This morning I made a start on sorting and scanning 20 years of random film negatives. The first strip was not my own. It was taken in January 1984 by John Gordon, a friend of my sister Elizabeth. 
This shot featured in the Southampton Daily Echo. Sponsored in aid of Hilldene, her son Adam Keenan’s day nursery, I (701) was taking part in a ten mile race. ‘Race’ simply describes the event. No way was I in contention. I was merely happy to beat my own personal best. This one was completed in 64 minutes, and was a new best time, probably because it was snowing when we began. That does tend to make one rather nippy. I felt rather smug when Elizabeth told me that the photographer had said it would be a comparatively easy task to run alongside me for the pictures, and found it wasn’t. The reason long distance runners look much slower than they really are is the heel/toe action which requires the heels to land first in the stride.
Today was twelfth night, and therefore time to take the Christmas decorations down. First their storage boxes had to be removed from the garage. Carrying the stack of containers through the kitchen, I walked into a metal chair and bruised my shins. The stack rose above my eye line, and I hadn’t thought about it in advance.
My running days are over now, but what promises to be the longest running joke of all time continues to surprise. As Jackie stripped the Christmas tree she let out a cry that must have been heard in Emsworth. It was even louder than mine when I clouted the chair.
Perhaps three years ago now, Jackie and I took Becky and Flo for a meal at Frankie & Benny’s in Ampere Way, Purley. Our granddaughter, as is her wont, drank apple juice. The container bore a green sticker. As we parted company in the car park, Flo slapped the passenger side front window and ran off smartish.
There, adhering to my window pane was the apple juice label. Naturally, when someone plays such a prank, one must retaliate. About a month later, Becky found the item on a part of her car that I do not remember. Backwards and forwards went this transitional object, returned in the most devious of ways. The gaps between the transfers were gradually extended. This was essential because you had to give your victim time to have forgotten about it.
Have you, dear reader, remembered that Jackie was stripping the Christmas tree? Well, you know what she found hidden among the artificial foliage, don’t you?
Given that we last hid the offending article in Flo’s Christmas present in 2012, one has to admire her patience. Yes, Flo, we had forgotten about it. But we’ll get you back. In the immortal words of Vera Lynn, ‘Don’t know where, don’t know when’. You do know that, don’t you? (Vera Lynn, known as ‘The Forces’ Sweetheart’, raised innumerable spirits during World War II with, among others, her rendering of ‘We’ll meet again’, which can be found on Youtube).
Adam Keenan grew up to be a skilled and much sought after animatronics creator. Three years ago he made a realistic mechanically animated dragon for Flo’s birthday. One of its joints became dislocated. This necessitated a spell in my nephew’s hospital. I well remember my tube journey back to Morden on the day I collected the cured lifelike creature. I took great pleasure sitting in a crowded tube train surreptitiously pulling levers which made its eyes open and shut; its head turn and its tail sweep; and watching the faces opposite me.
At that time Jackie and I were holders of the drink sticker. So, of course, when Flo opened the box containing the repaired treasured animal, it had a suitable label round its neck.
Far too much rain for the forest and its environs to cope with continued to fall as, this afternoon, we drove to Totton for a mega post-Christmas provisions shop. Reminiscent of last year, brown water flowed from the overfilled drains in the gutters across the centre of the main road into this suburb of Southampton. We followed a petrol tanker most of the way, feeling rather grateful that we were not one of those cars, waiting to turn out of side roads, that got the benefit of the bow waves as the large wheeled lozenge sped past. As Jackie said, there would not be much point in having a car wash at the moment.
On our return someone played ducks and drakes with huge hailstones bouncing from the water-bound tarmac to the car windows and vice versa.
Two fallen beeches in the road from London Minstead to the A337 bear the legend:
Each is too long to fill the frame of one photograph. This had us speculating that the purchasers may have been wood-carvers, for craft fairs, after the great storm of 1987, were filled with the work of those who had benefited from the trees that fell throughout the South of England.
This evening we dined on beef hotpot and cabbage, followed by the last of our Christmas pudding. I drank La Serrana tempranillo 2012, whilst Jackie drank Hoegaarden.
P.S. In her Facebook comment on this post, my daughter Becky has corrected a few details concerning the label. Firstly the restaurant was Frankie and Benny’s. She reminds me that the game began when, during the meal, Flo stuck the object on the back of my hand and I left it there all evening. That amused our granddaughter. As we were leaving I placed it on the back of her hand and dashed away. Plonking it on our window was her retaliation. But that didn’t take place immediately, Jackie now remembers. We left the restaurant in convoy. When stopped at traffic lights Flo emerged from the gloom and planted it on the driver’s window, not mine. Our last transfer took place a little more than a year ago when we hid it in a kitchen canister.
Now, had this all taken place when I was Flo’s age I probably would have needed no memory jogging. On the other hand, it couldn’t have, could it?
Tag: floods
In Search Of The Action
Yesterday Becky gave me another computer lesson, this time in tagging. She showed me how to tag my posts and explained the significance of doing so. That, therefore, is another editing job for me. I made a start on the task this morning.
A violent storm that had raged throughout the night and morning gave way to a calm, springlike afternoon. This was perfect for an art assignment Flo had hoped to complete.
The one problem was that the task was to photograph horses in action. And, as my readers will know, New Forest ponies are not prone to activity. Mostly they are at least upright, but occasionally they are simply prone. We thought an expedition to the north of the forest would perhaps offer possibilities for the occasional evidence of movement.
More trees had been uprooted during the night. Those that had been on the roads had been cleared away. Others lay where they fell. What really gave Jackie a white knuckle 
drive was the amount of water across the concrete and tarmac. The fords were all awash with fast flowing water, as were the ditches. 
Sometimes, as on one stretch on the outskirts of Ringwood that I had happily walked through quite recently, the road was flooded. At this particular point our chauffeuse stopped altogether, thinking she would have to turn back. An oncoming car sprayed its way through the water, giving her the confidence to try it, which she did successfully. The brakes had to be tested after each ford encounter.
It was the perhaps unlikely village of Ibsley that provided the photo opportunity that we sought. As we drove slowly through it, having just crossed the ford, three ponies made a 
dash for a waterlogged spot in front of the cattle grid to a residential garden. Small orange showers flashed in the sunlight, and the animals leapt into action. The woman who lived in the house had just tossed a supply of carrots onto a patch of dry land. These were soon devoured and hopeful nostrils quivered in the donor’s direction.
No more carrots being forthcoming, Flo and my cameras were mistaken for tasty morsels and they and we were silently nuzzled.
It was to be Scooby who really set the cat among the pigeons.
Of course he remained in the car with Jackie, but he became a wee bit excited at the sight of such huge potential dinners wandering about. Indeed, his glutinous mucus will probably never come off my passenger seat window. His barking had the effect of a summons on all the ponies in the vicinity. 
Our car was soon surrounded, causing a log-jam in the traffic.
Our granddaughter and I had as much fun photographing each other photographing our subjects as simply shooting the animals.
When we arrived at Hyde, we were awarded a bonus of a couple of donkeys particularly interested in holly leaves. After a session with them, Flo strode across the large expanse of green, to picture another pony, and in the process missed a horse and rider. 
But that wasn’t really a subject she needed.
She had already photographed a sublime pony’s head and a delightful set of donkey choppers.
We dined this evening on Jackie’s chicken jalfrezi and savoury rice which was as delicious as ever. Flo’s variant was boiled egg korma. My beverage was Kingfisher and Jackie’s was Peroni.
Pick And Mix
Last night, as for some time now, we were entertained by a number of forest owl duets. As I have usually written my post before the overture I have forgotten to mention it before.
By no means my best photograph, today’s advent picture from December 1964 shows the timeless nature of the Trafalgar square Christmas scene. A better, similar shot was taken the year before and could equally have been produced today.
Early this morning I read Voltaire’s little inconclusive parable ‘Histoire d’un bon Bramin’, which sees a conflict between reason and happiness. The world-weary sage who has everything is not happy. His poor and unintelligent neighbour finds life much more enjoyable. I suppose the question is why?
A little later I walked through Minstead and back by an unplanned route. Beautiful frost patterns on the car windscreen were reminiscent of those on the winter’s morning bedroom windows of our childhood.
As I reached Seamans Corner, the fact that this was a morning for reminiscences was brought home to me by the rampant scampering accompanying excited snorts emanating from the green. No doubt the 
sow who had brought her litter to clear up the fallen fodder nestling between the shrubs, had decided it was time to give her udders a rest. The more sedate elderly punk sporting nose rings and an ear tag, remained slobbering and grunting in one spot. The fine mud spats she was wearing suggested she may have been seeking this comparatively drier spot to dry off. Her offspring, however, like Emily, Oliver and Alice in Newark’s Pick and Mix sweetshop of the nineties; or Matthew and Beccy brass rubbing in St James’s, Piccadilly a generation earlier, were all over the place at once.
For those fortunate enough not to have come across the Pick and Mix method of selecting sweets, an explanation is in order. What this involved with Michael and Heidi’s three children was a walk from Lindum House to Newark Market Square. This should have taken just five minutes, but, by the time Oliver had walked along the whole length of the top of the very low Further Education College wall, it was more like half an hour. Reaching the shop and opening its door was like opening the traps at the start of a greyhound race. Not chasing a hare, but rather choosing from trays of sweets lying in all directions, the children did not maintain a straight line. I had to keep an eye on each of them. Since I only have two eyes and there were three infants this was somewhat problematic.
A certain amount of restraint had to be exercised as they rapidly decanted various items of confectionary into the paper bags with which they had been issued. In particular it was quite an effort to ensure that the scoops and tongs provided were used instead of fingers that had so recently been running along the wire fence above the college wall. And no doubt worse. I think it was Oliver who broke the mould and took an age over his selection. Strangely enough, because they were not permitted to start the business of consumption until they were back home, the return journey did take no longer than it should.
I had intended this morning to progress to Football Green and walk the Bull Lane loop, however, not wearing wellies, my way was blocked by last year’s familiar lake lying across the road beyond the village shop. I turned back and arrived at Bull Lane via the footpath opposite the Trusty.
Rounding a corner cottage, I heard a woman standing at her door cry crossly to an unseen creature below the level of the hedge: ‘Come on’. I suspect it was a canine in trouble. Looking up and seeing me she repeated the call, this time in a tone of endearment. The dog, if that is what it was, clearly entered the house, for she closed the door, no doubt to administer a serious rebuke beyond my prying ears. What a difference an audience makes.
I must be circumspect about the reason for our outings this afternoon, but we drove to Calmore Industrial Estate to collect a package, and from there to Hobbycraft in Hedge End. I should perhaps not have been surprised that the Royal Mail Totton collection point should be at Calmore. Royal Mail and Parcel Force vans both deliver packages posted to us. As we were leaving to answer the summons of Royal Mail, a Parcel Force van drew up in our drive. With rather less than hope, I checked with the driver that he was not destined for our flat. He wasn’t and said that he was and he wasn’t part of Royal Mail who pay him. Maybe the answer lies in the size of the parcel, but it beats me why one company’s deliveries have to be made by two separate ones, both apparently under the auspices of the first.
The package we were collecting had been ordered on line from America yet mailed from Hong Kong with what our postal business’s form claimed to be insufficient payment. We were invited to stick the relevant denomination in postage stamps to a card and mail it to them, after which the item could be delivered. The alternative was to go and collect it and pay over the counter. That is the option we chose.
This evening we fed on fish and chips, mushy peas and pickled onions, with which I drank Carta Rosa gran reserva 2006.
That’s What Wellies Are For
David and Jen also gave us wine and stilton for Christmas this year. It was therefore appropriate that their box should take the tie overflow (see yesterday’s post). But who wears ties these days?
Once again we were waterlogged. Knowing, when I set out to walk the Emery Down loop via Mill Lane, that I would encounter an otherwise impassable road and some pretty soggy footpaths, I wore my Wellington boots. These, as we shall see, came in handy.
Sporting yellow-rimmed dark glasses, Audrey was gamely trying to ensure that her ponies, Primrose and Champion, enjoyed a feed of dry hay. When I passed them on my return, a little over two hours later, Primrose was stuffing the last of it inside her. Champion, who was now showing little interest was probably already stuffed.
The pool that was Lyndhurst Road at the point at which I had once, un-wellied, turned back, was full to spraying. Some vehicles slowed down to a snail’s pace, others went tearing through showering all about them. I wonder whether a snail could actually have made it through.
As I neared the highest part of Mill Lane, a trail of bobbing antlers glided silently past, just beneath the brow of the hillside slope. On the far side of the field they gathered into seminar formation. 
I became quite excited when, changing my angle of vision, I realised that the course facilitator of this stag party was the legendary white one. I rather blew it when I got a bit too close and they elegantly pranced off with the poise of Kate Moss on the catwalk.
Walking past the Mill Pool I encountered a young man pushing a wheelbarrow down the muddy track towards me. Once I had realised that this was not Robert (see 17th February), I carried on a conversation with Barry, who had been given the night off by his wife. Barry was not surprised that the brief respite we had had from the rain ended as we stopped to speak. You see, his wheelbarrow contained his fishing gear and his tent, so, of course it was bound to rain. There must be worse ways of spending a night, but offhand I can’t think of one.
As I neared Emery Down I rather rashly took a diversion onto a footpath. Well, if truth be told, I needed a pee, and reckoned no-one else would be daft enough to venture onto it on such a day. There I saw a sign which gave me some insight into the farmer’s perspective on the availability of ramblers’ footpaths controversy.
Throughout my walk I found myself seeking out the puddles on the road, so that I could walk through them and clean off some of the mud from the more cloying footpaths. I began to feel like a three year old trying out his new footwear and stamping in the pools sending up his equivalent of the car spray mentioned earlier. Many a time have I offered a remonstrating parent the opinion that ‘that’s what wellies are for’.
On my return I decanted a few more items into the garage, then rang the Apple Help Line. This required two calls of approximately an hour’s duration, one of which required me to spend some time listening to music which I completely failed to categorise. I expect it is up to the minute. I was guided to downloading the relevant software. James and Joseph, the two young advisers could not have been more helpful. Unfortunately the problem, even after half an hour’s downloading, remains. I expect I will have to talk to Epson, who make the scanner. Another day.
This evening we both ate more delicious Chilli con carne; I drank more zinfandel, and Jackie abstained.
Feng Shui?
An exchange with Lorna Barnett about a restaurant in Bali took me back to my Bayswater days. I lived in Leinster Mews for six months in 2007. Almost opposite, in Leinster Terrace, were two Greek restaurants about 100 yards apart at either end of a parade of shops. One was always so full that, even alone, it was necessary to book to gain entrance. Needless to say it was an excellent establishment where Alice, aged about seven, once had fun with the waitress. They had struck up a banter throughout our meal. When it came to the complimentary Delight, Alice said: ‘Ooh. Turkish Delight.’ ‘No’, said the young lady, ‘it’s Greek Delight.’ Laughter all round. Although Alice was somewhat confused she knew it was a joke. The other restaurant was always empty.
Two years later, when running down this street, I noticed that the unpopular venue was up for sale. This morning, on Googling Leinster Terrace to check the location, I stumbled across ‘The tale of 2 Greek Restaurants’, a 13.11.09 posting on his blog by Dr. Michael Oon. Dr. Oon mentions that the empty eating place had finally closed its doors. He put the relative success of these two establishments down to Feng Shui. The Halapi, because of its location enjoys floods of energy from two different sources, whereas the now defunct Zorba had this mystical force rushing downhill away from it. I never tried Zorba, but I enjoyed several excellent meals and delightful service at The Halapi. I suspect there is more to it than the relative fortune of the location of footprints. Possibly the cooking and waiting?
This afternoon Jackie drove us to Ringwood for her to have a shop and me to have a wander. From High Street I walked down West Street where it was market day. From the comments of the stallholders, some of whom were packing up early, they weren’t having a very lucrative January. I ventured into Jubilee Gardens which had become a fishing lake. This informed me that the Avon was still in spate. 
Opposite this public park there are a number of angling suppliers and a path leading to the static caravan site I have seen surrounded by water from the other side of the flooded fields. Their gardens were waterlogged and access to the riverside was impossible.
I walked back to the Castleman Trailway by the usual route and along it in alternate directions, first right, then left and back to the carpark via The Bickerley. The paddling ponies I had seen on 23rd December 2012 had clearly been rescued, for they were nowhere in sight and there was no difference to the levels of the fast-flowing water on either side of the trail. On the bridge over the swollen river Avon I met a beautiful catwalk model in canine form. 
This was Ozzie, a young Saluki accompanied by his equally elegant owner. Despite his gangly friskiness on display for my benefit, I was informed that he was a ‘real couch potato’ indoors. Even after our engaging conversation, the dog’s conscientious companion remembered she had to ‘pick up his poo.’ She carried a plastic bag for the purpose.
Oven-cooked fish and chips sustained us for the evening.
Flood Plain
Jackie shopped in Ringwood this morning whilst I walked up and down that town’s section of the Castleman Trailway. We then met in the Bistro for lunch and drove back home.
In recent weeks I have noticed sandbags against all the garden gates, walls, and fences in Kigsbury’s Lane. This morning I saw why. The lane was full of water and impassable, either for cars or pedestrians. 
To compound the problem, one of the gardens contained a burst water main. As an alternative route through to the river, I tried King’s Arms Lane and was able to arrive at the other end of Kingsbury’s.
Here I met a woman called Barbara, who had grown up in the corner house I had just photographed. She told me that her family’s particular corner had always been subject to flooding but the whole street had never suffered so. The saturated green opposite, called The Bickerley, is a fairground venue. When Barbara was small she had watched the fairs from her window, wishing she had the money to attend them. I accompanied her along the Bickerley finding the least muddy and waterlogged terrain together. She asked about conditions at Minstead because her daughter was driving down from Scotland to visit her father-in-law who lives there. I was able to reassure her.
Had the Trailway not been raised significantly from the normal river level, I doubt that I would have been able to walk along it. The Avon and the millstream were pouring into the lakes that had been the neighbouring fields, which were now totally submerged. Water fowl were in complete possession of the field from which I had recently seen horses being rescued. Twitchers with binoculars were gazing at the birds in their unaccustomed habitat. Photographers were out in earnest. One young woman carrying a tripod, trailing behind a man with an immensely long lens, was amused when I quipped: ‘so you get to carry the tripod’. ‘Yes. That’s my job for the day’, she replied. Had I been ultra sensitive I might have felt the little appendage hanging around my neck to be rather inadequate.
Quite a cluster of cameras were gathered at the point where the Trailway bridges the river Avon. 
Here there was a group of waterbound ponies struggling to find fodder. They were feeding as well as they could on a few clumps arising from the bank of the Avon. Their feet were in comparatively shallow water; just beyond their noses the river rushed past. With other watchers I speculated about whether they could swim across the river where there was some still dryish land. One looked as if he were contemplating it but thought better of it. A group of young people sporting RSPCA insignia hurried to the scene and continued on past. 
They said the horses were the reason for their attendance. I wasn’t sure where they sped off to.
This evening Becky, Flo and Ian arrived to stay for Christmas. It is actually Flo’s birthday, which she shares with Oliver. The opening of our present to Flo caused a certain amount of amusement. We gave her a Pleo, which is a robotic dinosaur. The first reaction came from her brother Scooby. Scooby is a Jack Russel terrier who has undergone a head transplant. For the uninitiated this is my way of indicating that his head seems to be too big for his body. Showing a certain amount of jealous insecurity, Scooby approached first me. then Ian, the two least doggie people in the room, for succour. When Flo discovered that the instruction leaflet was in various European languages other than English, Ian suggested that his failed German O level might be of some use. 
Becky and Flo found this amusing.
Later we dined on Jackie’s beef stew followed by bread and butter pudding and Florence’s birthday cake. Jackie drank Hoegaarden, Ian Peroni, Becky fizzy water; and my choice was Dino sangiovese 2011.
Return Of The Deluge
This morning I walked down through Minstead some way past The Trusty Servant until, finding the road impassable without wellies, I turned back.
Driving through this particular pool later confirmed that my decision had been sound.
I described yesterday as a respite from the deluge. It was a very brief one. Relentless rain that had started up again in the night persisted during the day. 
Moss and lichen thrive in these conditions.
I waded the streams, supplied by swollen ditches, that were our village lanes. Drains were blocked and new pools had appeared. 
Never mind, much of the mud was now washed off my walking shoes.
No animals were abroad. Even Primrose and Champion’s field was empty. I do hope they had been removed to somewhere warm and dry. I saw no birds. When we drove through the village this afternoon we had to negotiate the rear ends of seven cows with their noses in buried in hedges.
The Mobile Library was bravely and optimistically stationed opposite The Trusty Servant.
The Local Authority Library Services are some of those facilities much reduced by economies since the recession, so it is good to see one still available in such a remote area.
On my return I met Dave on his way for his newspaper. We stood in a pool and chatted for a while. We couldn’t get any wetter. That is, provided we continued successfully to leap like schoolgirls over a swirling skipping rope, every time a car went by. The tsunamis they threw up had me reflecting on Hokusai’s great wave painting.
Jackie then drove us to Shelly and Ron’s where, together with Helen and Bill, we were given a plentiful salad lunch before I went with the three sisters to Walkford’s waterlogged Woodland Burial Ground to place a Christmas wreath over the interred cremated remains of Veronica Rivett, Jackie’s much-loved mother and my lovely ex-mother-in-law. Woodland burial grounds are places where people are laid to rest in natural surroundings. Here there were some graves, but generally the much smaller plots contain ashes marked with a simple low-level labelled post. Natural wild flowers are allowed to be seeded and to grow over these areas. In other sections than this one people may also plant trees. At the entrance to the site a row of silver birches stands in a new pool where, as we were leaving, Wellington-booted children spuddled about, disturbing the ducks which had been enjoying a change of scenery from their lake. Afterwards we settled with coffee and mince pies to watch Ron’s holiday videos until it was time for Jackie and me to leave for the Chichester Cathedral Carol Service. On the A35 we encountered the first flood warning sign either of us had seen actually alerting drivers to a real flood. This caused a bit of a hold-up.
After a brief return home Jackie drove us through swirling rain to Chichester. Fortunately we arrived in the town half an hour early. This was lucky because it took us twenty minutes driving around trying to find a way into West Street where we were to park in the Prebendal School staff car park. When we did manage that we couldn’t find the car park. The entrance to this, in darkness, was tucked between two tall buildings. Jackie waited in the car in the street while I went hunting for it on foot. This was conducted whilst on the phone to Ian seeking confirmation that we were in the right place. He, Becky, and Flo, who were caught in traffic, did not arrive until exactly the start of the service, when we were esconced right at the front of the Presbytery. We didn’t see each other until afterwards. It was a privilege to have been invited to listen to such a beautiful choir in such a splendid historic setting.
When the service was over we all ate at The Old Cottage, a surprising name for an Indian restaurant. The food was excellent and three of us drank draft Cobra. Becky had diet coke and Flo drank apple juice. We had a very enjoyable time, after which Jackie drove us home in 42 minutes. Since Becky’s family will be moving to Chichester eventually, this was a rather encouraging journey for the future.
After The Deluge 1
A bright, crisp, frosty morning ushered in a respite from the deluge for
the saturated forest. I walked the ford ampersand, the term coined on 17th.
The new lakes alongside our upper drive are beginning to merge into one. Water still streamed down the hills into Minstead, creating candy
floss foam as it descended into ditches. Whilst dazzled by the low direct sun as I walked down the steep hill I heard the stirring of hooves in the verge just in front of me. This prevented me from walking into a facing pony. I stopped and spoke to her, asking if she preferred today’s weather to yesterday’s.
The recently thatched house now masquerades as Chad. For those not familiar with him, Chad is a graffito character, the British equivalent of the American Kilroy, who was likely to turn up in all sorts of places during the second world war. A drawing, rather like this house, would be left as a joke, with the legend ‘Chad was here’, or more likely ‘woz ‘ere’.
The coned off pool above the ford was unchanged except that the wreckage of one of the cones lay scattered and submerged in its depths. Further along the road a number of car tyres distributed at more or less regular intervals are either evidence of flytipping or they are serving some purpose of which I am ignorant. On my return a woman was riding a horse up the steep incline leading up from the ford, whilst on the other side of it another was leading hers.
After lunch we drove to Ringwood for a final Christmas food shop. A largely white wagtail, completely oblivious of car wheels inches from its toes, flitted about earning its name; yet whenever I got near enough to take its photograph it came over all camera shy and flew off, just far enough to be out of range.
This evening we dined at Passage to India in Lyndhurst. Draft Kingfisher accompanied our meals.
Would You Like My Seat?
Rain continued throughout the day as it done all night. Jackie drove me to Southampton for the London train. The forest was even more waterlogged. The lanes leading to the M27 were, in places, completely covered with rainwater running off the fields and overflowing from swollen ditches. Yesterday’s bedraggled pony was dry and comfortable compared with the poor creatures we saw today. Visibility on the motorway itself was much reduced. Windscreen wipers were going like the clappers, fending off the driving rain. Even when the glass was fleetingly clear, the road ahead was a swirling mist of spray thrown up by other vehicles’ wheels. During the last two or three miles, some of which was in nose to tail traffic, the red petrol warning light was flashing. Jackie calculated that the nearer we got to the station before she ran out of fuel the less I would have to walk. I speculated about how far I would have to push the car.
We arrived in good time for the train, which had been cancelled. The next one to Waterloo would not arrive for over an hour. I was advised to take the cross-country train to Newcastle and change at Basingstoke. This was delayed. Fortunately by only five minutes. Just like my last trip to London, the train only had four carriages and the London travellers had to join an already crowded group. I secured a seat by asking a woman to remove her bag from it. Whilst I was sitting down Jackie texted me to say she had made it to a garage.
The train from Basingstoke was of three coaches. Because of the crush of people boarding, the replacement guard could not get on. Those passengers who had managed to do so would stand in the aisles divesting themselves of their coats and feeding their luggage to the racks, while the rest of us waited for them to settle. As I arrived in the carriage I announced: ‘The guard cannot get on the train until the passengers do. That means we won’t be going anywhere until he does. Coats can be dealt with later’. This was delivered and received with humour. One man, proving his point, stood up and took off his coat, saying ‘that’s difficult to do without hitting someone in the face’. This was greeted by general laughter.
The only seat I could reach was being obscured by a gentleman’s backpack. He was leant over it, looking for all the world as if he had something to hide. When I asked him to move he said he hoped the seat would be taken by a Swedish blonde. ‘Bad luck’, I said, ‘you’ve got me. You have to take what you can get today’. In fairness, he did then offer his seat to a young woman who declined it. Maybe he didn’t fancy me.
From Waterloo I took a Bakerloo Line tube to Picadilly Circus where I did some more Christmas shopping. On Vigo Street I lost my temper. One of my betes noir is people who poke you with their umbrellas. In one short stretch of this street linking Regent and Bond Streets I followed a young man marching along with complete disregard for the crowds on the narrow pavement. His action was so savage that I could hardly believe what I was watching. His umbrella was like a scythe cutting a swathe through corn. He travelled very speedily, never relaxing his grip or slackening his pace. He struck one man and two women in the side of the face. He also collided with another umbrella, almost wrenching it out of a woman’s grasp. After the third viticm whinced in pain, I went after him. I had to quicken my pace. As I neared him I called out, three times: ‘Hey, you with the umbrella!’. He ignored me. I was almost upon him when he turned to climb the steps to a building. I cornered him and told him what he had done. ‘No, I haven’t,’ he retorted. ‘Yes you have’, I bellowed. ‘And the last woman was in considerable pain’. He walked into the building.
I continued along to Green Park, caught the Jubilee Line to Neasden, and walked to Norman’s. 
London is as wet as Hampshire, and Harlesden’s cracked, uneven, paving stones harbour numerous pools.
Lunch was lamb shank followed by bread and butter pudding accompanied by an excellent Spanish Tempranillo. Then I was off to Carol’s by tube.
On the Jubilee Line train, diagonally opposite me, sat a trim middle aged man wearing a woolly hat, a bomber jacket, jeans, and trainers. His copy of the Metro served as a tube wrapped around a can of drink, which he did not touch on the journey. He entered the carriage talking to himself, which he continued to do for a while. Soon, he must have tired of his own company, for he sought another conversationalist. Even though all the seats were occupied, when he said ‘ere, nu”y professor’ I instinctively knew I was the target. I decided to humour him. Eventually this meant abandoning my book. He ruined my concentration. He did, however, approve of reading as being ‘more human than all these robots’. The expansive gesture that accompanied this comment made me aware that the majority of our companions were attached to mobile electronic devices. Apparently I look very like his psychiatrist, so I must be one. Unless, that is, I worked for Old Bill. He felt sure he recognised me. Before I left the carriage he gave up his seat to a young woman who, in stark contrast to the rejection I had witnessed this morning, gratefully accepted. He continued to talk to me until I got out at Green Park.
When I departed Carol’s I took a bus to Waterloo where I eventually caught a train back to Southampton. 
At Waterloo the departure board received the undivided attention of numerous passengers awaiting information about delayed trains. Suddenly a mass movement akin to a shoal of sardines swooping to escape the net signalled that a train had been announced. My journey was cramped, but I was one of those fortunate enough to obtain a seat.
Jackie drove me home, where the deer awaited us on the lawn.
Bedraggled
www.weather. That is what 50 m.p.h. winds have turned our wet and warm days into. (Mr WordPress took my joke one stage further. I didn’t type http:// and he won’t let me erase it)
We went out for a drive this morning; first down to the clifftop over Hordle beach at Milford on Sea; then through the forest via Burley, Fritham, Lyndhurst, and Brockenhurst.
In the early part of the afternoon I watched the second televised Rugby League match between England and New Zealand. This reminded me why I had given up on it years ago.
Afterwards, I worked on the morning’s photos. Normally, I do very little in the processing, but today I wanted the results to reflect the mood of the day, so I converted most into black and white, and toned down the colour a little in the three that were not made into monochrome. This subduing was because the camera had produced slightly brighter colour than was available to the eye.
Jackie parked the car at Paddy’s Gap, so we could watch the mountainous seas pounding beneath us. I had a very difficult job prising the car door open against the gale, and when I emerged, the driving rain blurred my vision and, as can be seen, left its mark on the camera lens.
A pair of lone joggers performed the involuntary dance of falling leaves, as they battled along the path. I swear the lighter one was lifted aloft.
Interestingly, the more we drove into the forest, the less the wind blew, but the rain was just as heavy and pools were beginning to develop on the grass and heathers. All cars had their headlights in operation, even at 11 a.m.
Perhaps we should not have been surprised than there was scarcely a pony in sight. Areas where we would expect to see many of them cropping the grass or molesting tourists in the car parks, bore no sign of life except the wind sending reluctant leaves, not yet ready for hibernation, spinning on the more slender twigs before spiralling downwards.
Most equines had no doubt repaired to the middle of the forest in search of shelter.
The outskirts of Fritham are normally well populated by shetland ponies.
Today, just one, bedraggled, muddied, munched alone.
For dinner this evening, The Cook produced a tasty lasagna with a melange of fried Mediterranean vegetables, followed by Tesco’s chocolate eclairs. Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Madiran.