Ultra vertigo potential: the Button Boy

It was many years ago now, but I clearly remember seeing a film on TV to do with the historical training of young naval recruits at a Royal Naval College called HMS Ganges. I watched with growing horror. The young recruits - each with the rank of 'Boy' and all teenage - gradually mounted (in formal attire, caps included) a very tall ship's mast set in the middle of a parade ground. I don't recall any sound effects, but you could easily imagine a big drum somewhere giving a 'boom' on every second, and in response these trainees would all step upwards together on the rope shrouds, perfectly synchronised. 

Higher and higher they went. Some would remain on the rope shrouds, holding on in an erect pose. But the rest would go on upwards to platforms, where a small number would stand. Others would edge out along the horizontal yards, spacing themselves evenly, and standing upright. The first and lowest yard was not quite halfway up; but the second was rather higher, and the topmost yard was at a quite dizzying height. The yards were substantial but rounded, and the topmost was on the thin side. 

This was dreadful enough. But one of the Boys, the nominated Button Boy, had to shin up the last section of mast to a tiny platform (the button) at the very top, and then stand on top of it, with (if it were not for a safety net far below) a fall to his death if he wobbled or lost his nerve and fainted. 

All stood to attention. And at some command would all salute. The Button Boy too, and that was a big deal, because he'd have to take his hands away from the short lightning conductor rod on his tiny platform. This rod hardly came up to his waist. He stood in front of it, and I suppose he might to some extent brace himself against it. But with one arm stiffly by his side, and the other making a salute, he couldn't hold onto it, and was effectively standing, barely supported, on a large dinner plate far above the ground. It was excruciating to watch. I expected him to be blown off by a puff of wind, and that would be that. But it didn't happen.  

You can view various versions of this mast-mounting ceremony on YouTube and elsewhere:

Wikipedia has a fair bit about HMS Ganges and this mast: 

Only a coin as a reward? 

But there might have been non-serious injuries? What about the mental trauma of scaling frightening heights, and then falling? How many falls were there?

On 11th July, the first evening of my Suffolk holiday, I drove to Shotley Gate - not far away - and while there I made a point of looking at what might be left of HMS Ganges. I'd already passed The Royal Hospital School at Holbrook on the way - basically a modern private school, originally built and run on naval college lines, and to this day continuing with much the same ethos - and I'd imagined that a former Royal Navy Training School like HMS Ganges would have a similar grand appearance. Or at least a grand approach road. But no. The old main entrance was tucked away down a disappointingly unremarkable side street at Shotley Gate. It was locked up, and looked forlorn. 

Behind those gates, the old site was being redeveloped. I didn't immediately realise what that white tower, which at a distance looked like a radar installation, actually was. I went closer, and managed to poke LXV's lens through a gap.

Oh dear! The redevelopment seemed to have stalled. And the mast had been partly dismantled to only half its original height. It must have got into a seriously poor condition. It was hard to believe that one day, when the redevelopment was finally complete, it would be restored to its former glory. I went away thinking that this part of the country's naval heritage had been sadly let down. And this, despite my feelings about heights and needlessly sending youngsters aloft. Many must have been in a state of controlled terror. Just to provide a display for an important visitor when the training school was active.   

Not every person is scared of being off the ground. I have to grant that these were boys of an unusually adventurous mould, likely to be high-spirited and light-hearted about risk. There would certainly be peer competition to show daring and coolness, peer pressure to excel, to exceed, and go to extremes. Then there was the relentless discipline, enforcing all commands to do things that were dangerous, unpalatable, or against natural common-sense. People will do anything if the compulsion is strong enough, or the penalties for refusal too severe.

And I dare say that some boys would have actually aspired to be the star of the show, the Button Boy. If they got up there with practiced ease, and came down again with the same aplomb, they would be much admired for their technique, proven courage and apparent fearlessness. It might make a difference later on, marking them out for early promotion in adult naval service. Given that, the small token present from the commander - that coin - might actually be a hugely-coveted trophy, symbolic of an impressive achievement. 

In any case, I'm sure the Navy wouldn't have offered meaningful cash rewards. There must be no suggestion that boys were induced to climb high in exchange for a money prize. The Button Boy's performance had to be in the best traditions of the service, the product of training and discipline and only those things. After all, in the days of Nelson anyone in a ship's crew might might have been ordered aloft, and no argument about it - nor any reward.

I remain perplexed how it is that some people have no anxiety about being high up. It makes me feel rather inadequate! I do test myself now and then. For instance, when looking around Woodbridge on 12th July, I mounted the curving steps at the front of the Shire Hall:

The steps, as you can see, were in good condition, and there was a proper handrail. The local council clearly regard ascending them as safe, otherwise they would be out of bounds to the general public. Anyway, I wanted the view (and some shots) from the landing at the top.

Well, yes: a great view of the lower town square! But it did seem high, and as the seconds passed I felt vertigo getting a grip. Time to get down. The stairs looked endless, the ground so far away.

I'm rather glad that I could never have been an HMS Ganges recruit! But there are careers I could have had, that would have involved being scarily high up from time to time. I'm really very content that I was only an office worker. 

So readers shouldn't be surprised to learn that I won't be trying out the zip-wire on the Brighton seafront. I saw it in action last April:

That tower with the spiral steps is the launch platform. Two friends were zipping noisily:

You zip down to that structure on the beach, where you come to a sudden stop. 

As I understand it, you get a ground-level briefing by the staff before donning a helmet and a harness. Then you have to climb that spiral staircase to the top of the tower - I'd never make it, it's too high, and my dodgy right knee would give out. On arrival, further advice and a choice between a fast wire and a slightly slower one. Then the harness gets attached. One is still not past the point of no return, but it must be like being at a church wedding (mine was a register office affair) and the exchange of vows is about to begin, with ring poised.

Two of my friends, Sue and Jackie, had a go recently. Apparently it was thrilling. A bit of last-moment trepidation as you dangle off the platform, then an immense adrenalin rush as you career at speed over the heads of people on the beach. 

But I'm still not tempted.

The experience is nevertheless unmissable if you are as daring as a Button Boy. Be warned, however: it's not cheap. Here a group of friends discuss whether they should spend megabucks on something they may regret:

Note the prices! Still, it's within reach of most pockets, including £4 extra for having a GoPro video camera popped on your helmet to record what you saw while zipping - Jackie and Sue agreed that is worth having. Obviously, you can't use your own camera or phone to take the footage, in case it drops onto the gawping multitude below. And they do gawp. I did. So did Joe Cool in the shot below, gliding along on his uniwheel Segway board:

Now that's something else beyond my capabilities - a good sense of balance. But that's for another post.

The correct use of knitting needles

Readers will, I'm sure, be pleased to know that The Moons of Destiny passed all tests while I was away on my recent nine-night caravan holiday in Suffolk. In fact such was their influence, I had a wonderful time. There were no issues whatever until I got home. Then, when wielding a hammer to tap something into place - why? Well, the reason may be explained in a post to come - I discovered that the Moons, now looser than they were on my wrist, had marked the skin. Actually, it wasn't the silver nuggets that had done the damage. It was the S-shaped clasp. Here it is, in one of my first shots of the bracelet:

But now it had done this to my skin. (Remember that when you get older, your skin gets more fragile!)

That S-shaped clasp was a handsome thing, a very nice feature of the bracelet, and I quite liked the little curly-wurly bits (finials?) on either side, which seemed to enhance the general elegance of the clasp. And yet they could dig into the skin and mark it, if I were engaged in something that would cause the bracelet to vigorously flop backwards and forwards. Such as hammering. I wouldn't be doing such a thing very often, but that wasn't the point. I wanted to wear The Moons all the time, and not take them off whenever I intended moving my right arm rapidly to and fro. There must be no likelihood of injury in any ordinary circumstances.

I'd grown very fond of my new 71st birthday bracelet while on holiday, and badly wanted to find a solution to this issue. So I went back to Pruden & Smith. Yes, I could easily have a different clasp. It would cost me nothing. What sort? The clear alternative was to fit a lobster clasp. I'd lose the full hallmark on the S-shaped clasp, but the new clasp would still bear a '925' to denote sterling silver. OK then!

I picked my bracelet up yesterday morning. It looked very good with the lobster clasp, which lay smooth and flat, with nothing sticking out that might gouge into my skin. Its shape and flatness would spread the load better, on the same principle as snowshoes. The S-shaped clasp was skeletal by comparison, with much more potential to press into the skin. The new clasp was decidedly dermo-friendly, and promised to be much kinder to my wrist. 

That said, it wasn't quite as elegant as the S-shaped clasp had been. But it was still sterling silver, and it went well with those chunky silver nuggets. I was amply satisfied.

Emily at Prudent & Smith had put The Moons back on for me. I now needed to work out a good way of putting them on by myself, in case I ever had to take them off again, and nobody was around to assist. 

I'd already given this some thought. There were for instance special gadgets you could buy on the Internet. These were like a small rod with a spring-loaded jaw. The jaw held one side of the clasp steady on the wrist while the other side of the clasp was attached with the other hand. As in this very cheap Chinese example on Amazon:

Or this more elaborate but still inexpensive version, also on Amazon: 

You can see how they work. It looks simple and quick. Actually, it's still rather a fiddle (I studied a couple of YouTube videos, to see what was involved), but if you were using one of these things often then practice would make perfect. All for less than a tenner, although postage might bump that up somewhat, and quite possibly one would have to wait for the next batch of 20,000-odd to be sent over from deepest China, where they all appear to be made. Still, an obvious source for something that would do the trick.

But I wondered whether I already had the answer at home. 

I'd taken The Moons off to weigh them. The different clasp had not altered the weight one bit: still 50g. Now to put my bracelet back on! Two weeks earlier, I'd thought of a way that involved looping a string through the rings on either side of the clasp, tying it into a slip knot, drawing it together, and then connecting the clasp. Time to try it out.

Well, it worked. But it was rather a struggle, because the string got in the way. (Incidentally, you can see why this kind of clasp is called a 'lobster'! It's so like a lobster's claw)

There must be a better method. Some of the bracelet-fasteners I'd seen on Amazon had simple hooks rather than spring-loaded jaws. What was the household equivalent? Crochet hooks?

Maybe...but it didn't work. There wasn't enough curl to the crochet hook, and it wouldn't lock onto the ring that I wanted to attach the lobster to. 

Then I thought of ordinary knitting needles. If I could poke a thin knitting needle through the ring, and press it onto my wrist to hold it steady, and then attach the lobster...? Aha...success!

Zooming out...

Now this did work, rather well. I used a short knitting needle - my Mum had a whole lot of knitting equipment, which I had inherited lock, stock and barrel - but really any knitting needle that could be held like that in the 'bracelet' hand, and could be pushed through that ring, would have done.

I don't know when I'll next need to remove The Moons of Destiny and put them on again, but at least I now have a sure-fire way of doing it! (Assuming I have a short knitting needle handy, naturally) 

Perceptive readers will have noticed that in one of the shots just above I show both hands in use. How then did I take the photo with my phone, without resorting to a tripod and a special phone clamp? 'Twas easy, me hearties. I just manoeuvred the phone - screen up and camera lens down - so that half was on the edge of a chest of drawers (it could just as well have been a table edge) and half overhanging. I then weighed down the half on the chest with a heavy slate coaster, then got my wrist and fingers into position with the needle through the ring, and with the lobster ready to connect to it, then gave a voice command to my phone to take the picture. Bob was my uncle, and Fanny was my aunt!

I have to admit, phones can be pretty good at hard-to-take closeups! It would have been harder to take that shot with my 'proper' camera, LXV, even if set up on a tripod.

No more book festivals

Temperamentally I've never been one for festivals. Certainly not a music festival - I'd hate the crowds, and I'd hate the noise. I dislike joining any small group, even such things as a local group of photographers. So I'd absolutely recoil from being part of a huge gathering like the Glastonbury Festival. I do sort of see why such a thing might appeal to many people. Well, let them go and enjoy themselves; I don't in any way disapprove; I just want to keep out of it, and do my own thing.

One kind of festival has however had some appeal: book festivals. Specifically, the Appledore Book Festival in North Devon, which I still keep an eye on. I also keep up a connection with the Aldeburgh Book Festival in Suffolk. This isn't out of a sense of east-west balance - ying and yang, and all that. These are simply the two festivals that the gods decreed I should take notice of. 

I've never been able to go to any of the Suffolk events (they do literary things throughout the year, hosted by The Aldeburgh Bookshop) because the dates always clash with my outings elsewhere in the country. But I can, if I wish, attend the Appledore Book Festival in September. I've done it before. In fact I did it for several years running. 

It began in 2012, when Anne at Higher Darracott Farm (where I stay in North Devon) casually asked me if I was going to the Appledore Book Festival that year. I'd never heard of it, which wasn't surprising as back then it was still very much a local affair, though properly organised. Well, I got tickets for a couple of events, and was hooked. I loved the buzz. I loved mixing cheek-by-jowl with local people at local venues in Appledore itself (whatever hall, church, chapel or meeting room could be pressed into service). And there were other things going on, such as writing workshops, pub quizzes, history lectures and walks, and ghost walks at night. It was so nice to book a lot of events - they didn't cost much back then - and hurry from one to another, often encountering the same faces, and striking up friendships. There was a thrill too in seeing the authors close up, some of them well-known former politicians and persons of that calibre. Or big names in crime fiction. I have not forgotten sharing a table - and pictures - with Ian Rankin, the famous crime author, whose enthusiasm for the music of the late Jackie Leven (they had been friends), made Leven's music and lyrics (or is it poetry set to music?) an enduring favourite of mine. 

Appledore was (and remains) special in itself, an attractive small town with a quay, and sea and estuary views. It's worth going there just to stroll about and explore, perhaps stop for coffee and cake, or a light lunch, or fish and chips in the evening, although it's long been possible to dine in a sophisticated fashion. Appledore has its regattas and gig races, and used to be nationally known as a boatbuilding centre - naval vessels mainly. It's good for most moods. Certainly it's a relaxing place to breathe in the salty sea air, perhaps inspect the lifeboat, and generally wallow in things nautical. It doesn't have a yacht marina, but I think the town is better without one. Apart from the old boatyards, its waterfront remains almost entirely at the visitor's disposal. 

The Appledore Book Festival has grown up over the years, changing from a competently-run event in the hands of strictly local volunteers - all hand to the pumps - to something larger, slicker and distinctly more professional. Given that, it has gradually upped its game so that what you might call 'household-name authors' dominate the annual line-up. Their speaking-fees need to be paid, so event costs have increased, and it seems clear that proper advice has been taken as to how to market the Festival in the best way to increase revenue, and make the Festival ever more important. This endeavour has enhanced the Festival in some ways, but I think it has lost much of that informal small-town flavour.  

After dipping my toe into it in 2012, I made a point of attending the Festival every year until 2018, usually buying tickets for at least one or two events on most days. It wasn't too expensive, and I got a lot out of it socially. I went because I wanted to see the authors, or hear them discuss their books, and to take in the special Appledore atmosphere before, during and after those events. It was so nice to be recognised as a regular Festival-goer, and I made some good local friends. By early 2018 I was seriously considering moving home to North Devon. My Sussex friends dissuaded me, and I listened, but it was a near thing. I almost did it. 

Then I lost my enthusiasm. Suddenly I wanted to do something different. For instance, go to the annual Art Exhibition at Bideford. The Festival had changed. 2018 had been the first year in which an event was held not in a cramped hall somewhere in Appledore but in a proper college auditorium in Bideford. This was to accommodate the large packed audience. It was Jeremy Vine in conversation with Jeremy Paxman. I'd spoken briefly with Jeremy Vine (a Festival patron) at a 'Friends-only' evening party a couple of years before, and this time I conversed with Jeremy Paxman, and got him to pose with me, smiling, although for most of the evening he was in an odd mood, rather grumpy. Later on that evening, the other Jeremy had a distinctly hard time with him on stage, as he didn't want to say much about his book, nor his life. Perhaps it was then that I decided I was tired of celebrities and what they had to say. Why should I pay to hear them speak - or not speak? What did they really add to my own life? Why was I there at all?

Once you start to question the point of festival-going, it quickly loses its appeal. You take a fresh view on alternative things to do - more interesting things - and give those some time instead. I still bought tickets online for several Appledore Book Festival events in 2019, but actually went to no more than two of them. I just fancied doing something else, and wrote off the money wasted. 

Then Covid-19 struck. The 2020 Festival, a socially-distanced, outdoor affair in an Appledore field, was a triumph of technology. Attendees had to stay within a marked space, just big enough to contain a car and possibly a couple of folding chairs. Authors were interviewed, or made their pitch, under a canopy, and were videoed, so that they appeared on a monster-sized screen with properly synched sound. It worked really well. The cars were spaced so that no vehicle blocked the view of another. It was in fact more comfortable than normal! But very far from the original experience, sitting close to the author on a hard church pew perhaps, or in a library annexe. It was like a drive-in cinema, with the audience insulated from each other. It was like watching an extremely large TV screen from inside one's own glass box. It all felt rather impersonal. As tickets were sold by the car, it was expensive to be there if you were the only occupant, unable to shre the cost. I could afford to attend only two of these open-air events, as opposed to three or four times that number in former years.

I haven't been to the Appledore Book Festival since. My allegiance has switched instead to the Bideford Art Exhibition⁹. I might go back to the Book Festival at some point, but not this year. The organisers have, for months, been sending emails full of exciting announcements that so-and-so (a celebrity author) will be there. Mostly I've never heard of them. I'm not tempted in the slightest. 

If the Festival could be as it was in 2012, I'd give it a go. But it has probably gone too far down the road of author-chasing, and lost too much of that intimate local flavour I once so enjoyed.

I wouldn't be surprised to find that Appledore itself has moved on. There has been some new building - expensive apartments - in recent years. It's losing some of its old-time quaintness. If ever the old boatyards come up for redevelopment, a big 'holiday village' - with some kind of marina, of course - will be erected in no time. It will look smart, and be exclusive, but Appledore will be a different place.  

The British State

My ears pricked up as I heard the 6.00pm BBC news on Radio 4. 

Rishi Sunak, our prime minister, was making an official government apology to past victims of mistreatment in the armed forces, following a report by Lord Etherton into the plight of serving LGBT persons from 1967 to 2000. 

In it he used the phrase 'the British state'. 

I'd never heard that phrase before. I'd hitherto only heard the country being called 'the United Kingdom'. I wondered whether this signalled an eventual renaming of the country; and in turn, what that might mean. 

It wasn't as if this acknowledged mistreatment of LGBT personnel extended back into a time when, say, the present Republic of Ireland was still part of Britain, because if so I could easily see why one would need to be careful about naming the responsible national entity. 'The British state' clearly can't include the Irish Free State, which became Eire. But if considering only the period 1967 to 2000, the country existing then - and now making this retrospective apology - was undoubtedly The United Kingdom. So why not say so? 

Perhaps I'm picking up on something that really isn't there. 

And yet, if you think about it, the UK will have to be renamed at some point in the future. I'm pretty sure that Scotland at least will get its independence within the next twenty years, if not sooner. In the same time-frame I can see Northern Ireland becoming part of the Republic. And it's not hard to imagine Wales wanting to go the way of Scotland. It will become increasingly awkward to speak of 'the United Kingdom'. As bits drop off, the country will have to be be given a transitional name - the 'British state' perhaps? - until the parts that want to leave the UK have all left, when it can be called simply 'England'. 

It sounds very Elizabethan to me, meaning the first Queen Elizabeth. She ruled a country with a few colonies but no empire, a small country with limited resources on the edge of the European continent, but one that stood up for itself. 

However, I don't think we will ever return to the hearty swashbuckling days of Drake and Raleigh. By the time 'England' takes its seat at the United Nations HQ, nationality will mean very little. Every country with a coastline - which means all the current major world players - will see some of its best farmland under water, or scorched dry, and major cities ruined and abandoned. National boundaries will have been overrun as irresistible desperate millions look for dry land to resettle on. I can't see border guards holding back that tide. The alternative is to somehow force those living in hot countries to stay put and die. Only ruthless means will do that. Who will be selfish enough?

For the better-off territories, the ones who might try to control or deflect the movement of entire populations, it will mean either refugees everywhere in camps built to hold them, or a collective mass guilt for doing nothing to save them. 

In George Orwell's Nineteen Eighty Four 'Britain' had been renamed 'Airstrip One' - signifying a country forever at war (justifying draconian powers and constant surveillance), a country at the very forefront, the one closest to the enemy (whoever that was: it changed from time to time, and indeed the never-ending war might actually be a convenient fiction). Thankfully his dreadful vision did not come to pass. But events may thrust a different dystopia upon us. Maybe we will end up being called 'Holding Territory One'. 

'England' as we know it will have gone, the green and pleasant land buried under a sea of muddy tents. We will witness an awful transformation. No doubt I myself will remain comfortable enough, at least compared to the average displaced person living precariously on handouts. But all of us will feel shipwrecked.

Happy coincidences

We have all been told how likely it is, in any reasonably large gathering of people, for there to be at least two people who share the same birthday. But in my own life I've never come across anybody else who has shared mine: the sixth of July. But now I have.

I was in St Mary-le-Tower Church in Ipswich, intent as usual on photography. Ipswich is like Norwich: there are an awful lot of churches! They are all different inside, and visiting them is like a photographic lucky dip. I've yet to see any church that has completely disappointed me. Each has something. This one, splendid in any case, majored on wood carving and painted panels. A post may follow, as I would like to convey what I find so absorbing about these places.

Anyway, after getting all the shots I wanted, I fell in with a chap wearing a headband with a torch attached to it - there to expertly restore a screen - and the lady he had been talking to. As I entered, he was telling her about the history of the church. They were soon joined by a young woman who was going to undertake a singing test (the church has a proper choir). I wasn't standing close by to hear all this - sounds travelled far inside that church. I could hear snatches of what they were saying. 

Eventually the young woman moved away, but the restorer remained talking with the lady for a little while longer, and I went up to them, wanting to apologise for taking lots of photos without a word beforehand, this being something I'd normally do if persons clearly connected with a church were present as I arrived. Of course it was all right. Shortly afterwards, the restorer went back to work, and I was left with the lady, who was seated, with her shopping trolley at her side in the aisle. I saw that she'd been having a rest. She seemed happy to chat with me too. 

Well, we soon got on to our aches and pains - after several thousand steps around Ipswich already, my right leg was starting to complain - and it seemed we were both in much the same state: showing signs of wear and tear, but otherwise cheerful and enjoying life. And it transpired that we were both getting on a bit. She casually mentioned that she'd had a birthday in the week before. Oh, I said, so had I. Hers had been on the Thursday. Mine too - we must share the same birthday! She exclaimed in astonishment. And I have to say, it was just as surprising to me. But the happy coincidence didn't end there. It turned out that we had celebrated the same birthday. We were the same age!

I suppose our voices had become a little too animated. The vicar came up and explained that the young woman who was having the singing test needed a quiet church to do her singing justice, and our voices were rather audible. Oops, sorry! So we curtailed out conversation, and I left, feeling slightly embarrassed at being told off. (Sigh: a bit like schooldays. I was extremely well-behaved at school, and rarely did anything wrong - and therefore, not being used to censure, I felt every occasional admonishment acutely, especially if it came from a favourite teacher. I hated falling below the best standard, or ever letting someone I respected down)

Still, I'd enjoyed my chat with this nice lady! And what a thing, to come across somebody else born on the sixth of July after all these years!  

There have been a number of happy occurrences like this on my present holiday, and I'm only four days into it. I always do have pleasant encounters and experiences, but this time more than usual. 

For instance, earlier on at Ipswich, I caught the attention of a lady who happened to be an official local historian, and she told me of several things I ought to see. Then a short while later, a woman dashed out of a shop and directed me to one of Ipswich's tallest churches, St Lawrence's, which had bells dating from the time of Cardinal Wolsey. In both cases, they saw me taking pictures with LXV, and assumed that I was a serious architectural and historical photographer. Which I suppose I am; but I'm surprised my picture-taking was so noticeable. (Although, as usual, nobody else seemed to be wandering around with a 'proper camera', let alone a Leica!) I did indeed look inside St Lawrence's, and found that it had been converted into a very large café. And - blow me! - yet another friendly lady engaged me in conversation about St Lawrence's, and some other places I might go to. Then her table companion followed me out, and she gave me further suggestions. 

Wow, Ipswich residents must be so proud of their city! Otherwise I can't work out why they were all so pleasant, and so keen to speak with me. Unless it's the camera. Or maybe - who knows - they'd spotted my new bracelet, and felt that I must be a well-loved and deserving person. Even the vicar who'd to ask me to turn down the volume was very nice about it. 

Well, whatever the reason, I hope this run of happy occurrences continues. 

Tomorrow I'm off to Walton-on-the-Naze, Frinton-on-Sea, Clacton-on-Sea, and St Osyth's Priory. On the way, I'm revisiting a coffee-and-cake van outside Mistley station, run by a young woman called Heather who makes her own cakes. I discovered her yesterday when on my way to Harwich, and I promised to call by again. I'm looking forward to it, as the cakes are delicious!  

The Moons of Destiny

And now the birthday present reveal!

If you ploughed through my recent post A tale of six bracelets you'll know that for my 71st birthday I decided to have yet another silver bracelet, but one unlike any that have preceded it. A bracelet that promised to give me no problems from being too heavy, or denting my skin because too solid and unyielding, or falling off my wrist because of catch or clasp insecurity. It would, of course, have to look rather special, and go well with my other silver jewellery, the clothes I wear, and indeed my personal style in general. 

Quite a tall order! Could such a bracelet be found? Frankly, this was the final throw of the dice. If I hadn't got it right now, I would give up on bracelets entirely. But I really do think this is The One.

As for the fancy name, well, it is in fact almost entirely descriptive. This birthday bracelet is in the form of twenty-nine spherical silver nuggets of various sizes, strung more-or-less randomly on tiger tail (steel wire encased in nylon), with an S-shaped and hallmarked clasp. They look exactly like cratered silver moons revolving in close procession around a giant planet (my wrist), with nary a gap. I don't think the laws of physics would allow this in real life, the unequal masses of each moon rapidly leading to chaos. Unless, of course, each moon were composed of a different combination of elements, so that despite being different sizes, they still had the same mass as each other. I'm probably quite wrong - I dismally failed my Physics O-Level back in 1967 - and in any case, they have to be made of silver and nothing else) 

I admit the 'destiny' bit is a little pretentious, but this bracelet is meant to be a significant personal possession, and deserves a name that's out of the ordinary. In any case - who knows - acquaintance with it may influence the course of my future life in some important way. Such is the power of jewellery! At any rate, 'The Moons of Destiny' has a ring to it that I like. Portentous, that's the word. 

Well, it has made a good start! I had the length adjusted so its slackness on my right wrist was just so - a little bit more than the FitBit smartwatch on my left wrist. So it isn't tight on my wrist: there's some play; I can push a finger under The Moons. But it can't be rolled very far up or down my wrist, and there is no danger of the clasp getting into a position where we suddenly part company. I can undo the clasp and take the moons off one-handed, but putting them on again by myself will be tricky. Although, being mildly inventive, I do see a cunning way of doing it. Mind you, the plan is to wear this bracelet 24/7, and in ordinary circumstances never take it off. I have no idea whether it will really stand up to such relentless intimacy, but it looks robust enough.

So let's have some pictures.

I first saw the bracelet on 23rd June. I'd just lunched with friends at The Nutmeg Tree in Ditchling, and I had bracelets on my mind. So I suggested that we pop into nearby Pruden & Smith as the next thing. And there I spotted this bracelet on display: 

The cost - £199 - was no surprise. But for that you do get an exclusive in-house design in solid silver, durably strung. It called to me. And it was an immediate hit with my friends, despite all my past bracelet mistakes. A very suitable birthday present. 

As I say, it needed lengthening, by about half an inch, changing some of the nuggets to do so. That bumped the cost up to £220. The birthday present deal was that in accordance with our long-established custom, each friend put up £20 towards the cost - a total contribution therefore of £80, with myself paying the balance of £140. Both Jo and I had accounts at Pruden & Smith; but it was done on her account, and so I paid her the £140. 

The next step was to pop in once the lengthening and rewiring had been done, for a fitting. So I returned on 30th June.

A length of tiger tail had been left, in case more work was necessary. If all was fine, it would be neatly trimmed off. I asked the girl who was serving me - who was my namesake, another Lucy (that had to be a good omen!) - to take some shots with LXV:

On this occasion, Lucy put the bracelet on my wrist differently from how I've now got it. But the general effect was the same. It was a perfect fit. I took it off with a sigh. The next time I'd see it would be at lunchtime on the day after my actual birthday, when it would be presented to me, gift wrapped. Fast-forward then to yesterday, 7th July, once more at The Nutmeg Tree in Ditchling. This was my garb for the occasion. I think green looks great with silver.

The following pictures say it all.

One of my friends, Sue, couldn't be there. So Jackie expertly 'forged' her message on the card.

Back home I had a much closer look at The Moons of Destiny. I used the little Leica D-Lux 4 (rather than LXV) for these next shots, as it has a very good macro mode.

LXV (my Leica X Vario) can't get in so close, although if it could its pictures would be sharper and the colours better. The point of the last two shots is to show the hallmark, which consists of the maker's mark 'APRS'; the silver fineness mark '925'; a leopard's head for the London assay office; a lion passant to denote Sterling Silver; and a small-case 'Y', the year mark for 2023.

At the moment the moons are new and bright - looking in fact like little globes of frosted sugar. I don't know how long they will stay that way. By wearing them constantly I should ward off - or at least inhibit - any tendency to tarnishing. But surely they will darken in time. As for the tiger tail that holds them together, this will with average luck last two or three years before stretching too much, or the nylon deteriorating. Then it'll be back to Pruden & Smith for re-wiring. 

Meanwhile I am very pleased indeed with my birthday present. I think it's pretty, and suitable for any occasion likely to arise. I'm now standing by for that promised destiny - doubtless an extraordinary one! [Drums fingers while waiting]

NEXT DAY SEQUEL

Of course, I had to take The Moons off to see how hard it would be to be them back on again single-handed. In fact it wasn't too difficult. I found it easier to wear my new bracelet in the way I had when trying it out for fit on 30th June. That put the hook end of the clasp in a better position for engagement. It was however enough of a fiddle to discourage me from taking The Moons off too often. 

While off my wrist, I popped my bracelet on my super-accurate electronic scales. It weighed precisely 50g. That's a satisfying weight, and yet not too heavy. The spot price for silver in the UK today is 58p per gramme, so that if we knock off (say) 3g for the tiger tail wire that the nuggets are strung onto, the value of the silver metal in the bracelet is (50-3)g x £0.58 = just over £27. About one-eighth of its retail cost. That's what you pay at a posh workshop jeweller's in upmarket Ditchling, a village with a long association with the 'Arts and Crafts' movement. 

The nuggets are solid silver, apart from the hole through them, and broadly of three sizes. If we call the smallest size 1, the middle size 2, and the largest size 3, then we have:

19 nuggets that are size 1

6 nuggets that are size 2

4 nuggets that are size 3

I have also wondered about the claimed randomness in the way they are strung. Using the three nugget sizes, this is the stringing pattern from the 'non-hook' end of the clasp round to the 'hook end' (I've put a space after each size 2 or size 3 nugget):

113 112 112 1113 2 112 1113 2 13 1112 1  

Hmm. This doesn't seem like the jumble of sizes you might expect. There appears to be an underlying pattern, however shadowy. But I didn't mind one bit. I'd rather have The Moons strung in a sequence based on visual balance and attractiveness, than a chaotic sequence flowing from mere blind chance.

P&S have certainly designed and fashioned a bracelet that catches the eye. A girl at Waitrose this morning told me - without the slightest prompting - what a nice bracelet it was. What a sweet moment! I'm off to Suffolk tomorrow. What will the people I encounter there say? As readers know, I like a chat. The Moons may well prove quite a conversation-piece!