Alan Warren – derrickjknight

Continuing with my scanner compatibility problem I telephoned Epson, to learn that the two different downloads Apple advisors had sent me were incorrect. I dragged those into the trash, and the Epson man sent me another which worked. It is not quite the same as I’m used to, but I’m getting there. I have scanned and enhanced the two earlier photographs from Elizabeth’s series, but have decided not to change them in the posts, as it is all part of the story. Not only that, I can’t be bothered.

While doing this I received an e-mail attachment of an inspiring photograph from my friend Geoff Austin. Well into his sixties he turned out at the weekend in the front row of the scrum for an Old Whitgiftian testimonial match. The mud on the hooker’s face is reminiscent of the many muddy hours I spent in the second row in my thirties and forties rubbing my ears against Geoff’s thighs. Purely in order to raise cauliflowers, you understand. Like me, Geoff can be identified by a white beard. Before my short-lived first retirement, from the Old Wimbledonians, in 1972, at the age of thirty, I was joined in the second row by a sixty five year old who had been pulled out of the spectators to fill a gap. I’d always thought our combined age took some beating, but I think Geoff and his colleagues have probably pipped it. Although we turned out regularly for Geoff’s Old Boys team every week, Alan Warren, another member of our Social Services Area Team, and I, could not at first appear on a team sheet. This is because we had never attended Whitgift School. Geoff had inveigled us into playing one day when his XV was a player or two short. So I got my boots out again and didn’t put them away until we moved to Newark in 1987. Forty five seemed to be a bit old to join a new club. Not too old to be playing, of course.

What Geoff forgot to mention was that the lower sides of his club were always a player or two short. But Alan and I could not officially make up the numbers, because this organisation was a closed club. This meant we outsiders could not join. After a game or two with the fourth team, we became regulars with the third. At about the time I had gravitated to the second side and was being considered for the first, the fact that this was all unofficial and required some steadfast members to be kept in the dark, suggested something must be done. Alan and I were duly made Associate Members of The Old Whitgiftians Association. That meant we had to pay subscriptions, but it was a small price to pay. For me to play for the first XV remained, however, out of the question

Jackie and I moved more belongings into the garage today. I then ordered some bookcases from IKEA on line. When asked for my feedback on the remarkably smooth process, I commented that it ‘beats trailing round the store’.

Before venturing for a walk to the church and back via the ford footpath, I waited for the hail to stop. John, who was mowing the lawn when the thunderous storm came, was forced to divert his attention to raking gravel. By the time I returned there had been no further precipitation, and our gardener was continuing to mark the centuries old rocky, undulating moss-covered lawns with perfect mowed lines. This man, once a week in the summer and fortnightly thereafter, works like a Trojan on this four acre communal plot. When we first arrived in November his task was clearing the fallen leaves. It was then that Jackie gave him his nickname, not Trojan, but Greek. In that country’s mythology, Sisyphus was a king of Ephyra who was punished by the gods, being given the task of pushing a huge boulder uphill. Whenever he reached the top the stone rolled back down again. As John was blowing together one pile of leaves, others were torn down by gusts of wind and followed on after him. And of course his pile was blown about as well. Do it all again was the order of the day. A nice simile. John will be forever Sisyphus.

As I rounded the house, approaching the back door, I sensed wonderful curry smells. Not imagining I could be given a brilliant chicken jalfrezi, such as to do all the local restaurants out of my business, so soon after a chilli con carne, I wondered who else in the building enjoyed and cooked such food. The anwer was no-one. Jackie was cooking our evening meal which she later served up with pudding rice to follow. I started on an excellent Bouchard Aine & Fils red burgundy harvested in 2010. Thank you Helen and Bill for this Christmas gift.

This was another beautiful, hot, summer’s day. Having spent a large part of yesterday reducing the span of a wandering Philadelphus, or Mock Orange, this morning I tackled its rambling roots. Armed with a large fork, an axe, and a back, I set to. It wasn’t until three and a half hours later that I was satisfied I had reclaimed this tiny patch of land. My back’s OK but my right wrist feels the strain of trying to pull up obstinate, well embedded arborial foundations. First I dug all round them, then had a tug. When they wouldn’t come, sometimes I had to dig a bit more, or, as a last resort, wield the axe. I had to remove a lovely old blue brick from the path through the pergola, so I could get at lateral growths underneath it. That was easily repositioned. I imagine John, from yesterday’s post, would have had everything out, and the area replanted, in no time. As it was, Jackie had to wait until I had staggered to a halt before she could put her wilting plants to bed.

It is Alan Warren’s fault that my wrist feels the strain at such times. This is because, for the last thirty five years or so the third finger of that hand has been prevented from bending by calcified material on the first joint. It was Alan who put it there. We were both playing rugby for the same side, The Old Whitgiftians. We both dived for the ball at the same time. Alan got the ball; I got a broken finger. Alan, dear soul, has completely forgotten about it. I remember every time I try to pick up a handful of change in a shop; or when someone assumes that unscrewing the top off a jar would be easy peasy for me. I have to bring the wrong fingers into play when performing basic tasks. Come to think of it, even handling a mouse is a bit awkward.

Rambling roots is, of course what this blog is all about. Roots are important to us all. Alex Hayley wrote a seminal novel about them. I would not have met Pauline Lines had it not been for Sam’s mother-in-law Gay O’Neill’s desire, from Australia, to trace hers. Pauline turned out to be a cousin living in Cheam, to whom I was introduced at Sam and Holly’s wedding. In fact, Gay’s Facebook identity is Geneholic O’Neill. My brother Chris has a similar keen interest in genealogy, and is tracing the family membership back through several generations. My mother is the custodian of our living memory bank. It was she who could identify the huge portrait I have of Elizabeth Franks, my maternal great grandmother. I may not be around long enough to give out similar information to the next generations, but maybe this project of mine will help.

What I am focussing on is my own life, current and past; and others who have been part of it. This is why I write about what I see and experience today, coupled with sometimes rambling memories which come to me. Memories aren’t usually summoned in order, but appear as and when they feel like it. They are like a random photograph album without captions. They are what the recipient makes of them, and no two people’s recollections of the same event are likely to be the same. Sometimes it is their memories that are divergent; sometimes they just experience the event differently. Elizabeth, twelve years the younger, and I have often noticed how we had different experiences of upbringing in the same family. It is serendipitous that I should be living in Morden in a period of life when I have both the time and the ability to go rambling. Morden wasn’t a large part of my childhood, but it is near enough to Wimbledon and Raynes Park to give me easy access to those places that were. Mum tells her stories in her own way. They are informative, but when she and I recount the same event, our versions may differ in immaterial or significant detail. So is it with my recollections. They are mine, not necessarily the gospel according to anyone else. I, of course, think they are infallible.

This evening Jackie returned to Morden and I stayed on at The Firs as I am off to Sigoules on Wednesday. We went off for an Eastern Nights meal, only to find that they are not open on Mondays. The Purbani in Hedge End provided an acceptable alternative. We had been there before and liked the food but thought the place was desperately in need of a facelift. We particularly remembered the carpet which had appeared so worn and greasy in parts as to have been lino. As we entered Jackie said: ‘You never know, they may have a new carpet.’ They had. And all new linen. And the meal was just as good.