to stay free. Augustus the sage ruled cruelly they tell, Pulled by the strings of a wife straight from hell. Through age and false trust his attention did nod, Livia, the wife, made him a god. Adopted by law came stern old Tiberius, Gay as a fairy, but terribly serious. At Capri in his villa he kept all his tarts, And had new-born babies to suck at his parts. The irony was to one steeped in sin, It was Gaius, his son, who smothered him. But the sins of the father, it could be said, Shall ever be called upon that son's head. In the case of Caligula this never was so, He invented more sins than his father could know! Bestiality, sodomy, incest as well, A list as long as a book could tell. Mad as a hatter he finally paid, Skewered on the end of a Praetorian's blade. Stuttering, limping Claudius came. Reluctantly called to that hall of fame. Good he tried, but found alas He'd throats to cut before he'd pass. Messalina, Clo Clo's wife Led a very hectic life. Shafted left and right and center Straight to Hell Clo Clo sent her. Agrippina, Nero's mummy, Slipped a drug into Clo Clo's tummy. Sitting on poor Clo Clo's deathbed "Claudius names my son." She said. Drusus Nero, queer and rotted, Told the Senate to 'get knotted'. Musical and gay to boot All he cared for was the loot. Told the plebs had denounced perversion He fired the city as diversion. Evil deeds his doppleganger, Cut his throat to dodge the anger. Galba next by deeds renown, Strict and brutal, himself did crown. Flabby Otho spurred by greed Had him slain, but foreswore the deed. Otho in his bloody path Took the mantle and the wrath. None can say what a King intends, As all discovered, when he slew his friends. Sick of Otho's heart of stone Vitellius' army fell on Rome. Short and bloody Otho's reign, Took his dagger and died in pain. By spoils of war Vitellius came And outside Rome began his reign. Terrified of plots to life, Vitellius sanctioned rape and strife. Vespasian, by plebs demand, Took the crown and command. Vitellius still with firm ambition Fought a war of attrition. People clapped and cheered and hooted As the battle raged and Rome was looted. Bound and dragged Vitellius fell, Beneath a rain of stones from Hell. Sixty-nine was a bloody year When Caesars three died in fear. Still within the twelve month span Vespasian became 'the man'. A half-score years were to pass Before another roused the mass. Vespasian's rule was long and sweet, A time to build and none defeat. A Caesar true of level head, One of the first to die in bed. Vespasian's son, Titus the true, Pledged peace and love and joy anew. Not being cruel nor showing the fist, His brother, Domitian was allowed to exist. Two years, two months and twenty days, Titus ruled in that ancient of lays. When he died the people mourned, Twice as much had they been warned. Domitian called the old times back, Rape and murder, cross and rack. Fat and gross he delighted To see his enemies and friends benighted. Drunken, sotted he could but stagger And died beneath an unknown dagger. More Caesars came, more Caesars went, Some were good, some were bent. But none could equal in renown Those first to bear the laurel crown. Paedarasts, murderers, rapists these, Plumbing depths to make blood freeze. Enemies they took in stride, 'Twas from their friends they usually died. To Senate, people, soldiers all, A ripe round raspberry was their call.

Our Great Adventure...

We launched ourselves upon our Great Adventure in a spirit of cautious optimism, a large scotch and a couple of Ibuprofen each (for our arthritic joints you understand - that's my story and I'm sticking to it).Thus drugged up to the eyeballs we handed ourselves over to the tender mercies of our son, Guy, and his wife Jane who (foolishly) volunteered to chauffeur us to the capital and Buck House. The journey was swift and uneventful… at least as far as I could tell with my eyes shut!

As all guest's cars had a special sticker we were easily picked out by the multitude of police around the Palace and swiftly and efficiently parked up in the horse-riding lane alongside the Palace in Constitution Hill. Literally twenty-five yards from the main gates! Needless to say, Maggie was cool and lovely in a floaty frock and posh hat whereas I was done up like a smoked kipper in striped pants, black tail coat, grey waistcoat, shirt, tie and top hat and the uneasy feeling of sweat trickling down my back! The fact that it was brilliant sunshine and very, very HOT added nothing to my equanimity. We were early, which is the understatement of the year 'cos we were two hours early! Anyway, had our pictures taken at the Palace gates by one of the (hopefully) official photographers and parted with twenty quid (Guy and Jane laughing fit to bust and hordes of rubber-necking touristos not helping one little bit!).

We then went walkabout, which in my comic opera outfit added nothing to my comfort. We went walkabout lured by a lying photographer who said there was a pub "just around the corner." I think he meant the corner of Piccadilly, two miles away, 'cos we never found it. We crossed St. James Park, oo-ah'd at the baby ducks, crossed the Mall, at which point Lady Maggie decided she needed a loo and, as you do in these circumstances, asked a policeman and disappeared back the way we'd just come. Guy and Jane had meanwhile departed on their own adventures and I was left standing trying to look inconspicuous near the Palace… which was a joke 'cos every passing tourist took my picture like I was one of the sights of London! (And I probably was!) When Maggie returned we hurried to find somewhere to sit down before I fell down and found a bench in the park just alongside Constitution Hill which, in turn, runs alongside the Palace wall. Here was an oasis of calm with a woman who was attending the next Garden Party, but wanted to see what the form was first. By this time the queue of guests extended from the Palace gates, along Constitution Hill and into Wellington Place in the distance! At this point we began to get some idea of the numbers involved (we later discovered it to be around two thousand!) We were in the shade, comfortable and saw no point in standing in the queue so we simply sat and waited for the queue to come to us, which it very quickly did. We passed through the gilded gates, across the forecourt, through a carriage arch and into the inner courtyard. From here we entered the Palace itself. Up a flight of red-carpeted stairs, through a luxuriously appointed ante-room (we paid particular attention to the china - naturally), another flight of red-carpeted stairs, two more well appointed rooms with flunkeys everywhere to cut off the too inquisitive and out onto the balustraded terrace overlooking the gardens. Gardens you understand is a euphemism for VERY large landscaped park complete with lake! Maggie, being the nosy type, wanted to see EVERYTHING so we trekked around the lake, the rose garden, the flower garden etc., etc., with me grabbing every opportunity to sit down that came our way. At 4pm the band (there were two military brass bands playing alternately throughout the afternoon) struck up the National Anthem and the Queen and entourage: Phillip, Charles, and various minor royalty appeared on the terrace and we all foregathered on the tea lawns. One of the great features of this day was the unobtrusive organisation of everything, from the parking of a thousand or so cars, getting two thousand people into the gardens and suddenly, without anyone noticing, to two double lines of guests through which the hosts strolled and chatted. The ease with which they chatted to complete strangers and their incredible stamina was wondrous to behold. In my imagination I had a little chin-wag with Phillip and the Queen, very interesting. Out of fellow interest I asked him how long it took him to mow the lawns. He seemed a bit taken aback, but obviously recognised a fellow sufferer and replied, "We have a sit on lawn mower that the gardener rides." "Mmmm, Gardener," I thought, "There's posh." At that point Maggie joined in with, "It's a big house, Elizabeth, how do you find time to keep it all clean with all your other duties?" "We," she answered, again a bit taken aback I thought, "We have staff to do that." Personally I thought it was all a bit showing off what with gardeners and 'staff'. But I suppose when you are putting on a 'do' for some two thousand people you're entitled to put on a few airs and graces. Added to which when you have a 'lake' in your back garden instead of a two by four foot pond (that leaks!) it is one up on the Jones' of this world. Reality intruded rather abruptly if one glanced up at the roof of the Palace and saw, outlined against the sky, the figures of the police security with their binoculars, AK47s and sniper sights. We took tea in the tea tent (where else?). A nice mixture of hors-d'oeuvres, cakes, ice cream and tea. From which advantage point we sat and watched the world pass by: diplomats, Arab Sheiks, uniformed officers from every service, and people just like us, we enjoyed several conversations with those who joined us at the table. At 5.30pm people were beginning to wander out and as the whole thing was scheduled to end at 6pm we too made our way out through the Palace. Once again enjoying the Chinese porcelain and Derby dinner services all around us. Guy's car was parked in Constitution Hill and we all arrived together. Within seconds I had divested myself of jacket, waistcoat, tie and, luxury of luxuries, my shoes! At this point Guy and Jane produced their trump card, a cool-bag full of drinks. Gin and tonics for Maggie and rum and tonics for me (a new favourite of mine… thanks Bob). Bliss! The ensuing journey was conducted in an alcoholic haze (driver excepted) and gently aching feet.

But, this was not the end of our Adventure. Guy and Jane had very thoughtfully booked a table for dinner at The Dirty Duck pub (aka. The Black Swan) in Stratford upon Avon. This you must understand is not just Maggie's hometown, but the very place where, forty years ago (on the 8th August), we first met. Maggie was barmaiding at The Duck prior to her first teaching job and I was a local habitué of The Dirty Duck.

My very first words to her were, "Half a Keg and a kiss, please." It must have been the way I said it because I got both! Less than a year later we were married and spent our first night as guests of The Dirty Duck, courtesy of the then owner, Ben Shepherd. I think he felt he owed us something for all the beer Maggie sold and all the beer I drank! That place has a lot to answer for. Needless to say it was a very fitting end to a wonderful day, thanks in no small part to Guy and Jane. Why are we telling you? Don't be silly, we're telling EVERYBODY!

Camping?

1971: "But they're only little children!" cried my mother, her vivid and horrific imagination already beginning to form living pictures of two torn and mutilated little bodies ravaged by stray bands of Corsican bandits. Her thinking being coloured by the last time she went to the cinema, or Picture Palace as it was then. "They're only going to camp in the garden!" I protested. "They'll be perfectly warm," added my wife shrewdly.

Not wishing to cause dissent my mother bit back her fears and nodded palely, "Are you sure they'll be warm enough. It isn't really summer yet you know." she couldn't resist adding. The warm Spring sunshine threw back the lie and shrieks of childish laughter stilled any further protest. Nevertheless the unspoken horrors lurked behind the worried eyes. The whole idea had been born in one mad moment of burgeoning Spring life and a sudden awareness of how closely our two boys, aged seven and nine, were tied to our lives. "Cut the apron strings." I said, all white hunter and intrepid explorer. "They do need to be a little more independent." Added Maggie eagerly, having been assailed for the umpteenth time with that nerve jabbing cry of "What can we do?" The fortunate acquisition of an as yet unused tent, courtesy of a give-away stamp company, gave the idea all the incentive it required. Simply put, and what a ridiculous statement that is, we would let the boys camp in the orchard for one night to see how they got on and if they liked it to do it again…sometime…sometime in the very nebulous future. Convinced that as soon as they had finished their food, read their comics and had a punch-up the entire thing would be over and forgotten. All of which only proves how short we were on insight. Four o'clock Friday afternoon brought the first intimation of exactly what we had unleashed. Two satchels flew through the front door accompanied by the announcement that we could keep the comforts of soft and riotous living, i.e., the Telly, as they were now going to live off the land. They would not, they swore, set foot in the house again…until Sunday night that is. That little plan was promptly scotched when their mother hauled them in to change into some old clothes. Their disgust for adults, parents in particular, achieved new and dizzier peaks. Fortunately nothing could quite dull the pure gloss of actually having their own matches and being allowed to light their own fire. Two boys who normally complain bitterly about having to tie their own shoelaces suddenly acquired vast resources of energy and rapidly had a fire going that a steel smelter might have envied. Nothing was sacred to their blunt axe and rusty saw. Only some very nimble footwork and strong language on my part saved the garden gate and a decrepit, but living, plum tree. The fire did serve one useful purpose in that we consigned a lethal collation of berries to its flames before our resourceful, but ignorant, sons ate them. The tent, finally rendered into a reasonable facsimile of what a tent should look like, bulged at the seams with sleeping bags, pillows, comics, raw bacon, frying pan, bread, cooking fat, chocolate, sweets, torch, wellington boots, sandwiches, sundry cutlery, coffee flask and that last link with mankind, the teddy bear. In the centre of this abundance, drooling over the chocolate tin, sat our dog, a noisy, lunatic Jack Russell terrier. Having spent many years struggling to get them to bed at a reasonable hour the sudden switch to them wanting to go to bed at 5.30 in the afternoon is a little breathtaking. Fortunately the attractions of their own fire remained unexhausted and they managed to restrain themselves for another full half-hour. Finally, to shrieks of laughter and friendly body blows, they crawled into their sleeping bags, arraigned their goodies about them and settled down to enjoy the thrills of a new world. Granny, my mother, having extracted sworn-on-the-bible, cross-your-heart-and-hope-to-die promises that we would leave the front door open all night with the porch light on and that we would let the dog stay with them for protection - which was a laugh, because if anyone needed protecting it was our dog! - she departed reluctantly to her own home muttering, I have no doubt, something about cruel and hard-hearted parents. Maggie and I made bets as to what ungodly hour she would choose to telephone in the morning to find out if they'd gone down with pneumonia. By seven o'clock the bonfire had subsided to a mere blaze, they were asleep, Granny had telephoned and been reassured that all was well. It does get a little chilly at night and at nine o'clock the dog slunk in and stretched out in front of the fire. The dog's expression said quite plainly that a joke was a joke but let's not get ridiculous. Naturally we both checked that they were alright because oddly it did seem to be much colder that particular night, quite a frost in the air almost. I won't say that I was worried, but I didn't want a couple of brave chaps sitting out there blue with cold and afraid to come in because their father might laugh at them. I know that there is such an hour as six in the morning because I have, in my heady youth, often gone to bed at that hour, but awakening at that time is definitely not one of my habits. I stared at the bright sunlight pouring through the window, "Can't see any smoke." I said. "Perhaps they can't light the fire." Maggie suggested. Casually, at six-thirty in the morning there is nothing more casual than me, I sauntered outside. "Need any…." A blazing fire met my eyes and with perfect throwaway timing our eldest son informed me that they had cooked and eaten breakfast, washed up, cleaned the tent out, folded everything up, made sandwiches and were just going on a hike. Leaving me nothing to say except, "Oh… er… good." I got the distinct impression that I was very much surplus to requirements. I also felt very old and out of it. Wiping the dew from my nose I slunk indoors, berated Maggie for worrying needlessly and got back into bed. The fact that my extensive knowledge of camping and woodcraft, culled from brief flirtations with the cubs and boys brigade, was not required, indeed that they had managed very well without it, hurt like hell. Maggie laughing fit to bust did nothing for the low state of my morale. So put out was I about not being able to share the glory of camping for the first time that, on their return, I rather huffily insisted on everyone accompanying me to the library to change their library books. Whilst we were away my mother rang every five minutes. Her conviction that the entire family had been carried off by ravening wolves deepening by the second. We returned just in time to prevent her from calling out the police, the fire brigade and the armed forces of the country. Another crisis struck immediately. Tired of simply burning things on an ordinary bonfire, however big, our adventurers collected some hay from the barn, spread it around, set fire to it and played fire fighters and forest fires! My reputation as a spoilsport was generously enriched as I stamped out the conflagration. My unfair attitude to the joys of camping took some of the fun out of the whole thing and they decided to consult with a higher authority. Their mother, equally adamant about their fire fighting activities, zeroed in popularity and our two arsonists stamped off in disgust. From that moment the adventure lost its sparkle. The fact that the ensuing night was also the coldest for some time properly put the sparkle out. By six o'clock the next morning they were back in their own beds cheerfully reading their comics and refusing to get up. Camping is one thing, comfort is another and never the twain shall meet.