Fair exchange: a pearl for a snake

Not long ago I was given a new pearl ring by my friend Jo. It was a gift, but also in exchange for a bangle I'd finally given her, which she had yearned for ever since I originally bought it for myself in December 2017.

This is the bangle. £300 worth of hallmarked silver by Justin Richardson of Canterbury, made in the form of a coiled snake or serpent. Beautifully simple. I couldn't resist it when I saw it.

I never stopped liking it, but it wasn't the easiest thing to wear. To put it on, I had to squeeze my not-very-slender wrist through that gap: it was hard to do. And then, once on my wrist, it was loose and heavy and not entirely comfortable. It would  snag in sleeves. If I moved it up my arm a bit, to stop it moving around, it left marks on my skin. At first only depressions:

But sometimes the marks would look angry and red, fading only slowly. I suppose my skin was ageing, not so elastic, getting thinner, and reacting badly to pressure or anything digging-in. Latterly the serpent bangle was causing definite bruising. So I took if off and put it back in its box. This was noticed by my local girlfriends, who saw me often. They were sad that this expensive bangle hadn't worked out. But I wasn't yet ready to pass it on.

The right moment to let go took some time coming, but eventually arrived on 27th January this year. I presented Jo with the bangle at one of our lunches. She was delighted!

There it is, on her right wrist. She loves jewellery, and always wears multiple bracelets, bangles, necklaces and rings. Valerie is the same. The rest of us wear much less, but still select our jewellery carefully for the best effect. We all have pieces, old and new, that we treasure. When we club together to get a birthday present for one of us, a new item of jewellery is often the present in mind, or at least a contribution towards it. Thus it was that my 70th Birthday Ring last year was partly paid for with money put up by the other girls, although of course I personally covered the major part of the cost. Even so, it felt (as it should) like they bought it for me. 

Jo helped me with the design of that 70th Birthday Ring, which had to be specially made. We first looked at a selection of differently-styled rings at Pruden & Smith, the Ditchling jewellers where we both have an account. Among them was a pearl ring, mounted on a silver band, which I tried on. It fitted nicely, and looked lovely, but it wouldn't be the right choice for a ring I'd want to wear all the time and never take off. A pearl ring was too delicate, too easily spoiled, and wouldn't stand up to constant wear. I wanted something I could keep on my finger all the time and never need to take off. 

So I looked instead at topazes and sapphires, and Jo assisted me with choosing the right stone in the right colour. While doing this, and without my knowing, she bought that pearl ring for me, intending to give it to me at a later date. Obviously, it wouldn't be in 2022, when the spotlight was on my 70th Birthday Ring. She'd wait until 2023. 

Having told her in late January that she was at last going to get the serpent bangle, she let on that she had something for me in exchange. Of course I had no idea what. It was all left deliciously mysterious. Well, a few days after Jo finally (and with ceremony) got her longed-for bangle, this enticing little package was produced to me, on an evening-meal-with-cards-to-follow evening:

I let Jo's husband Clive take these shots with LXV, of the pearl ring on my right-hand little finger, which seemed its natural home:

It was my turn to be delighted! On a subsequent wearing, I moved the pearl ring to my other little finger, behind the little plain silver band that had been there since my birthday in 1994. The pearl ring wasn't a tight fit, and in cold weather it really needed a snugger-fitting ring to hold it safely in place. 

But that meant three rings close together on one hand, and only one on the other. An imbalance. Besides, while long-fingered women can sport two or three rings on each finger, my short stubby fingers weren't suitable for wearing more than one ring on each. So I decided to switch the pearl ring back to my right hand and only wear it there. Once the latest round of annual expenditure on the car was out of the way (more on that shortly), I'd get Pruden & Smith to reduce the ring by half a size, so that it would be a firm enough fit in cold conditions, but still not too snug in hot summer weather, when my fingers were likely to swell a bit. 

Pearlwise I now had a proper set of jewellery: A 65-pearl necklace, originally 69 pearls. A pearl pendant, created from the 4 pearls taken from the necklace to shorten it. And now a pearl ring. All matching. So if I'm ever made a Baroness, or a Dame of the British Empire, I won't be stuck for something suitable for the occasion.

The King: A thoroughly well-deserved honour, Lucy!

Lucy (curtsying): Thank you, Your Majesty.

The King: Your pearls are splendid.

Lucy: Thank you, Your Majesty.

The King: I don't suppose you'd consider a swap? My wife - the Queen, you know - has enough pearl necklaces to sink a battleship, but nothing quite like that pendant, nor that ring. A diamond tiara perhaps, in exchange?

Lucy: Thank you, Your Majesty. I'll think it over. 

King: Well, now you're a Baroness, we'll want to see you soon at the Palace. Or the Castle. I'll have an invitation sent. 

Lucy: Thank you, Your Majesty. 

But I'll probably be away in my caravan. 

Not a friend, but not a villain either

I am forced to admit that the cost-predictions of my energy company, OVO Energy, are not after all outrageous. I thought they were, and that their constant nagging to increase my monthly direct debit was unjustified. But I was wrong.

In the end, I worked out my own prediction of what my electricity and gas costs, plus VAT, would be. I had the spreadsheet records, based on past bills, to do it with. It was easy to look at these and make good estimates of what my electricity and gas consumption would be for the current Billing Year that began on 15th January 2023 and will end on 14th January 2024. Really, I don't know why I didn't carry out this exercise before. It brought clarity, and revealed just how expensive my energy costs will be until early next year.  

This then is my calculation for the current Billing Year from 15th January 2023 to 14th January 2024, using my own best estimates:

Electricity

Consumption: 1,550 kWh @ average price for the Billing Year of £0.3500 per kWh: £542

Standing charge: 365 days @ average charge per day for the Billing Year of £0.4200: £153

Total for electricity: £695

Gas

Consumption: 21,000 kWh @ average price for the Billing Year of £0.1100 per kWh: £2,310

Standing charge: 365 days @ average charge per day for the Billing Year of £0.3000: £110

Total for gas: £2,420

Total for both electricity and gas: £3,115

VAT @ 5%: £156

Grand total: £3,271

Readers might well be puzzled by my energy consumption estimates. But I am not a typical energy customer. I live on my own. I use only a few basic electrical appliances and gadgets. Only the fridge and freezer are constantly switched on. The washing machine does just two washes per week. I have a microwave oven, but never use it. There is of course a kettle, but no dishwasher, tumble drier, food mixer or coffee machine. The TV is always on standby, but not regularly watched. I do have an electric shower. 

Gas is a different story. When at home, I use a lot for cooking - I cook many things in the gas oven. I don't deny myself proper heating, for health reasons as well as for comfort. Better loft insulation would of course help. That's an important long-term aim. But I need to clear out the loft first - several days' work. And only when I feel up to making the effort, and if I have somewhere to put all the stuff removed. (I'll have to hire a big skip)

OVO tell me that most households use a lot more electricity than I do, and much less gas. Until now I believed their usage predictions were based on what a typical family in a typical house would use, which is why I hadn't been taking their cost predictions seriously. But in fact their costing model turns out to be personalised to me. Thus it was that until a week ago they were insisting that, according to their prediction, the energy cost for the current Billing Year would be around £3,260. That seemed high, and I didn't believe them at first. But I now see that their prediction was very close to my own prediction of £3,271. As soon as I realised this, I raised the direct debit to what they were asking for: £244 a month. 

Now, in the last few days, their prediction for the Billing Year has edged up by £200 to around £3,460. 

I don't know precisely why this should be so, but perhaps it's the combined effect of Ofgem's price cap changing (just confirmed) and the general withdrawal of government help for households (likely to go ahead). Anyway, they now say I should increase my monthly direct debit yet again, from £244 to £274. Or else top up my credit balance by £350. Either will - on my prediction - result in an end-of-Billing-Year credit balance of £200. I've paid the £350 top-up. I don't mind ending the year in credit - it'll stop OVO nagging me, and go to reduce the next Billing Year's monthly payments.

So I've made a truce with OVO. They came in and took over from SSE without my say-so, and appeared at first to be unreasonably heavy-handed with their direct debit demands. But I now understand their ways better. Certainly, towards the end of last year, they were reasonable enough to give me a refund and let me reduce my direct debit for a while - even though with hindsight I can see that I ought to have let things be. The £350 top-up has put me back to roughly how it would have been without the refund, and without the temporary reduction in monthly payments. 

No energy company is ever going to be a warm-hearted friend. But I feel now that OVO is at least not a villain, and (for now) can be trusted. That doesn't alter the wider picture, that energy prices have become dreadfully high and are likely to stay high henceforth. 

I am going to consider a suitable fixed-price plan, from OVO or someone else, as soon as a good choice becomes available again. I will gain monthly cost stability. But such plans may be a long time coming, and may cost too much. I rather think that staying with the default variable-rate tariff will be the best option for some time to come.

No more

When it comes to speeding offences, I am clearly not very lucky. I have been caught again. This time, no Speed Awareness Course can be offered - it's too soon after the last one. No: it's a £100 fine and 3 points on my licence - a licence hitherto unblemished by penalty points since 1997. I confess to feeling criminalised. It will take four years before those 3 points expire. Four years of embarrassment.

It's hard not to feel a victim. I have to remind myself that the law is impersonal, and wasn't looking to catch me in particular. The police camera van operator didn't care who was recorded exceeding the speed limit. But anyone who did would face automatic consequences.

No doubt every driver who, like me, passed that camera van - and supposed, like me, that they were carefully keeping to the speed limit - has been similarly dealt with. We all made an error. The fact that the unwelcome outcome is not mine alone doesn't console me. It's hard not to feel unjustly treated. I do have the suspicion that road traffic offences prop up the 'successful prosecution' statistics. It's hard not to feel that the police and the courts ought to spend their overstretched energies on catching and punishing genuinely bad people. After all, like those other drivers, I was not acting recklessly, and I certainly wasn't disdainful of the speed limit or any other laws. 

I simply made a mistake about what the speed limit was - as all of us did. It was a dual carriageway, where 70 mph usually applies. But the short stretch I turned into had a 60 mph limit. I thought I was doing the right thing, driving at 70 mph, but I was still 10 mph over the limit. And there were signs to tell me. I didn't notice them, but they were there. (After being notified of the offence, I went back there to check) So no excuses. 

Well, I was earnest to make amends. I complied in every way with the police letters that came, and could not have paid up faster. But there was only small satisfaction in doing that. I was still stuck with a traffic offence on my police record. I suppose it's going to be there forever. One more item to add to the others.

The others? 

Why yes. I've been caught speeding on three previous occasions, in 1993, 2014 and 2021. Every time, I didn't realise what the actual speed limit was. Every time, I was simply driving at the same speed as everyone else. Every time, there were signs to tell me the speed limit, had I observed them. No excuses.  

And then there have been worse crimes. Being detained on the street in 2021, for taking a casual photo of the wrong place (Brighton Police Station). And of course the highly embarrassing Walking on the Wall incident in 1962, when Dixon of Dock Green came to the family front door, as described in my post Very Brainy Policemen and My Criminal Career on 15th December 2016.  

So you see, I have some claim to being an Arch Criminal. Salacious reading, my police dossier.

But this time I don't feel like joking. I've had enough. I want no more police attention. It's the strait and narrow from on. And if I hold up the traffic and get hooted for not going faster, so be it.

Today would have been my fortieth Wedding Anniversary

Forty years ago, on 14th February 1983, I had just got married; and this would be the first night of my honeymoon. 

It was my own romantic notion to get married on St Valentine's Day. At the time it seemed very appropriate. But of course it turned out to be a major mistake, as the 14th February would be forever associated with my wedding, and once my marriage was over, and the association had soured, the day was forever tainted. Doubtless my former spouse feels the same.

My marriage began well. It was a register office affair, at pretty Morden Cottage near Wimbledon in south-west London. The formalities went smoothly. It was chilly for the post-ceremony photos outside in Morden Park, but that went smoothly too. There wasn't much money to throw at the wedding, but a nice function room had been booked at The Plough at New Malden, and I recall a pleasant meal and several speeches welcoming me into another family. 

Then, in the setting sun, we set off for a long drive to Shaftesbury in north Dorset, where the wedding night would be spent at The Grosvenor Hotel. It was all rather exciting. Before retiring to a cosy bed, we had a walk around night-time Shaftesbury. It was icy-cold. Snow was forecast for next day. Meanwhile, surely a few flakes fell, whipped by the insistent wind. The starlit streets were only dimly lit by the lamps, but were magical and unforgettable. We clung together for warmth, and looked up at the brilliant constellations. It seemed like the beginning of a lifelong success story. Just us; so special; so memorable.

Then next day, after a big breakfast, we scraped the frost off the car and headed westwards across snowy Dartmoor to Padstow in Cornwall, where The Nook Hotel in Fentonluna Lane awaited us. Days full of sunshine followed. It was however bitterly cold - although that only made our lunches and evening meals all the more enjoyable, because we could huddle close to log fires as well as appreciate the tasty Cornish cuisine on offer. 

Then all too soon we had to leave for home, and the realities of ordinary life. And yet I felt no disappointment. I had a new status, and a new point of view. It was good to be part of something. To set to at building a home, once the house purchase went through. Was I doing something that came naturally to me, and was good for me? I didn't ask myself. I was sure I would never regret abandoning the single life for one jointly lived. 

It gradually unravelled. Separation came in January 1991. Divorce in June 1996. I stayed in touch with my step-daughter, who represents to this day the only substantial legacy of my essay into matrimony. And yet she is on the other side of the world, a married woman with a family, far away in New Zealand.

I had the opportunity to marry again, but never did. I had become wary of marriage, although not yet averse to sharing my life with someone special. But in time the next long-term relationship also folded. 

I could not stomach any further attempt at marriage, nor anything resembling it. I resolved henceforth to keep myself unattached. So I have avoided any entanglements. And after a dozen or more years of independence I am certain that I made the right decision. I would even say that, looking back, I was born to be single, and best suited to making my way through life alone. That hasn't ruled out making several very good friends; but there is nobody in a romantic role, nor will there ever be.

So for me St Valentine's Day is a non-event, and no more than a reminder of relationship failure. That doesn't stop me wishing those who do have flourishing relationships all the happiness in the world. 

I have stopped believing in lasting romantic love, at least for myself. But love takes many forms, and some kinds of love do mean a lot to me - even if I haven't yet sorted out in my mind which particular kind of love means the most.

Only on the level

Today is the first anniversary of my injuring my right knee, getting up from the pilates mat. I'd put all my weight on it and something went 'pop', and although there was no immediate pain or discomfort I knew that the knee had been damaged. Sure enough, within three days it was swollen and stiff, and walking soon became difficult. I had to use a stick, and even with that forward progress was slow, awkward and often painful if I misjudged any step. I dreaded falling over: how would I ever get up again unaided? 

It was all much worse than I'd anticipated. I felt like a proper old crock. Still, with care and careful exercise the knee improved, and by the end of March it was perfectly feasible to load the caravan up and take off for Devon. By that time, of course, the other knee was beginning to complain at having to do more than its fair share in supporting the Melford physique, which was of course hardly sylphlike. But it was all right, so long as I avoided hills and kept my walkabouts short. Slopes could be painful. So far as I could see, the muscles and ligaments of my right knee had been strained, and I knew from previous experience with my knees that healing would take a long time. 

At first the knee felt very odd: it clicked, and generally felt half-disarticulated. But gradually, as 2022 progressed, the knee firmed up and knitted itself back together. I could walk more easily, then walk faster, then without always having to use a stick. By September, when up in Scotland, I could manage quite lengthy walks, so long as they didn't involve any very steep sections. Such as - memorably - Alladale. And along the cliffs of Caithness to view the equally memorable Duncansby Head sea stacks. 

And now, as 2023 gets properly under way, I'd say my right knee is maybe as much as 70% back to normal. I can walk really briskly - but only on level ground. I can't yet manage steepish slopes with any ease. And actual staircases and steps are still a problem, to be tackled only with care. I'm better if there is a rail I can hold onto, and pull myself up with. Sitting down, and standing up again, both sometimes present difficulties, as if the muscles of both legs have lost some of their power. I can't make up my mind as to whether this signifies a deterioration (caused by the knee injury) that I can recover from, or a more general loss of muscle strength now that I'm getting older. The answer to it is surely to keep moving, and not become idle, to preserve what mobility is left and if possible improve on it. 

I am at my physical best when on holiday, for caravanning involves plenty of load-carrying and opportunities for movement. I am not one to just sit around doing nothing! I want exercise, and this combines well with seeking out the kind of photographs I like to take. 

It's heartening to have booked my first four weeks away - in the West Country - and I've planned (and will book very shortly) a string of trips for the rest of 2023, right up to the end of October. I'm not travelling very far this year. No further than mid-Cornwall, South Wales, Lincolnshire and Suffolk. All within about 250 miles of where I live in Sussex. Distancewise, it's a modest programme compared to when I go to the North of England and Scotland. But the number of nights away still comes to a respectable 107. (That may get trimmed a bit, but I hope not)

I expect the average nightly caravan site fee cost will be close to £20, so that's £2,140 to be spent on 'accommodation', if you regard caravan sites as open-air hotels where you bring your own room. Past experience tells me that holiday car fuel (for towing and running around) will be slightly less. Let's say £4,000 altogether for those 107 nights - an average of £37 for each night away, all in. 'All in' because I never count expenditure on food to cook in the caravan, and restaurant meals, and admission to various attractions, as the combined cost of those things is always much the same as when at home.

One nice thing to keep in mind is that every night away means very little electricity, and no gas and water, consumed at home. Now that the cost of these things has become so high, the money-saving I can make when away is significant. In fact I'd claim that if each caravanning night away costs me £37, it's going to be offset by a £7 electricity/gas/water cost-saving, so that the net nightly cost is really only £30. Which makes going on holiday an even greater pleasure. 

Getting a grip

The Leica X Vario camera I bought in May last year has been a runaway success. Eight and a half months later, and with 17,500-odd shots taken, LXV is proving itself to be an excellent companion on my days out. It looks good, feels good, and gives me the best results I've ever had from a camera. Its specifications wouldn't suit everybody, but they suit my kind of photography, and that's the thing that matters. 

There was however one accessory I hankered after, to make LXV's handling perfect. That was a handgrip. Leica made one specially for the X Vario, and like the camera itself it doesn't often appear on the used market. Months ago I asked mpb.com, from whom I bought LXV online, to let me know if they ever got hold of this dedicated handgrip. So much time had passed that I felt I was waiting in vain. This handgrip was available from foreign sources, but always at an inflated price, with import duties to pay on top of that. I didn't need one so badly that I was willing to pay so much. But then on 25th January mpb.com finally emailed me to say they'd now got one in stock, and was I still interested? 

You bet I was. Within minutes, I'd bought it. 

It was the right handgrip, in 'excellent' condition. The price was a very reasonable £34 - in fact for a genuine Leica accessory, even a used one, this was a remarkably good price. I suppose that's a reflection on how, even now, nearly ten years after its launch, the X Vario is recalled as one of Leica's Big Mistakes. It has that reputation because it wasn't the camera most people were expecting at the time, and a large pack of disappointed people turned on it with fury. It's amazing how people - I mean male photo equipment experts of the armchair variety - can get so worked up about bits of metal and glass, but there you are. Me, I consider what the thing can do, not what it ought to be. As did the saner reviewers and users. But the poor X Vario, despite its classic design, great build and superlative lens, never recovered from its disastrous launch, and it must have been something of an embarrassing sales flop for Leica. Never mind; they soon launched the Q instead, and the series based on that camera became extraordinarily popular. 

The X Vario has become a footnote model, an uncommon one-off that few in 2023 have ever heard of. But I feel lucky to have one, especially as it cost me only £599 last May. A low price, believe me, for anything made by Leica in Germany! And I certainly don't mind paying a correspondingly low price for one of its dedicated accessories. The delivery charge was almost half the cost of the handgrip itself.

Well, it arrived one day sooner than I expected. Inside the parcel was this.

Hmm! I wasn't expecting a near-pristine original silver-black Leica box. These are something to preserve carefully. I delicately prised it open to reveal the handgrip within. Then held the handgrip to the light.

The pictures so far are taken with LXV. The ones with the handgrip in my left hand are exactly the sort that the handgrip will make easier in future. Handgrips shine in one-handed situations, such as when stretching up to take a shot above one's head, or down by one's shoes, or when holding on with the other hand. 

But this one will also have a vital protective function. LXV is made of magnesium alloy, painted black. That black paint tends to wear off with handling, exposing the silvery metal beneath. It's inevitable, if the camera is much used. The paint usually comes off first at the edges of the top plate, or especially the baseplate. When I bought LXV last May its baseplate looked like this:  

The camera was made in November 2013, and was still looking almost unblemished in May 2022. But by January 2023, despite care, the black paint was rubbing off:

Attaching a handgrip would completely cover and protect the baseplate, preventing any further paint loss. It would also insulate the battery/SD card compartment from damage. Less importantly, but still usefully, it would reposition the tripod bush so that it fell under the lens, instead of being offset. 

The next thing to do was to screw the handgrip onto the camera, and see how it improved its appearance and handling.

As anticipated, the handgrip gave my fingers something to curl around, so that even when the neck strap wasn't around my neck, the camera felt secure enough in my right hand. 

I now had a further option, hitherto denied. I could take the neck strap off, and attach a leather wrist strap, making it almost impossible to drop the camera. I'd bought a Gordy wrist strap months previously, in case this moment ever arrived.

As you can see, the Gordy wrist strap is a stout thing in thick cow hide, with a strong cord wrapping, absolutely unbreakable and capable of tethering the photographer to any camera suitable for use in the hand, regardless of weight. 

But I quickly found there were four snags. First, despite the new handgrip - aided by the wrist strap - my fingers were just not strong enough to carry LXV around for hours on end. LXV had the usual Leica heft, coming in at 811g with the handgrip attached. This was too much for dangling the thing from one's fingers, if you didn't possess a strong man's grip. 

So you immediately came up against snag number two: in between shots, LXV would have to be put away in a cross-body bag, using it as a kind of holster. Meaning that if I used a wrist strap when shooting, I must tote two bags - my ordinary bag, plus a camera bag. I'd be festooned with bags. Not a great look, especially in warm weather. 

Snag three? I found that cow hide a bit stiff and unyielding. It just wasn't soft and comfortable. It would eventually get more supple, but I didn't fancy the months of discomfort until it did. 

Snag four was the killer. It was now much harder to take grab shots, or shoot discreetly, because the camera was stuck in a bag. If something caught my eye, I'd have to open the bag, thread my hand through the loop of the wrist strap, and take the camera out. By the time I'd done that, the moment might well have passed. As for the discreet bit, it's such a giveaway to move one's hands towards an obvious camera bag. It shouts 'Hey, here's someone wanting a shot!' and everyone around is warned. But if the camera is already out, on a neck strap and pointing in the right direction, a tiny surreptitious movement of the shutter-button finger at waist level will get the picture. 

So the Gordy wrist strap has been put back on the shelf. 

Will I stay with the new handgrip, or will it also be discarded? It adds 91g - a couple of ounces - to a camera that already has some weight. 

LXV is heavier than the average mirrorless camera body - for instance, the Fujifilm XT-4. But if you add any but the smallest lens to a mirrorless body, then LXV might easily become the lighter camera overall. I've wandered around with LXV more than once in the last week, and not felt at all overburdened. So I think it will turn out fine. Certainly, I appreciate the surer hold I now have on the camera. And I can't help thinking that slightly more weight steadies the camera better for slow shutter speed shots in dim light, leading to sharper pictures indoors in the evening. But it's the impeccable protection of the baseplate that most persuades me that I must persevere with this new accessory.

My tripod hasn't been used for ages. One night soon I'll try a few night sky pictures. The handgrip, with its better-placed bush, will help. 

Dolls

I was never into dolls when very young. 

Teddy bears, yes. My Auntie Lizzie gave me a teddy bear for my first birthday. I called him Teddy Tinkoes. Apparently at first sight I gurgled with delight and clung on tight. He's now sixty-nine, and the treasured guardian of my home. I can rely on him utterly. He's a bit threadbare, but then he had a rough time in his early years, until I suddenly realised that I loved him to bits and he needed all the TLC I could give him. Thenceforth - I'd then be about five - he was gently and tenderly handled. He got me through many a teenage episode. He consoled me through several later relationship breakups too. And even now, in 2023, it's always 'I'll see you later, Ted,' if I go out shopping, or off to lunch. And 'Goodnight, Ted, or 'Good Morning, Ted', every day. He doesn't come caravanning with me. The caravan isn't secure enough to risk leaving him alone inside. Besides, I need somebody I can count on to look after the house while I'm away. I still get emotional over him. If anybody harmed him, they would have my unrelenting vengeance. 

Do young girls, the kind who were around when I was very young, or the kind who are around now, put quite as much emotional load as this onto the cuddly person of their choice? I have no idea. I never had a special friend as a child that I could discuss such things with. I never let anybody else into the private world Ted and I inhabited, and indeed I would have resented any intrusion, however well-intentioned. I did not want to share Ted. I was possessive about him. No other toy I ever had meant as much. I was always a one-toy girl.

My younger brother was quite different from me, much more conventional in every way. For him, his own teddy bear Brucie was just another toy, albeit one he might take to bed. He was into forts and pirate ships, inhabited by a host of plastic figurines and animals, all mixed together. He had an Action Man. Later on he discovered Greek mythology, and then his playthings and reading matter took on a distinctly heroic slant - muscle men battling with gods, giants and hydras. He was obsessive about it. It seemed very odd to me.   

As I say, Ted crowded out other toys. I never acquired any insight into dolls and other similar playmates. For me, a doll was - and remains - just an artificial person, something young girls can dress and talk to and learn to look after; almost a training device for real-life childcare later on, and to learn which clothes go with what accessories or hairstyles. I know I lost out, never having dolls in my young life. 

I'm not however indifferent to them. They are too close to real human beings. Disturbingly so. I was very struck by these dolls at the Bowes Museum at Barnard Castle when I went there in 2018:

These are Victorian and Edwardian dolls, and they don't seem intended for playing with. They clearly lead troubled lives, and some have expressions on their faces signifying unhappiness, annoyance and perplexity. I think they would frighten many a modern child. None of them are having fun, anyway. Not like the dolls I saw the other day at Fenwick department store in Canterbury. These dolls caught my eye. Every little girl's ideal was catered for. Here's just a small selection.

Their faces are subtly different, but all are pleasant. Nothing to frighten here. These were large dolls, baby-sized in fact, and meant for younger girls. There were also smaller, more portable Barbie dolls for older girls, with all sorts of accessories for them, boyfriends included:

Well! Look what I missed. If Auntie Lizzie hadn't given me Teddy Tinkoes - a name I invented for him, incidentally - who else would have been my lifetime companion? 

Somehow I don't think it would have been one of those humanoids. I'd prefer an animal. Perhaps one of these cuties, also at Fenwick:

Even this creature had an appeal that those perfect dolls didn't have:

As you can see, he was very gentle, and I hardly felt a thing when I put my finger into his mouth. I can't imagine this lumbering dark green dinosaur ever having a tantrum, or flashing his eyes in bad temper. 

But none of them compare with Ted, being fondly held by me in this 2021 photo:

Plastic strips and lighthouses

Normally this is a time of year when I get a lot of blogging done, but a flurry of car- and caravan-related stuff, social events, appointments, and photographic work have all combined to edge out any such publishing. It's now easing off a bit, so let's get on with some.

First, a sequel to the removal of the towing arm fairing on my caravan. When all of it had been completely cleared away, it left a gap at floor level in the front locker where the gas cylinders, electrical cable, trolley, hitchlock, winder, wooden blocks, air pump, waste water container, fluid bottles and sundry tools all go. That gap needed to be blocked off, so that weather and road spray couldn't get in, nor things fall out. 

It wasn't hard to see how to tackle the job. I'd need to buy a strip of thick white plastic, cut it exactly to size, drill holes in the fibreglass front end of the caravan, with corresponding holes in the now-shaped strip of plastic, and bolt the strip into position, thus sealing the gap and making the front of the caravan look good again. 

Fortunately my next-door neighbour Kevin volunteered to do the cutting, drilling and fixing for me. All I had to do was buy a suitable strip of plastic, and provide him with a similar strip of stiff cardboard so that he could make a drilling template. I sourced the plastic strip from a specialist shop in Hove, and I bought some nuts, bolts and washers too. 

A piece of stiff cardboard of just the right length was actually harder to find. In the end, I raided my attic and found an old poster, a bit bent but still in its wrapping (as I'd never framed it as originally intended), with a stiff cardboard backing - just the kind needed for the job. (There was a sequel to finding that poster, which I'll mention at the end)

I left Kevin to it. He knew his business, and in a remarkably short time had filled that gap for me. And he didn't mess around with nuts and bolts. He riveted the plastic strip into position, so that nothing could work loose and come undone. There was even sealant between plastic and fibreglass, to add extra weatherproofing. A very neat job.

There was still a small gap between the new strip and the edge of the locker floor. There always was - it's there to allow any accidental leakage of propane gas to escape. There are other small holes and gaps too, with the same purpose. Caravans have to be well-ventilated!

Kevin didn't want money or anything like that. But he fancied the poster. I gave it to him. This is it. 

It's a famous photograph, taken by Jean Guichard in 1989, of the lighthouse at La Jument off the treacherous rocky coast of Brittany. At that time this isolated offshore lighthouse, perched on jagged rocks, was still manned: it was automated two years later. Meanwhile the crew were there doing traditional duties, often coping with stormy seas, which would crash against the lighthouse and must have been terrifying at times. An especially fierce storm had already caused damage, ripping off the outer doors of the lighthouse entrance and flooding the lower rooms. The crew were waiting to be rescued. Jean Guichard wanted to get out there in a gale, in a helicopter, and never mind the danger. As the helicopter approached the lighthouse, one of the keepers - as I say, expecting rescue shortly - came out to see. At that very moment a gigantic wave smashed against the lighhouse, and began to curl around it. Jean Guichard's photo catches the keeper at the very moment that he looks most exposed to certain death. In fact, he had sensed what was about to happen, and fled back into the lighthouse with hardly a second to spare before the wave, cut in two, joined itself together again at the lighthouse door. So he lived to tell the tale, and Jean Guichard got the shot of a lifetime.

I'd bought that print, along with several others, in Dartmouth when visiting the Devon town in 1998. All along, I'd thought that it was a dramatic shot of a French lighthouse, but with a man cleverly Photoshopped onto it. I'd never checked out the Wikipedia article. I had been quite wrong - it was a genuine picture. Wow.

So pleased was I with Kevin's work that I felt a poster wasn't enough. I had a book, bought back in 2001, full of dramatic shots of lighthouses all along the Atlantic coast of Europe, from Gibraltar to Shetland. So I gave him that too.