My hero

Following COVID, Nigel and I are just getting our mojo back.  

Something that helped to stir our blood were these facts about private jet flights:

• Up to 50 times more emissions per passenger mile than an ordinary commercial flight.
• Average number of passengers per private jet flight last year was 2.5 with 40% of flights taking off empty. People are even using private jets to ferry their pampered pets about.
• There's an illusion these flights are for VIPs on very important state business. But the busiest day at private jet terminals is Valentine's Day. Hmm.

So when we got the call to march through Farnborough and demonstrate outside the private jet terminal there, we said yes.

Our role on the march was to step out in the road and hold up a banner to stop traffic just while the marchers passed swiftly through.

This meant we were ahead of the rest of the march.

The guy beside me said, 'Have you seen who we are holding up the traffic for?'

I looked behind me at the head of the march.  'Who is it?  I can't see anybody I recognise.'

'Look again, on the right.'

And when I peered closely an unassuming young woman in a plain grey coat turned out to be Greta Thunberg.

I learned later that she was in the UK for her trial, following her arrest in October.  She sat down in the road in front of the Intercontinental Hotel in London where oil bosses and bankers were meeting to discuss how to make the most possible money out of fossil fuels while frying our planet to death. 

(Nigel was sitting there too, but the police didn't get around to arresting him.)

It was definitely worth making the effort to get out and march.  Seeing our young hero made it even more special.

Beating the January Blues

Having been ill over Christmas and then back at work before fully better, I'd got into a weird trogladitic existence where most of my time was either working at my desk, or resting up in bed. 

 My inbox alerted me to the fact that the Frans Hals exhibition at the National Gallery was finishing soon. 

I can remember that the first time I saw his Laughing Cavalier - it blew me away. I'd always wanted to see more Hals. What was I doing missing it? It was the final days though, so surely there would be no tickets.

However, I would try. 

And I got one!

The next problem was the freezing temperatures. Was this wise when I had been so unwell? 

But I donned a ridiculous furry hat and set off.

It was a timed ticket so I needed to catch a particular train.

The footpath to the station was blocked off for maintenance.

I backtracked and found another route. 

At the station the ticket machine was grudgingly unresponsive and I was out of time. 

But I encouraged myself to run over the footbridge and succeeded in jumping onto the train.

At the gallery I'd prepurchased an audioguide, but discovered on arrival I hadn't got the right phone equipment to access it. I felt stupid. 

But looking round, I could see others in the same position. It wasn't my fault! So I went and got my money back.

And great though it was to see Frans Hals' vivacious portraits and virtuoso brushwork,  the most nourishing thing about the day was overcoming all the tiny difficulties which nearly prevented me.

Now, like the laughing cavalier, I have a twinkle in my eye once more.

The Navy Lark

Once again, Christmas got scuppered by Covid but we did have a memorable outing just before disaster struck. The whole family visited the amazingly preserved wreck of the Mary Rose at Portsmouth Docks. The Mary Rose blew our socks off with detailed information on Tudor life and warfare. It was impressive that certain skeletons (such as the chief bowman or master surgeon) had been identified by their physical traits and scraps of clothing and matched to the wooden chests which contained their belongings. Afterwards, Pascoe was keen to see the submarines. We took a water taxi across the harbour, watched from above by a peregrine falcon. It was the 1946 A Class submarine which really captured our imagination. About twelve of us tourists squeezed into the stranded sub and a guide gave us a tour. When in service, it would be hundreds of feet beneath the surface, and contain 65 men. Just the thought broke me out in a claustrophobic sweat (although even as I write this, I’m now wondering whether it was the virus). Also guaranteed to induce panic was our guide’s repeated reference to the escape procedure, which I really couldn’t believe would ever work. It turned out our softly spoken guide had served 18 years in submarines, thereafter running emergency escape training in a nearby 100 ft tower of water. He was very informative, but I also had a feeling there was a lot he wasn’t telling us. ‘Did it create tension – so many of you in such a cramped space?’ ‘Well…mostly, we got along.’ We caught the last water taxi of the day and returned, with sunset blazing behind the historic ships. Despite the disappointment of getting Covid, that day at the Mary Rose still means Christmas 2024 will be one to remember.