7. At last! A cure for arthritis

We had a new kitchen fitted recently. It’s a long story but it all started several weeks ago when the cutlery drawer fell apart and neither we, nor anyone or anyone we asked, could fix it. 

On a Saturday morning, Caroline told me that she’d heard of a place, "Jillings", that specialised in kitchen cabinetry (great word).  She said that as she had to go into George Town anyway, she would take the broken drawer pieces with her and see if they could mend it.

At noon she returned.  “Clear up a bit,” she said.  “They’re coming round at two to measure up for a new kitchen.”

I seemed to meet and host most of Cayman’s skilled tradesmen over a ten-day period and very good they were too.  Towards the end, Tommy was here.  He and his partner, Demarco, were working away when Tommy came into the doorway of our main room and asked me to look at something in the kitchen.

Tommy is easily the tallest person that I have ever stood alongside.  He is 6 feet 11 inches tall. (You have to ask, don’t you?)  

Unfortunately, he is also short-sighted and when we stand next to each other to study a plan or a pattern, he has to hold it so close to his eyes that it is such a long way above my head and that means that I can’t see it at all. 

Consequently, we have spent a lot of time sitting next to each other with papers we are looking at on the table in front of us. When sitting, I look him squarely in the chest.

I got out of my chair. I had been sitting in one position for over an hour and my knee had seized up and was stiff and painful. Tommy noticed and asked about it.  I told him that it was arthritis.

“You should try dat fruit,” said Tommy, who speaks with such a strong Cayman accent that I find much of what he says to be incomprehensible the first time I hear it and he has to keep repeating.

“What fruit?” I asked him.

“You know. Dat fruit for arthritis.”

“No, I don’t. What’s it called?”

“Dat green fruit.  You know?”

“No, I don’t know,” I said. “What’s it called?”

“I dunno.”  He called out to Demarco who was mixing mastic outside.

“Dat fruit. What name it is?”

“What fruit?” shouted Demarco.

“Jammy’s fruit.”

“The white one?”

“Nah, the green one.”

“The small one?”

“Nah, the big one.”

“The one like an egg?"

“Yeah, dat fruit.”

“Oh, dat fruit.  Right.”

“What name it is?”

“Dunno.”

“What you do,” said Tommy turning to me, “is take out the inside. Get all the juice and all the seeds – zillions of tiny seeds, plenty seeds – and put dem all in a pail. Then, you add a cup of urine, mash it and leave dem for four, five day. It smell bad and taste bad so add orange juice to make it taste better and then drink it all in one.  Pain go in ten minutes and you good for six month. No one in North Side got arthritis.”

“Is the urine essential?” I asked.

“Oh yeah and the dark orange is best. Weak urine don’t work so good.”

“Soursap,” shouted Demarco from outside.

“Nah,” said Tommy. “Not as big as that. It’s the other one.” And then, looking at me, “Soursap helps you sleep.”

By now I had resigned myself to continuing discomfort.

“I know,” Tommy said to me. “I’ll go by Jammy tonight, see if he got some. He got trees in his yard and if he got some, I bring some tomorrow.”

“OK, thanks,” I said, “That’s nice of you.”

“If he hasn’t, I’ll go by Grandma. She make it.”

“So, she’s got trees? She’ll have some fruit?” I asked apprehensively.

“No. She take Jammy’s fruit and she always make a load and keep it in the freezer. It last for years. I’ll bring you a bottle.”

I’m still in pain.

6. Sports Day

Before I begin to ramble, allow me to share with you some extremely important information:

Today is Sunday February 21^st. It is the first Sunday after Valentine’s Day and is consequently a date of huge significance and importance.  My father, who seemed to me to know most things and to have an opinion on everything, insisted that the first Sunday after Valentine’s Day was the first day of the year when we had Tea without the lights on. Even if Valentine’s Day fell on a Saturday, Tea the next day was lightless. I don’t know how well this is a truth universally acknowledged but at least you know now. 

Of course, this does not apply in the Cayman Islands where the time of sunset varies by only about an hour over the course of a year.

I assist at our local primary school on two mornings a week.  I am not paid but I enjoy being there and I hope that I am of some benefit to some of the children.  One of the classes that I help is a Year 6 (ages 10-11) group.  I don’t really help the entire group as 90% of my time is spent sitting next to Rozzard and prodding him, often literally, into doing some work.  

Ms Hunte, his teacher has told me that on the days that I am not there he usually does nothing at all. He is very hard to assess academically as he won’t do any kind of assessment task.

If he were a pupil at the school in Muswell Hill, North London, where I used to teach, his parents would have long ago argued that he is a misunderstood, special-needs student requiring every kind of support imaginable.  That would include full time one-to-one support, extra time in assessment tasks, a scribe, school-provided lap top, a Caymanian/English dictionary (they’d find one) and so much other help that if he didn’t come out top they would be firing off letters of complaint to the Chair of Governors of the school and to the local MP too. 

But Cayman is not like Muswell Hill – thank God!

I can always tell what sort of morning I will have as soon as I walk in.  If Rozzard looks me in the eye and smiles, we will achieve a lot but if he looks away or buries his head in his arms on the table top, I will have problems.

The other day, not only did he smile but he leapt from his chair, rushed over to me, grabbed me by the arm and shouted, “Mr Terry, Mr Terry, are you coming to Sports Day tomorrow?”  All the primary schools, the largest of which has a roll of only 420, rather pretentiously, I think, use the national stadium, which has a seating capacity of around 10,000, for their sports days.

Ms Hunte told me that it was scheduled to begin at 8:00 a.m. before it got too hot.  That was much too early for me and so at 9:30, armed with my genuine Panama hat, “hand woven in Ecuador,” a bottle of water and a camera, I arrived.  The first thing that struck me was not that proceedings were yet to begin (8:00 ‘Island Time’ is about 10:00 real time) but how many spectators there were.  There must have been more than 500 family, friends, and me.

I asked the Headteacher if I could help in any way.  In my fantasy I hoped she would ask me to do the announcements on the public address system.  I fancied that my clear, mellow, mellifluous, perfectly enunciated speaking voice was just what she wanted for such an important job.  Other possible options at her disposal were to be a timekeeper or the rather anonymous rôle of shepherding the competitors in their pens where they were waiting to race.

“Ah Terry,” she said, obviously relieved and delighted, “I’ve got a vital job I’d like you to do.”

“This is it.” I thought and I started to rehearse the little witticisms that I would intersperse among the announcements.

“You see those chickens?” She pointed to a group (a nuisance) of about 20 feral chickens pecking furiously at the track on the first bend.

“Yes,” I said cautiously.

“As you’ve got a sun hat, will you stand on that bend and shoo them away just before the start of every race?”

So that was my job for the morning and very important it was too.

Rather unusually, perhaps, the first event of the day was the Year 6 girls’ 800 metre race.  There was a problem in that I and all the parents, thought that it was a 400 metre race and everyone went beserk as the competitors jogged down the home straight for the first time.  I thought that something was amiss as no one made any attempt to sprint for the line. When the girls carried on to run a second lap there was much confusion in the stand.

Rozzard ran in the boys 400 metre race and won it but rather spoilt it by doing a Usain Bolt “Lightning” pose immediately after crossing the line.

After an hour or so, I had done such a good job with the chickens that they had left the entire complex. (Dispersing chickens is probably a transferable skill and I will offer my services to Sebastian Coe for the 2012 Olympics. If it works with chickens, it will work with pigeons too). 

I moved to the shade of the main stand and watched from there.

It was then that the children from the Year 6 class that I am attached to spotted me. They surrounded me and demanded to know which House I supported.  I explained that I was independent of houses but by inclination I was a Swift but then again, philosophically and ideologically, I was possibly more of a Nightingale. 

That was no good to them and there followed two or three minutes of intense canvassing.  This ceased when a girl produced an adult sized T-shirt with a distinctive picture of a Man-o-War, or Frigate bird on the front and MOW printed on the back.  She demanded that I put it on.  The Swifts, Swallows and Nightingales were equally adamant that I should not.  I was in a quandary but in the end, I did put it on and that means that next Thursday I am going to be ostracised by three quarters of the class.

Between events I was sitting, gazing out over the track when I was prodded so hard in the back that it was more of a punch.  I looked round to see an elderly, grey haired lady who was firmly gripping a small boy by the arm.  “He’s a winner,” she informed me.  I watched as she carried on along the row of seats, dragging the boy with her, punching everyone in the back and showing off her grandson to them.

At last we came to the events we were all waiting for – the novelty races.  In the first one for Year 1 girls, they stood next to a plastic container forty metres from the finish line and facing it.  They ran to a beanbag on the track some ten metres away, ran back to the container and placed the bag into it.  Then they ran to collect a second beanbag twenty metres away to put that in the container and so on.  

When the first girl put her last beanbag into the box the crowd erupted into applause but there was obviously a problem as the officials came running up and were talking very earnestly to all the competitors.

It soon became apparent what the problem was: the race was not over until the runners had picked up the full container and carried it over the finish line. There was a winner but I am not sure if it was the same girl who had been the first to put her last beanbag into the box some two minutes earlier.

Another novelty race that was fantastic and has potential for future Olympics was the ‘triathlon’ (Run, Throw, Calculate).  In this the competitors stand next to a container and then, on the word, “go”:

1. Run ten metres to where two beanbags are placed on the track.

2. Pick up one bag, throw it to try and get it into the container next to where they started.

3. Pick up a pencil and piece of paper on which a maths problem was written.

4. Solve the sum.

5. Run back to the start line and hand in the paper.

6. Repeat the whole process.

Five seconds were added for every missed throw and five seconds for any incorrect answer. The tension was immeasurable. 

Just imagine it as an Olympic event! The throw could be 50 metres and a cricket ball would be thrown instead of a beanbag while the problem might be, "What is the volume of a sphere, radius 6 centimetres? (No calculators allowed)."

When it came to the boys’ Year 6 race, Rozzard let down everyone very badly indeed - himself, his family, his House and most especially, me.  It was a 100 metre race but the novelty was that every 25 metres they had to put on an item of clothing. 

The boys started barefoot and at the first stop they had to put on shoes, then a T-shirt and finally long or ‘tall’ trousers as they call them here. I was watching Rozzard closely as he sauntered up the track to the start. I saw him stop by the trousers, pick them up and then put them down but I thought nothing of it. 

The race started and Rozzard and two other boys were in close contention when they reached the all-important ‘trouser’ stage of the race. Putting on tall trousers quickly is an exercise that has many possible techniques. Do you sit down or do you hop about on one leg? Tenths of a second saved here are vital.

Rozzard used a technique that was brilliant in its conception and simplicity. When he had picked up the pair of jeans on his way to the start, it now became clear why: he had done up the waist button and made sure that the zip was fully down. Then, 25 metres from the tape, as the race neared its climax, instead of putting his legs into the appropriate openings, he had put the trousers over his head and around his neck with the two trouser legs hanging down his back. He crossed the line a full ten seconds before anyone else, which in a 100-metre race is a colossal margin.

When he was disqualified he was most indignant and protested vehemently that all they had been told was to put the trousers on – they were never told to put them on their legs.  I thought he had a point, and said so, but nobody listens to someone in a Man-O-War t-shirt when that is Rozzard's House too.

Answer to Rozzard's number sequence from June 20th:

6, 12, 48, 768, 196608, _______________

Rozzard’s Way

6² = 36

36 ÷ 3 = 12

12²= 144

144 ÷ 3 = 48

48²= 2304

2304 ÷ 3 = 768

768²= 589824

589 824 ÷ 3 = 196608

196608² = 38654705664

38 654 705 664 ÷ 3 = 12884901888

and so that is the next number in the sequence.

Fibonacci 146 = 1454489111232772683678306641953

31 digits, so don't bother counting them!

5. Wilton's Scale of Relationships

I was talking to David on Skype a couple of days ago. I first met him in 1962 when he and his brother Steve moved from Haverford West in south west Wales to Lowestoft in Suffolk and so I have known them both for 47 years.  Such longevity obviously breeds a certain familiarity and possibly it seems, even contempt.

“Have you seen my blog?” I asked David.  He had not.  “Have you got the web address?” I asked him.

“I'm not sure but I’m not going to go to the trouble of looking for it,” he said.  “If you want me to read something, send it as an e-mail and not as an attachment either.  I'm not going to the bother of opening an attachment.  I’ve got better things to do.”

So, if one of my oldest friends can’t be arsed to look for my ramblings, why would anyone else?  We were always good friends because we had a lot in common, especially sport and geography.  As I know he will be the first to admit, I was always his superior in every sport but I concede that he was the more committed and conscientious geographer.

Reflections on my relationship with David, have led me to consider relationships in general.  In a belated and probably futile bid for immortality, I have devised “Wilton’s Scale” of relationships.  It is my attempt at a place in posterity.  I want to be up there with Beaufort, Richter and Mohs.  You will find it below.  
It’s probably not an original idea.  I’ve no doubt that a social scientist, a psychotherapist or someone else who makes a living out of stating the bleeding obvious, will have beaten me to it.

Until a couple of days ago, David was a 7. There were times in the 70s when he came close to being the 8 but then, as now, he blew it. He runs the risk at the moment of being downgraded to a 5, or even a 3.

Wilton Number	Category	Description and Notes
-2	Enemy	Someone you genuinely hate.  They dislike you too and possibly hate you as well.  The cause of the animosity is unimportant.
-1	Dislike	Usually someone that you have to be with on a regular basis but would much rather that you didn’t.  Often a work colleague or a neighbour.
0	Total Stranger	Virtually everyone in the world.
1	Passing acquaintance	Someone you meet and acknowledge possibly once and never see again. Someone you meet while walking the dog or who gives way to you at a road junction.
2	Slight  acquaintance	This is a person that you come across fairly often, acknowledge and perhaps smile at when you do.  The assistant who often sells you a newspaper or a neighbour from down the road, or your child’s friend’s mother.
3	Acquaintance	Someone you have come to know.  You know each other’s names and exchange words when you meet but you never meet by design.
4	Internet Acquaintance	A person whom you have never met but are aware of and communicate with solely by electronic means: e-mail, social media etc.
5	Moderate friend	If you meet this person while shopping on a Saturday, you might suggest going for a coffee.  He or she knows some of the details of your life and you of theirs.  You have interests in common and often discuss them.  If you are having a party, you will think about whether to invite him or her. It’s not an automatic invitation.
6	Friend	This is the kind of person who makes your life enjoyable and what it is.  You would attend his or her funeral and expect that they would come to yours.
7	Very good friend	You have known these people for some time.  You are totally at ease in their company.  You feel happy at the prospect of seeing them.  He or she may criticise you and you will accept it, discuss it and tell him or her why they are wrong, but you never take offence.  You may go on vacation with them but this can be a dangerous move.
8	Best friend	There is only one of these and it is never a relative – not even your spouse. It is always someone of the same sex as you.
9	Soulmate	Make up your own definition.  It is possible to have two or three of these during the course of your life but one is the norm.  They can change from this to -2 or sometimes to a 4 or 5.
N/A	Relation	Rule unto themselves.  Impossible to categorise except biologically.

Notes and exemplifications

-2 Enemy

I’ve never had one.  There are some people who really irritate me and whom I dislike but I have never hated anyone - yet! There may be people who have classified me in this way and maybe still do but I am blissfully unaware of it.

-1 Disliked

These have only ever been work colleagues as far as I am concerned and over 35 years the number is in the low, single figures. In fact, it may only be two. I used to leave the room when one of them came in rather than have to talk to him. He, however, thought that we were kindred spirits and would seek me out to talk bollocks to me. I was rather proud of myself that I never let him know the truth.

7 Very good friend

Going on holiday with very good friends is potentially a very dangerous exercise. We all know of occasions where the consequences have been disastrous.

Very good friends should remain at that level forever. It should be impossible for them to drop levels (Well done, David. For once in your life you have achieved the impossible. You might beat me at tennis one day - now that I have an artificial hip and an arthritic knee) and in rare circumstances they rise to category 8. You will probably know the date of their birthday.

8 Best friend

Times spent with your 8 are the best times; better even than some of the times spent with a 9 and that can be a source of conflict. Those young women you see on television gushing on about how their sister or, even worse their mother, is their best friend, are self-indulgent morons who need to get a life.

9 Soulmate

This can be problematic because for example this morning, in just half a second, I plummeted from 8 to -2 (I’m not telling you how except that it involved freezing cold water and a hot shower and gradually, five hours later as I write this, I have clambered back up to a 3 but now seem to have hit a plateau). 

It is also different from other categories in that someone can jump levels. Caroline went from a 7 to a 9.  In fact I seem to remember that my proposal was something along the lines of:

“I am not certain and I will have to check on this and seek confirmation by means of much further, intensive research but I am proposing that we get married as I am fairly certain that you’ve recently become a nine.”

It took her a couple of weeks to understand what I meant.

********

Sunday is Valentine’s Day 2010. Year after year I studiously ignore it.  I really can’t see the point of recognising it other than as a means for greeting card companies, florists and sickly-chocolates manufacturers to make money. 

I am so anti-Valentine’s Day that I never go out to a restaurant in case the staff and other patrons think we are there just because of the date.  As I have told Caroline many times, "It’s Valentine’s Day every day being married to me."  I have never asked her but I am sure that she agrees. 

My antipathy is not based on bitter experiences.  I have received cards, although admittedly none since I was at school but I have never sent one.  The few that I received were always anonymous and I never discovered who the sender was except for one. 

When I was 16 a girl who I knew disliked me intensely, came up to me and handed me an envelope with my name written on it. “It fell out of Wendy’s bag and she’s gone home so you may as well have it,” she said. 

Knowing whom it was from totally ruined the experience.