A Knight’s Tale – Page 7

A Knight’s Tale (95: Gaeddren)

Later in 1983, probably after we returned from the French trip, we holidayed in a farmhouse near Cerrigydrudion in North Wales, where friends Ann and Don were refurbishing their recently acquired house.

Sam was soon at the wheel of an elderly tractor, whilst Louisa engaged the attention of the cattle.

This misty shot down the valley must have been taken early one morning.

Hills like this were all around us,

Blending so well with the rugged hillsides

were the abandoned artefacts of a disused slate mine, itself adding heaps to the mountain terrain.

In the foreground of this picture, Becky carries Louisa, and Jessica leads Sam towards another visitor in the doorway of a mine building.

It was in revisiting these images of terraced and semi-detached houses, perhaps once the homes of quarry workers, that I thought of Aberfan.

‘The Aberfan disaster was a catastrophic collapse of a colliery spoil tip in the Welsh village of Aberfan, near Merthyr Tydfil, on 21 October 1966, killing 116 children and 28 adults. It was caused by a build-up of water in the accumulated rock and shale, which suddenly started to slide downhill in the form of slurry.

Over 40,000 cubic metres of debris covered the village in minutes, and the classrooms at Pantglas Junior School were immediately inundated, with young children and teachers dying from impact or suffocation. Many noted the poignancy of the situation: if the disaster had struck a few minutes earlier, the children would not have been in their classrooms, and if it had struck a few hours later, the school would have broken up for half-term.

Great rescue efforts were made, but the large numbers who crowded into the village tended to hamper the work of the trained rescue teams, and delayed the arrival of mineworkers from the Merthyr Vale Colliery. Only a few lives could be saved in any case.

The official inquiry blamed the National Coal Board for extreme negligence, and its Chairman, Lord Robens, for making misleading statements. Parliament soon passed new legislation about public safety in relation to mines and quarries.’ (Wikipedia, on which there is much more information.)

This is one of the abiding memories of my young adulthood, and, indeed, parenthood. The whole of the UK, and possibly much of the world, was in shock, especially because the school had borne the brunt.

On a happier note we enjoyed numerous holidays at Gaeddren, with Annandon – the name shared by each of them because Sam and Louisa couldn’t tell the difference when they were very little and therefore made a portmanteau word suffice for each of them.

I carried out numerous training runs in the hills around Gaeddren. Perched on a hill above Cerrigydrudion, this house was an ideal point from which to engage in fell running. Since I used the roads, this wasn’t actually fell running, as I had done in the Lake District, but it felt like it. Watching the changing light as I ran up and down roads cut from this rocky land, passing flowing streams and rugged trees sometimes indistinguishable from the granite to which they clung, was a truly exhilarating experience. It was on one of these two hour marathons that I felt my only ‘runner’s high’. No pun intended. Please don’t think I could, even on the flat, run a marathon in two hours. Here, I use the word figuratively. A ‘runner’s high’ is a feeling of intoxicated elation, said to come at one’s peak. No further pun intended. Well, I never tried LSD. I did, however, find it useful pre-decimalisation. Pun intended.

When I did seek an even route I ran the complete circuit of Llyn Tegid, known to the English as Lake Bala. Having three times, once in 88 degrees fahrenheit, managed the Bolton marathon, which ends with a six-mile stretch up the aptly named ‘Plodder Lane’, with a vicious climb at the end, I thought I might attempt the North Wales marathon. Imagine my surprise to find it boringly, unrelentingly, flat. Here I will divert, as I once did in the Bolton race. My grandmother, then in her nineties, was seated on a folding chair in order to watch me come past. I left the field, nipped across, kissed her on the head, and quickly rejoined the throng. She seemed somewhat nonplussed, as did a number of other competitors. After all, why would anyone willingly supplement, even by a few feet, a distance of 26 miles 385 yards?

A Knight’s Tale (94: The Stepping Stone Community)

As an Area Manager of the inner city Social Services Department of Westminster, I was continually frustrated at the lack of provision for the care of older adolescents for whom we were responsible. One of my own clients went to live in the establishment Ann Eland (then Urquhart), was managing in Chelsea. It had been her ambition to set up a community of her model for just the group of young people we could not adequately accommodate. Through my visiting my client I realised that, in Ann, we had a gem who should be encouraged. I therefore chaired a committee, assembled by Ann, which set up The Stepping Stone Community in Finsbury Park. We rented three houses from a Housing Association; staffed it with suitable carers, and opened it to young people aged 16-plus in their last two years in care. This voluntary work was additional to my employed occupation. The unique element was the ‘normal adult’, one attached to each house. The idea was that these adults, all in work, were to provide a model for the young people. Adults and adolescents alike each had a bedsit. In exchange for their accommodation the adults were contracted to attend a house meal once a week. They and the other residents took turns in producing the fare. This organisation thrived for more than twenty years in the ’70s, ’80s and ’90s. Unfortunately, because of the growing reluctance of Local Authorities to fund such agencies, we began to struggle financially. For our last five years our treasurer and I kept us afloat with personal bank guarantees. This was beginning to worry us. We therefore approached another child care agency, The Thomas Coram Foundation, seeking a merger. The Foundation had an infrastructure we couldn’t match, having benefitted from the legacy of a wealthy eighteenth century merchant. This included many valuable works of art. They welcomed our suggestion. I chaired the merger group, and eventually the long-established agency took over our project with a promise to honour its values.

“CaptainThomas Coram (c. 1668 – 29 March 1751) was a philanthropist who created the London Foundling Hospital in Lamb’s Conduit Fields, Bloomsbury to look after abandoned children. It is said to be the world’s first incorporated charity.” (Wikipedia) I first ventured into the Foundling Museum (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Foundling_Museum) in Brunswick Square when, as an Assistant Child Care Officer in 1967, I attended a London Boroughs Training course there. I spent much of my time gazing at the art works on the walls. Little did I then know that three decades later I would chair a committee bringing together this foundation and our own Community.

The original setting up committee meetings for Stepping Stone took place in the office of Ann’s own personal bank manager in the centre of Westminster. One evening, on the way to one such a gathering, I was driving down a very congested Park Lane. On this stop and start trip I periodically, when stationary, bent down towards my empty front passenger seat. This prompted intermittent flashing from the car behind. Minutes after my arrival at the bank, Ann arrived and greeted me with: “Did you finish the crossword?” She knew exactly what I would have been up to.

Today, of course, Ann would never have been able to enjoy face to face contact with her bank manager, even if there had been an existing branch.

It is greatly to Ann’s credit that members of all sections of Stepping Stone travelled to Bungay to attend her funeral in 2011, paying tribute to how she had changed their lives. I gave the eulogy, including tales from the long term friendship that developed with Ann and her husband, Don.

A Knight’s Tale (93: The Writing Was On The Wall)

The 1980s was the decade in which, as in every other walk of life, the concept of service in UK Social Care suffered a lingering death. This was subtly subordinated to profit.

During the first five of these years the purchaser/provider system began to dominate and convert the task of Social Workers to shoppers for facilities which their departments had once managed themselves.

Until then field workers who needed a provision, such as a placement for children, would negotiate with another section of their agency, to find a residential placement for them. We in the Area Teams would now, through use of budgets, be required to buy the facility from the residential department.

With the increasing trend towards outsourcing across the board Local authorities’ own provisions were slowly reduced as we saw the advance of private agencies treating what were still called Social Services as profit making businesses. In Newark during the 1990s I met at a dinner party a man who had set up a group of care homes for people with learning disabilities. This was the flavour of the month at the time. The gentleman, amenable enough, had neither knowledge of nor real interest in the residents, but was openly taking advantage of government financial incentives.

Because of the shortage of available accommodation for teenagers leaving care homes in the early 1980s I had, in my own time, chaired a group setting up a voluntary agency to provide some of what was needed. This was the Stepping Stone Community, about which more will follow in time.

I was beginning to feel that the writing was on the wall as far as I and Social Services were concerned. This was compounded when yet another reorganisation was set in motion. The Area Managers were to lose their Deputies and another layer of management was created between the Director and the Head of Fieldwork. He and I would be effectively demoted.

The Director told me not to apply for the new post. When I asked him why not he replied that I was not in the forefront of change. I could have spoken about the Stepping Stone Community or I could have mentioned the Summer Sports Project, but I saw no point, and replied: “Someone’s got to do the nurturing, Bill”. This project had been an imaginative use of a fund to help keep vulnerable children out of care. Once again the administrative staff were fully involved. In our area there were numerous sports facilities such as the Jubilee Hall Sports Centre, various parks, and football fields. We bought the necessary equipment for a range of activities. Each staff member was allocated an arena and a group of children, depending on interest and skills. This was so successful that we had to abandon it after a year or two because the older child members were being sent with too young siblings in their charge.

Home Helps were a team, under my wing, who visited elderly and disabled clients in their homes and carried out a range of tasks involving cooking, cleaning, and personal care. After I left these, too, were outsourced, their services radically reduced.

Jackie, who worked in Merton until the first years of the current millennium, first as a Carer, which is what Home Helps are now called, and latterly as a Care Manager, which is a current term for Social Workers, was told by her senior manager that a carer spending time listening or talking with clients was a waste of resource. She was required to explain why helping an elderly person to shower would take more than a quarter of an hour. Sometimes it would take that long for the client to answer the door.

These services are all now farmed out to private agencies who pay minimum wages, use often untrained and inexperienced staff, expect the carers to provide their own transport, do not pay for time travelling from one job to another, and cut considerable corners in time allocation. Consistency of carer is a thing of the past. My own mother was subject to the consequences of all these aspects, until she transferred to a care home. The amounts Local Authorities can contribute to such are woefully inadequate. At least half the cost has to be funded by the family, which generally means, as in our case, that the resident’s house has to be sold to pay for it. The National Health Service can only fund Nursing Care – without medical need it is the responsibility of the Local Authority with its own limited budget.

Hospital beds are being blocked because otherwise well patients have no available residential provision. This is now being seen as a crisis in Social Care. It cannot be resolved without changes in attitude and training.

The above factors all contributed to my giving my Director six months notice of my departure. I used this time to build up a freelance practice, and was amazed when I was given a day a week contract by my boss to be available for consultation to all sections of the department. I was left to manage this myself, and did not go short of referrals.

It is indicative of the changes in technology that when asked what I would like as a leaving present I opted for an electronic typewriter. Today’s widespread use of personal computers had not yet arrived.

Some two decades later, John Munt, Jackie’s manager, when leaving his post, presented each of his staff members with a calculator, informing them that they would need them.

A Knight’s Tale (92: Violence)

By the 1980s violence against public servants was becoming quite a problem. I had myself been attacked by a disgruntled client wielding a coffee table. I was prevailed upon to re-enact the scene in an ITV programme on such violence.

Without giving too many details, I can say that this man made demands concerning a child abuse case with which it would have been wrong to comply. One was that the file on him should be destroyed.

Unfortunately the Team Leader concerned committed me, as Area Manager, to meet the client. Before the subsequent interview I instructed that anything that could be used as a weapon should be removed from the designated room. The heavy table was left because the staff member could not lift it.

Suddenly, silently, the angry man rose to his feet. I sensed what was coming, rocked back in my chair, and kicked away the metal legs aimed for my front. I then rose to my feet and received an onslaught of kicks and punches which I contained to some extent by wrapping my arms around the perpetrator. The Team Leader rushed into the room. From the centre of the melee he witnessed my specs emerging in one of my hands. “Take these, and call the police”, I cried. Just as the punches were beginning to hurt rather too much and I was thinking “I’m going to have to hit him”, he ran out of steam. I counted seventeen cuts and bruises.

I charged him with assault. He received a small fine and an order to pay me £50 compensation, which I refused to accept.

Deciding my staff needed training in the management of these situations, I approached the police for help. They were unable to provide any. There was nothing for it but to create my own course. With the help of my friend Brian Littlechild, one of the Social Workers at the time, a suitable event was planned and carried out. This was just for the Area team. My enduring memory of that day is the glee and accuracy with which the secretarial staff role-played their Social Work colleagues. It was hilarious, somewhat chastening, and informative. In the early years of my freelance consultancy practice, this course was very much in demand. Initially Brian continued to partner me, using days of his annual leave. Eventually we separated and went our individual ways, still remaining very good friends. Years later, when I sought a similar course for the staff of Stepping Stone Community , Brian recommended a trainer. The staff found the course stimulating and useful. They were particularly pleased with the handouts, which they showed me. Most of the material was what Brian and I had produced.

What we focussed on was scene setting, defusing of situations, and knowing when to get away, rather than self-defence. It was our belief that most Social Workers were not belligerant enough to carry through specialist holds or other fighting techniques, and therefore more likely to get into trouble attempting to apply them. There was, however, so much pressure for this element to be included that I approached Eden Braithwaite, a martial arts expert who I knew, to offer a sequence on the subject. He wouldn’t do it, for exactly the same reasons that I had refused to countenance it. “Then you are precisely the person that I need”, I replied. “You will have the authority to make them hear what they will not from me”. He agreed. The participants did accept what he said, some, I am sure, with a certain amount of relief.

During the morning of the day on which Eden was to present his piece, Brian and I, as usual, during our session on potentially threatening behaviour, had spoken about dark glasses. If you cannot see someone’s eyes, you cannot determine their mood. If you need to conceal your eyes, you are preventing the other person from knowing what to expect from you. The unknown is frightening and will elicit a fight or flight response. Strangely enough, we had some difficulty getting this concept across. This was quite a large group containing both men and women, perhaps twenty in all. When Brian and I returned after lunch, all the men were lined up together. They were all silent, with arms folded. All presented fixed features. We had no idea what they were thinking. One of them had been shopping and provided them all with dark glasses. Far from being threatening we found this, as we were meant to, laughter-provoking. This post-lunch session was much less somnolent than usual, and the group were nicely warmed up for Eden.

The TV appearance mentioned above was not my only one. The next was much more fun, and will feature in good time.

A Knight’s Tale (91: Tennis)

Here is a set of pictures of a tennis match between the game Arnoux, the husband of Marie-Helene, and my son Michael in 1983. I don’t remember the outcome, although I believe they were evenly matched.

Michael had youth on his side,

but, in putting him under pressure, his French opponent demonstrated a certain skill.

Sam, looking hopeful here, probably got a game in as well.

A Knight’s Tale (90: More Successful With Written Than With Oral French)

In September 1982 we spent a couple of weeks at the Vachettes’ chateau at Fontaine in Normandy.

This is the garden in which Jessica basks in a deckchair with Arnoux, Marie-Helene, and the Vachette parents. As can be seen by the colour of the grass this was a very hot autumn.

Lying at Jessica’s feet

is Louisa in her carrycot;

The Vachettes were a kind of adoptive foster parents to Jessica, who was truly bilingual. We sometimes visited them in Paris and Normandy thirty to forty years ago. At mealtimes I was always given the place of honour at the right hand of Madame Vachette, a delightful woman who, like her husband, didn’t speak English. That excruciating shadow flickering across her face often vied with an uncomprehending smile. I would feel like Edward Heath, our Prime Minister from 1970 – 1974, whose execrable French accent was rather a joke. My grasp of the written word, then as now, was far more comfortable. I would help son-in-law Louis with the Paris Match cryptic crossword. Sometimes I would decipher an answer which he said didn’t exist. I felt very smug when I pressed him to consult the Petit Robert dictionary and there it was. The one game of Scrabble I played with Jessica and Monsieur Vachette gave me an even greater satisfaction. This kind and generous man told me I could play, on his French board, in English, whilst the others used the appropriate language. My pride, especially once I had seen the different letter values, would not allow me to accept this. Those magical creatures known, to my on-line Scrabble friends, as the ’tile fairies’ were kind to me that day. I won. I’m not sure I was ever forgiven.

M. Vachette was fond of telling jokes. He had such a dialect accent that his own children could not understand these stories. So they laughed where necessary. I was too proud to do this so I kept asking him to repeat sentences. After about 6 attempts I laughed. This took place in the parental Paris flat where we walked on beams from the Napoleonic era.

1n 1983 we enjoyed another holiday with the Vachettes.

By then Louisa was toddling and drinking from her own indestructible cup. Here she stands, ebullient as ever, displaying her baby teeth, in the carved wooden doorway of this splendid eighteenth century building.

We also stayed with Marie-Hélene and Arnoux just outside Paris. The eldest of the siblings, Marie-Hélene, was as fluent in English as was Jessica in French. Arnoux was at my level. Nevertheless we enjoyed our mutual wordplay.

My most successful bilingual pun was coined on a visit to the Le Marais (marsh) area of Paris, beneath which flow the underground sewers. I commented that it was interesting that these were under a “bog”. For those readers who do not know that bog is one name for a toilet in England I should explain that our female friend got the joke immediately.

One day I was describing to Arnoux a woman I had seen with a ” jupe” (skirt) around her neck. She was in fact wearing a scarf (un foulard). This time the laugh was on me. I got my own back when our friend pointed out the “mosquito” of Paris, which was in fact a mosque.

A Knight’s Tale (89: Sam’s First Cut)

In September 1982 we shared a Gite with our friends Ann and Don in Brittany.

The group nearest the centre of this underpopulated beach at Bréhec include Jessica, Ann, and Sam.

a string of gleeful children danced their way to the ocean;

a lone woman passing them traversed the beach.

Hand in hand, Jessica and Ann led Sam into the water

and swung him to meet the wavelets.

Ann continued the gymnastics

while Jessica went for a paddle.

Sam dried off, and told his sister all about it.

On another occasion I watched a woman enjoying a paddle.

At our numerous barbecues Don was master of the coals.

It was at that time that Sam received his first cut. I still remember my sadness at my beautiful boy having suffered his first blemish. During Siesta time, when, of course, nothing was open, we came across a broken shop window. ‘Don’t’, said I, as our three-year old made a dive for the broken glass. Too late. He grabbed it and brought some away in the palm of his hand. Which I could not get him to open. Even if I could I would need a pair of tweezers. We found the duty chemist which was open. She had some tweezers. But how was I going to get Sam to expose his palm? She smartly provided the solution. Out came a bag of sweets. Our lad could not resist one. Poised, tweezers in hand, I knew I had, at best, one chance. Sam’s fingers spread tentacles and snaked out for the sweet. I swooped with the tweezers. The implement secured and withdrew the shard of glass. Sam ate his sweet and we bade the woman goodbye.

Ann bought an ice cream and provided a cuddle, and all was well.

One of the most memorable moments of this holiday was the return journey. Ann had decided she may have exceeded her tobacco allowance, so Jessica and I carried a quantity of our friend’s cigarettes in our car. We followed Ann and Don off the ferry. They waved as they drove off into the sunset. We were stopped and our yellow Renault was subjected to a full body search

A Knight’s Tale (88: The Firing Squad)

It was most likely the holiday on which we discovered Villeneuvette that I began by facing the guns.

During her teens Jessica enjoyed numerous exchange holidays with a French family who will feature later; and after London University spent six months at the Sorbonne. As a result she was bilingual.

Which is what got me into trouble.

I’m a little hazy on the exact date on which we began our holiday in Montpelier, and how and why this was so. The event itself is more memorable.

My French is based on A Level qualification at school, and therefore not very practiced in conversation. In fact it is a miracle that I passed the oral exam. At that time it took me a few days to dare to open my mouth. Except when aroused, as I was on this day.

Jessica’s large shopping bag was stolen in the town square. Among other items, probably needed for Sam’s care, we lost all our cash and travellers’ cheques.

We visited the police station where we were sent from pillar to post – in different buildings. Naturally Jessica did all the talking. Eventually we were told to wait on a bench outside a room into and out of which streamed a steady flow of uniformed police.

We waited. And we waited. Until I blew a gasket.

Suddenly having mustered my best French I burst through the closed door and found myself looking into the barrels of a number of handguns. I had forgotten that these officers are armed.

But I had started so I finished. I demanded to know why we had been left unattended for so long.

“We thought your wife was French” was the answer. “What has that got to do with it?” I replied. My memory of the rest is purely visual. I do know they were not exactly pleased.

Needless to say, the bag was never recovered.

A Knight’s Tale (87: Villeneuvette)

During a French holiday in September and October 1981. We shared a house in Cabrieres, Languedoc with Jessica’s friend, Sue Sproston. The house belonged to a colleague of Sue’s who was in the process of renovating it, but hadn’t been too bothered about fixing potential leaks in the roof. Trust us to experience the worst thunderstorm locals could remember.

Here, Jessica and Sam see me off on a trip for the obligatory croissants from the boulangerie.

I found the local gardens fascinating. Some were carefully tended;

others seemed to be spaces to park trucks

or trikes.

Here Sue joins Jessica and Sam in investigating the local lake.

It was clearly the time of the vendanges, or the grape harvest.

We drove around the area and visited a number of villages, like the beautifully kept St Guilhem,

and the almost abandoned Villeneuvette, where Sam sloshed in the fountain, not as elaborate as the one in the grapes picture.

Wikipedia has this to say about Colbert’s social and economic experiment:

‘Villeneuvette is a commune in the Hérault department in the Languedoc-Roussillon region in southern France.

It lies close to the town of Clermont l’Hérault.

Villeneuvette is a small village made up of a group of buildings initially erected in the 17th century to create a royal clothmaking factory and provide accommodation for its workers. Apart from a hotel and restaurant, the buildings are now restricted to residential use, many for holiday purposes.

Creation of Villeneuvette was promoted in 1677 by Jean-Baptiste Colbert the noted finance minister of King Louis XIV. It was one of his many initiatives to develop France’s industrial base. Power for the factory was hydraulic with water supplied via different water courses from existing basins. The factory was privately owned and produced cloth for the king including uniforms for his armies. The factory was in existence until 1955.

Since 1995 the village has been classified as a “Zone de Protection du Patrimoine et du Paysage” recognising the originality and importance of its heritage.

The original inscription above the gateway was “MANUFACTURE ROYALE” but was later rather crudely changed by the Republic to “HONNEUR AU TRAVAIL” – Honour in work.’

When we stumbled across the commune most dwellings were unoccupied, except for a few people who, to us, appeared to be squatters. We were able to amble around and marvel at the higgledy-piggledy nature of the accommodation, often with one family’s upper rooms above those of the residents below.

In 1982, J.K.J. Thomson published ‘Clermont-de-Lodève 1633-1789’. Since it contains an erudite history of Villeneuvette, I had to buy it. It was, in fact, far too academic for my taste, but I did struggle through it. Interestingly, the book jacket shows the changed inscription mentioned above.

I was, perhaps fifteen years later, rather pleased I had, when one of my consutation clients told me that a couple of her friends had bought one of the residences which were now being sold on the open market. I was able to describe what we had seen, and to hand over the book. I didn’t expect to see it again, but, it was eventually returned to me by the wife, who happened to be a committee member of another agency client. Even then, before we were all overtaken by the Web, it was a small world.

A Knight’s Tale (86: More Running)

During the decade of my forties I was to run eighteen marathons and several shorter races, such as

the Windsor Great Park half marathon of 1983. In all, including the training runs, I covered 25,000 miles on the roads.

I must have been the only person in Southern England who slept through the great storm of 1987. Our neighbour across the road enjoyed no such luxury. He was having a new roof put on, and spent the whole night hanging on to the ropes and stays which were keeping the tarpaulin covers over his otherwise unprotected upper storey.

I always ran to work in Queens Park in those days. This was a nine mile journey which I covered daily carrying a back pack containing my clothes and other necessities for the day. My Area Office was the former Paddington Town Hall where there was a shower room which had been installed for the council members. I would take a shower, get dressed, go to a greasy spoon for a fry-up, and start working sometime before 9 a.m. On this particular day, completely oblivious of the night’s destruction, I set off as usual. I vaguely wondered why a tree I hadn’t noticed before had been felled on Tooting Bec Common, and why there seemed to be rather more traffic jams than usual. Since much of my journey followed treeless routes or public parks I had no idea that the tree I had seen was not the only arboreal casualty. Many others were blocking main roads into London. When I arrived at my building in Harrow Road, I followed my usual routine and then began to wonder why no-one else had arrived. Had I gone by car I may have learned the news on the radio. On the other hand, I too would not have arrived on time.

This storm changed the landscape of Southern England. 70% of the trees in the wooded valley in which Chartwell (see post of 19th. May) is set were lost. Those you see today are in fact their replacements. Sevenoaks in Kent is no longer appropriately named.

When running a marathon it is essential to drink water at regular intervals. If you wait until you are thirsty it is too late. This refreshment is taken in brief sips on the run. You become accustomed to this by carrying water in training. On one of our shared holidays with Sam and Louisa and our late wives Ann and Jessica, Don decided to help me out. Meeting me at regular intervals on a two hour run, he provided the drink stations. Driving to agreed points on the route, he brought me wonderfully cool, fresh, water. We called this service ‘Le wagon d’eau’.

That is why, in properly organised races, there are regular drink stations. In the Paris marathon, some time in the ’80s, there were refreshment stands like no others. The first was the only one at which I saw any water. From it were distributed large plastic containers of Evian. Those, like me, who managed to grasp one drank slowly and passed it on. Big mistake. Other tables contained nuts, bananas, and chocolate, none of which I could bear to think about. Only at the last oasis did I see anything resembling liquid. Huge containers of yoghurt. I grabbed one and guzzled the lot. Second big mistake.

I was quite used to congestion at the start of capital marathons. In the London one it would take me ten minutes walking to reach the start line and a futher ten to take up anything like my normal pace. Paris, however, just had to provide a blockage at the finish. Ten minutes in a situation that reminded me of the drain featured in https://derrickjknight.com/2021/09/24/a-knights-tale-39-down-the-drain-to-the-dome/

Marshalling during the race was equally chaotic. There are cobblestones around The Tower in one small stretch of the London event. These always need careful negotiation by the runners, who are left in peace to get on with it. Not so in Paris, which had far more cobbled areas. Any spectators wishing to do so seemed welcome to try their luck pacing alongside the contestants. Cyclists were granted similar freedom.

A French friend, Arnoux, claiming to be there to meet a famous English runner; which, I hasten to add, I am not; smoothed my final passage through the drain. As I was taking a welcome bath in our friends’ home, up came the yoghurt. It supplemented the bath water. I then had to explain why my ablutions had taken such a long time. It was with considerable relief that, on the ferry home, I learned that even the elite runners had suffered similar embarrassment. I never ran Paris again.