The endgame

It's the suite of rooms in Brussels where the Absolutely Last Ditch Do Or Die Brexit Trade Deal Negotiations are in their final stages, and all of Europe - nay, all the world - is anxiously waiting for news. What will be the outcome of these marathon talks, now taken to the wire, and far beyond? 

The endgame is on. The clock is ticking. It's all done in secrecy, as the negotiations are so delicate. But one can imagine...

Lord Frost: I have a suggestion to make.
Monsieur Barnier: What is it, my friend?
Lord Frost: I think Professor Plum killed Doctor Black in the Ballroom with the Dagger.
Monsieur Barnier: Well, you are wrong! Voila, I hold the Dagger. So it cannot be the murder weapon. My turn now, I think. (Rolls dice)

In another room, key negotiation staff - working on the fisheries question - are frantically putting the right words together.

'This word here, juxyquozyk - what does it mean in relation to fish?'
'Sacré bleu, mon ami, do you not know? It is a proper word! It describes the way a herring swims, when it is in love.' 
'Oh, very well then.'
'Merci, monsieur. That gives me - let me see - a total of fifty-two points. Your turn.'
'Aha, you've given me a chance! That J is really handy. I can now make kipperjaw.'
'Pardon me, monsieur, I don't wish to doubt you, but what does that mean? Is it a real word?'
'Of course! It's a well-known fisherman's complaint. Like codfingers, spratrash and lobsterbreath. You French don't seem to know much about fish - or the fishing industry! That's twenty-seven points to me, I believe. Well, well! By a remarkable coincidence, twenty-seven is the number of member states still in the EU.'
 
Only a couple more days of intense deliberations to go. I'm counting on our being in good, safe hands. Surely we'll get a result.

Did they consult the fish?

So we wait with bated breath while the final negotiations take place on the Brexit Trade Deal. 

My prediction? They will fail. Even if 'something' is cobbled-together in the last five minutes and hailed as The Breakthrough, it'll be such a bad compromise that it won't appeal to the British Parliament (for having given too much away), nor will the twenty-seven EU member states like it (for having given too much away), and it will not hold. 

It was thus many months ago: the same sticking-points, the same red lines. One really wonders what on earth the negotiators find to talk about for so many hours on end - indeed, for so many long days at a time - if all they are doing is chewing over the same three issues: government subsidies that might give an advantage to British exporters and undermine EU competitors; rights to fishing grounds within UK waters; and who is to arbitrate if there is a trade dispute. 

The curiosity among those three is the rights to fishing grounds. 

On the face of it, it seems uncontroversial and natural to say that the sea around the UK coastline is part of UK territory, and that the UK (and only the UK) has the right to say who should be fishing there. But no doubt it is not quite so straightforward. There may be some International Maritime Law that says something about access. And specifically in relation to the English Channel (or La Manche, if contemplating it from the French coast), the territorial waters of England and France come very close to each other - and effectively overlap - in the Straits of Dover. In any case, the French attitude seems at least partly based on having traditional rights to fish in UK waters, something not to be foregone. 

But have they consulted the fish? What are they going to do? There is no such thing as a 'British fish' in the sense of one being somehow identifiably 'British'. The fish themselves don't care. They inhabit a different world. They acknowledge no country's sovereignty, and we have no control over them. 

Their movements and preferred feeding and mating grounds can alter. In fact, with climate change likely to wreak havoc with their habitats and migration-patterns, all the traditional varieties could be replaced with other kinds of fish, and in consequence the catch will alter as well. 

Even if this doesn't happen, the existing fishing grounds may shift unpredictably. What if 'our' fish moved decisively towards the French coast, so that there was nothing worth catching in our waters? Or away from the Channel altogether, to (say) Danish or Norwegian waters? 

If that happened, how sick the negotiators would feel about not coming to a Trade Agreement, if fishing rights had been the only point left unresolved. 

Well, I'm sure that everything will cost a bit more from 1st January, either on account of the new tariffs, or because goods will have to be shipped from more distant places than Europe. But then, I've been expecting all that for a long time, because it was obvious from the beginning that the EU could never allow the UK to detach itself from Europe without extraordinary trouble and expense. It could not be made easy or advantageous, otherwise some others of the twenty-seven might want to do the same thing. 

And in any case, how dare we spoil the European Project! Especially after being the Bad Moody Child for nearly forty years, always arguing, always wanting special treatment, always wanting concessions and rebates. We spurned the Euro as our currency, and we dodged out of taking a proper share of deserving refugees. And then, despite our delinquent behaviour, we have become the Most Desirable Destination for immigrants! Better than anywhere in the EU! 

All this must make the top people in the EU very annoyed with the UK. Gott strafe England, indeed.  

Gazing at a Music Centre

It was two days ago, the 1st December, and the last day of the all-England lockdown. I didn't relish wading through Sussex mud on a country walk, so thought instead of walking the streets of a town. Central Brighton was too much of a health risk in daytime - in fact I haven't walked there since March - but Hove seemed a better proposition, being quieter and on the whole more spacious, with plenty of wide residential streets. I reckoned it would be easy to avoid close encounters with anyone who might be a Covid-19 carrier.

Actually, I was wrong. Hove was busier than I thought, and I had to constantly dodge people who seemed unaware that there was a pandemic still going on. It wasn't exactly nerve-racking, but it put me off making any repeat visit to Blatchington Road and George Street in Hove, which together form the main shopping area there. Especially now that all shops are open again under the new Tier system, and even more people will be out and around. I'll get my vaccination first!

Most shops were still closed two days ago, of course, but I had a good look in their windows. And I saw this, in the front window of the Hove YMCA Furniture Shop, which sells second-hand furniture. It was a Murphy 'Stereo Music Centre' from the 1970s, with matching medium-sized speakers off to the left and right. 

Murphy was one of those British-sounding maker-names for electronic products that were around in the 1970s and earlier. I can remember other names of the same kind - such as Bush, Sobell, Ferguson, PYE, Thorn, and of course Philips, nearly all now gone. There were also more exotic brands too, like Grundig and Bang & Olufsen - but these were always much more expensive, and not mass-market. 

On this model, the Rank logo is shown - a top all-round entertainment organisation at the time, particularly famous for its films and its ballrooms. Not that I ever went 'uptown Top Ranking', except just the once in the 1980s. 

I gazed at this Murphy Music Centre fascinated. A fresh take on the old radiogram, the Music Centre was a 1970s innovation, bringing together a turntable, cassette tape deck and VHF radio in one large audio ensemble, all three components sharing common electronics. There would be 'advanced' controls that would let you finely adjust bass, treble, speaker balance and other things, with Dolby noise suppression thrown in too. Unknowledgeable potential buyers would be wowed by the plethora of switches and lights, and (as in this example) a couple of dials that actually lit up. 

It must have been a salesman's dream: he could waffle on about the sound experience the potential buyer would enjoy, and bamboozle them with spurious terminology from the Hi-Fi world. Whether a run-of-the-mill Music Centre ever really produced a genuine Hi-Fi sound is a matter for debate. The one Mum and Dad had, and the ones I encountered in other homes, all reliably produced plenty of music, but surely none of them would ever have delighted a proper Hi-Fi enthusiast. However, they looked great and did the job. 

The long, wide layout didn't last. It took up too much horizontal space. By the 1980s the 'Music Centre' had evolved into the 'Home Audio System' where the components were stacked one on top of each other, the turntable topmost. And there were fancier-looking tuning knobs, and lever switches, and sliders - all intended to impress a fresh (and equally naïve) generation of buyers. There would also now be a CD player to complete the audio line-up. 

Soundwise, everything these mass-market devices could ever accomplish can now be had by listening to music streamed to one's smartphone from the Cloud (or installed on the phone) with earbuds, or a speaker, connected via Bluetooth. Music has gradually gone completely mobile, a trend that started with the Sony Walkman and its imitators in the 1980s. The Music Centres and audio stacks of forty or fifty years ago were strictly for family listening at home.  

The Murphy in the shop window was obviously meant to be a posh item of furniture, and not merely a music-playing device. It was shaped like a sideboard, that long low cupboard-on-legs that every home once had for storing glassware and cutlery, and perhaps a Singer sewing machine. The orangey wood is teak, a wood that's been long out of fashion, although to my mind it was (and still is) quite attractive, and a better, warmer colour than the pale woods now favoured. The side doors would open up to reveal the LP collection on one side, singles on the other. The drawers would house the cassette tapes. Altogether, the perfect acquisition if you fancied some Perry Como or Connie Francis while the Sunday breakfast was cooking. I was once (while staying over at a friend's in 1978) treated to the entire soundtrack of the Andrew Lloyd-Webber musical Evita on a Music Centre. Don't Cry For Me Argentina, Oh What A Circus, and all that. 

Back to 2020. Just around the corner in George Street was a shop that had a display of old records in its window. 

My goodness. Helen Reddy. Simply Red. Sister Sledge. I wonder who listens to them now. Come to that, am I the only Andy Williams fan still around? I listened to his version of the title song from the 1970 film Love Story in the bathroom this morning (on my JBL speaker, bluetoothed from my phone) and was moved. They don't make songs like that any more. But then I always thought that Andy Williams' voice, and his arrangements, added something extra to the songs he recorded. I could say the same of that other 1970s stalwart, Neil Diamond. 

I wonder if they were ever played on that Murphy Music Centre? Or was it just bought to impress, and never used much?          

Rules, rules, rules

Dear me. I'm no genius, but I've always considered myself reasonably intelligent. I won't say that I'm always quick on the uptake! But I can usually read rules and instructions and get their meaning. But I'm having a problem with working out who I can meet up with under Tier 2 rules. 

Here's my situation. I live alone. I am a one-person household. I am not in a support bubble. Where I live is now in Tier 2.

So far as I can see, when the current All-England lockdown ends on 2nd December I must remain on my own, and cannot resume socialising, apart from meeting up to six friends in the open air, provided we are socially-distanced. But I can't visit someone else's home, nor have a meal with them in a pub or restaurant. Although I can go to the local studio for a pilates session, I can't socialise afterwards, unless it's out in the open air. 

And this how it must be until either Sussex goes into a different Tier (Tier 1, hopefully), or the Tier system ends (apparently it might in early February).

During the five 'Christmas' days from 23rd to 27th December, the government is proposing a relaxation of the ordinary rules. It benefits families mostly. I think I'm allowed to form a Christmas Bubble with up to three other households. But only with them - nobody else. And most of my local friends will want to reserve Christmas Bubble-space for their families, so there probably won't be room for me. I have however arranged to see another person living alone, who will be by herself on Christmas Day. I rather think that's the only bit of social life I'll have over Christmas. And after 27th December, it'll be back to the regular Tier 2 rules, and unremitting solitude. 

Don't think that I am pining for company. I like being on my own, and it doesn't bother me one bit. I never feel lonely or depressed, nor do I feel cooped up because I can get out in the car daily and go for a walk at my destination, whether that's a small town or the countryside. And if the weather is awful, there's plenty I can do at home. I'm very good at creating projects for myself, and lockdown conditions are great for getting a big job done. 

So I remain upbeat and happy enough with just emails and texts as my day-to-day social contact. 

But I do miss my ordinary social life. I want it back!

Lockdowns - and the Tier rules - are very tedious. I haven't got lax or sloppy in my observance of social-distancing, but the novelty of it wore off long ago, as did the sense of imminent danger from a virus spreading like wildfire. Wearing a mask and keeping my distance has become just a necessary routine, a duty, something I do doggedly. Partly because it's compulsory; partly because it might do me or somebody else a bit of good. I could however drop it all tomorrow if allowed to, and I'd never miss it one bit. I want shop assistants to see my smile again. Who knows, it might brighten up their day. It would certainly brighten up mine.

So many people must be craving a return to normality, to being close again. There's talk now of a third wave of infection to come early in 2021, probably weaker than the first two, but the government will still have to decide what to do. I hope it chooses to ride that third wave out without any lockdowns or restrictions, relying on just the basic sensible precautions we had back in March 2020.

Much is made of the fear that the NHS will become 'overwhelmed', but I gather that the real problem is a constant shortage of staff, not a shortage of beds. And in any case, there are indications that ordinary winter diseases are going to be less of a problem this year, because most people aren't mixing so much as usual and - putting it simply - it's presently harder than usual to catch a cold. Many people believe that the NHS will actually have adequate capacity for extra Covid-19 cases, and won't need lockdowns to protect it. I see what they mean; I hope that's how it goes. 

Of course the arrival of one or more anti-Covid vaccinations will make a huge difference. Well, I'm ready to offer my arm. Just give me the invitation. And a card - or a stamp on my new passport - to say that I've had the jab. Then I can start forgetting all those hard-to-understand rules.

Aromat lives

Glorious news! Knorr Aromat isn't dead after all. They were just clearing out old stock. It's now back in a new sprinkler (or canister)!

It has risen again, like a phoenix from its own ashes, and once more graces the shelves of Waitrose. Mind you, its reappearance the other day was only temporary: it was there, then - poof! - suddenly it vanished - the display tray as well - leaving an empty gap. 

I'm sure the staff, when checking the shelves later that day, must have been puzzled. Surely they did order in a supply of Aromat, and surely it did arrive? But where is it now? Has there been fraud and thievery on a massive scale?

Only when analysing the day's sales to customers would they have seen that the entire stock of Aromat was taken by just one regular customer, who happened to be a My Waitrose Card holder, and therefore traceable. Who did the card belong to? A name would come up on screen. Ah, Miss Lucy Melford. Oh yes...we know her, don't we? Well, better get some more in. And let's hope she doesn't take all that too... 

That ought to have been the end of the matter. But somehow it snowballs, and I am swiftly brought before the county judge on a charge of misappropriating the entire supply of Aromat intended for Mid Sussex. 

Here are the court proceedings, as reported in the Mid Sussex Gazette and Globe. The very words of the defendant, a senior lady of hitherto unblemished character.

Guilty as charged, m'lud. I confess to buying Waitrose's entire stock when shopping in Burgess Hill two days ago. I know it was high-handed and wrong, but I couldn't help myself. I was brought up to be quick-thinking, decisive and adroit. My parents are to blame. And so is society. I'm just a victim of clever consumer advertising. (Snivels)

Yes, m'lud, I agree that everyone else in Mid Sussex will now have to wait for the next delivery. Poor devils. (Weeps)

Yes, m'lud, it was very ruthless and forthright of me. But how can I truly feel remorse? M'lud, in these Covid times, one seizes one's chances, and dare not dither. One must act. One can't go away and think about it. One can't be weak and fuddy-duddy. The Law of the Jungle applies, m'lud - the stern and implacable law of Mowgli and Tarzan. (Shows a bit of leg to the judge)

Case dismissed; jury applauds; court officials cheer; police escort home, blue flashing lights, siren, the full monty - and in return for giving the Super her autograph, Miss Melford is allowed to drive the police car at 180mph down the A23.

I exaggerate, of course. It was only 110mph. 

So is this the same product of old? Well, not quite. 

The canister used to be made of metal - aluminium, I think - but now it's all plastic. Presumably that keeps costs down. It also allows the canister to be larger, although it still weighs just the same as the old one (90g), and so presumably doesn't contain any more product. There's now more room, of course, for product information and special claims, such as 'resists Venusian death rays' and similar.

Old above, new below.

The recipe has been altered slightly. Looking at the nutrition table on the side of canister, I see that the number of calories per sprinkle has slightly increased, from 143kcal per 100g to 165kcal per 100g. There's now a little less sugar in it, but a little more fat. However, it seems to make no difference - I haven't noticed any change at all in flavour, nor anything else. 

So, Aromat is back - and welcome. Seasoningwise, I'd reconciled myself to managing with just ordinary salt and pepper, but a sprinkle of Aromat certainly adds something extra. And I've now got enough in my cupboard to last me until the spring! Hurrah! 

If I don't feel sorry for the frustrated people of Mid Sussex, I do for the people who unwittingly bought large supplies of the old stock on eBay or Amazon, in the belief that they were buying the last of the line, and paying way over the odds in some cases. They'll now have an enormous quantity of superseded seasoning on their hands, as well as a hole in their bank account.

The Agglestone

In the last post I described my visit to Lanyon Quoit, an iconic dolmen in Penwith, on 13th September. Then I went to see the Cheesewring, an impressive stack of granite slabs on Bodmin Moor, on 23rd September, the subject of another fairly recent post. But that wasn't the end of it. On 30th October I braved some rather wet weather to take a close look at the Agglestone, a big sandstone rock on heathland near Studland on the Isle of Purbeck in Dorset. 

Having parked at Studland, I posed in front of a mirror to record the off-putting wetness of the afternoon. 

The rain was clearly going to be relentless. But I was looking forward to the two-to-three mile walk to the Agglestone and back, and wasn't going to be put off. I'd never seen it before, and wouldn't get another chance during the current holiday, my last of the year. According to the Ordnance Survey map, the route was clear and straightforward. 

Mind you, some of the signposting on the way was hard to read - such as this hoary old finger-post. 

After negotiating some waterlogged paths - easy with the trusty Dubarry boots on my feet - I got my first distant glimpse of the Agglestone, a blob of rock on a knoll. 

Encouraged, and with the rain temporarily lessening, I just followed the obvious path. It was a bit of an upward scramble at the end, but then I was up there with the Agglestone before me. It seemed imposing at close quarters.

I allowed myself a small moment of pleasure. Another destination clocked up!

What one sees now is not how the Agglestone used to be. It stood tall, horizontal, and anvil-shaped as recently as 1970. But gradual erosion had made it unstable, and in 1970, fifty years ago, it toppled over onto one side. Apparently it had weighed 400 tons, and by the look of things, significant parts of it broke off in the fall. It must have made a pretty loud noise as it hit the ground and cracked apart. I hope nobody was nearby - they would have had the fright of their lives! However, despite its fallen state, the Agglestone remains most impressive. 

I walked slowly around it. Iron in the rock had stained the lower parts ochre yellow and pink-red. These are similar to the vivid colours you see at Alum Bay, at the far west end of the Isle of Wight, on the other side of Bournemouth Bay. I expect the geology is much the same.

It was very breezy up on that knoll - not especially cold, but I was glad to be wearing my green, fleece-lined, waterproof, hooded Seasalt raincoat! I was cosy enough. 

The rain had stopped while I took my photos, but now it began again. Time to go. There was a clear path that dropped down the far side of the knoll, then bore around clockwise, making a loop that eventually rejoined the way I'd came. I took it. On the way back, the map told me that I'd see a smaller rock called the Puckstone. How nice! The chance of two heathland landmarks!  

As I walked, I looked back at the Agglestone, which now resembled a sitting bullfrog in the failing light.

The rain got more and more insistent, making visibility poor. Still, I was pretty confident of spotting the Puckstone. I was following the map very closely. It was supposed to be just off the path - I could hardly miss it. 

But where was it? Well, I think Puck himself must have bewitched my eyes, as try as I might, I couldn't spot it. I can only assume that it didn't stick out much from the ground, and was hidden by all the gorse, ferns and bracken, so that I walked by unknowing. Or else mischievous Puck took it away for the day, so that I wouldn't find it, and then put it back once I'd gone.

Never mind. The Agglestone had been my major objective, and I could definitely say 'mission accomplished'. Next time, though, I'll go and see it on a warm and dry summer's day. If there is a next time, that is. I'm not sure it was quite rewarding enough.