No Mustard!

Along with the publication of the A’ level results on August 14th, I read a newspaper article about which university degrees may be valueless in the future because the work they lead to could be done more accurately and efficiently by AI.  

There are six of us staying at this cottage in Talais and last night, instead of going out again for dinner, I made a salad.  I found all the necessary ingredients easily enough except for mayonnaise.  I came across four different kinds in the local supermarket but every one of them contained Dijon Mustard.  I wanted something like classic Hellman’s mayonnaise.

Every time I open a new document in Word, there’s a question at the top of the page that asks, “What do you want CoPilot to draft?”  CoPilot is an AI tool.

There are suggestions at the top of the page, such as “Create an article about how to effectively volunteer for a non-profit organisation.”

Just to see what happened, I entered:  “Write a story in the first person of between 700 and 1000 words about attempts in France to buy mayonnaise that does not contain Dijon mustard.”

Below, you can read exactly what appeared less that 15 seconds later.  Other to alter the font, I have not amended it in any way.

*****

The Mayonnaise Quest:

A Culinary Adventure in France

Seeking a Mustard-Free Mayonnaise in the Land of Dijon

It began, as many great quests do, with a craving and a touch of ignorance.  

I really fancied having a sandwich at lunchtime. The chicken and lettuce that I already had, needed mayonnaise too.  I had not anticipated that a humble jar of mayonnaise would become the object of my greatest trial.

My love for mayonnaise was innocent and unadorned. I wanted nothing more than the creamy, eggy spread, the kind that softened the sharp edges of ham, enlivened a salad, or lent a subtle luxury to a wedge of cold potato. But mayonnaise in France, I would soon learn, was a different creature — one wedded, more often than not, to the bold and unmistakable tang of Dijon mustard.

I made my way to the local supermarket. The shop was small, its shelves lined with the curated abundance of French tastes: cheeses that bloomed with white rinds, breads baked to golden crusts, and rows upon rows of jars and condiments. I scanned the shelves, searching for mayonnaise. 

I found them easily enough; sleek jars labelled “Mayonnaise de Dijon,” “Mayonnaise à la Moutarde,” and varieties boasting the yellow-brown swirl of Dijon even in their packaging illustrations.

I picked up a jar and turned it over, squinting at the ingredients. There, unmistakable, was “Moutarde de Dijon.”  I tried another, and another.  Every jar, whether the glass was clear or clouded, whether the cap was gold or green, proclaimed with pride its inclusion of mustard. I have nothing against Dijon as a flavour, but for this particular sandwich — I pictured slices of roast chicken, lettuce, a crusty baguette — I wanted pure, unadulterated mayonnaise.

i approached the help desk, where a woman with a warm smile and a blue apron stood stacking boxes of pasta. “Excusez-moi,” I began, “je cherche de la mayonnaise sans moutarde de Dijon.”

The woman laughed lightly. “C’est difficile, monsieur! C’est le goût français.” She gestured to the shelf as if to say, “Why would you want otherwise?”

I explained, in my halting French, my quest. The woman pondered, then led me to a small, refrigerated section. Here, the jars were fewer, and the labels less ornate. “Essayez celle-ci,” she suggested, pointing to a jar labelled only “Mayonnaise,” with no indication of Dijon.  My hope flared, but reading the ingredients, dashed it: “arômes naturels, moutarde de Dijon (2%).”

I thanked her and left the supermarket, determined but unsatisfied. Mayonnaise, it seemed, meant mustard, and mustard meant Dijon. Outside, the town rolled on with its day, and I wondered if I would be forever thwarted by the local palate.

Not ready to surrender, I set out for the weekly market in the town square. Here, between stalls of fresh produce and rotisserie chickens, I found a vendor selling homemade sauces. I inquired, and the elderly man behind the stall shrugged. 

“Sans moutarde? C’est possible, mais ce n’est pas traditionnel.” 

Refusing to be defeated, I tried a third tactic. I visited a small épicerie, this one run by a North African family, whose shelves carried harissa, preserved lemons, and an array of imported condiments. 

Among the jars of mayonnaise, I found one labelled “Mayonnaise classique.” The list of ingredients was in fine print, but, heart racing, I scanned it. “Huile de tournesol, œufs, vinaigre, sel, sucre…” No mention of Dijon, no mention of mustard at all. With a sense of triumph, I bought the jar and hurried back home.

There, with the reverence of a pilgrim, I constructed the sandwich: slices of chicken, crisp lettuce, a generous layer of mayonnaise, all between two pieces of fresh baguette. I took a cautious bite, expecting either the familiar tang of Dijon or the pure, subtle flavour of the mayonnaise I had so longed for. To my delight, the mayonnaise was exactly as I hoped — smooth, creamy, faintly sweet, with no trace of mustard.

For the French, mayonnaise and Dijon are almost married. But France is full of surprises.

I learned something essential from that quest. In seeking a simple taste of home, I had touched on the deeper complexities of French food culture — the reverence for tradition, the pride in local flavours, and the small pleasures in searching for something unique. The sandwich was delicious, yes, but the journey — navigating supermarkets, markets, and specialty shops — had been just as satisfying.

I will keep the empty jar as a reminder, and, whenever I see it, remember that sometimes, the simplest desires can lead to the most memorable adventures. 

*****

That was all generated by AI.  All I did was set the task.

I am impressed.  The language is fairly flowery and I don’t think my heart has ever raced and it was certainly not “my greatest trial” but it’s a lot better and much more interesting than I was expecting.  

I wish now that I had asked for a story about my “futile” attempts in France to buy mayonnaise that does not contain mustard to see how that ending would have been.

I know that I would struggle to write 743 words on something as mundane as buying a jar of sauce and so AI beat me there, hands down.  It is certainly a lot more interesting and informative than the 25 seconds that I actually spent on the task.  

But the irredeemable error in the story is that, in reality, my quest did not have a happy ending.  I was unable to find mayonnaise “sans moutarde”.

So, I asked again but this time, I asked for a tale about a futile search for mustard free mayonnaise.  What was returned was a longer and much more involved story almost 1000 words long.  Here are the first and last paragraphs:

First

The morning, I realized I was adrift in a sea of mustard. 

I was standing in a small épicerie.   Above me, pyramids of glass jars glinted beneath the indifferent fluorescence: mayonnaise, mayonnaise légère, mayonnaise maison, mayonnaise aux fines herbes. But each time I turned a jar to read the polite, looping French script, there it was—inevitable and omnipresent—“à la moutarde de Dijon.” - With Dijon mustard.

 

Last

When I finally left France, I took with me a suitcase full of cheese, a heart full of stories, and the lingering taste of Dijon. On the flight home, I dreamed of my first sandwich with plain, unadorned mayonnaise. But I also knew that, somehow, I would miss that indefatigable, irrepressible mustard which would be forever twined with my memories of France, and of all the ways a pursuit can shape you, even when it’s doomed from the very start.

 

I cannot begin to imagine what the future holds with regards to AI.  Even today, I suppose I could put in the outline of a blog post and use an amended version of the output.

I asked CoPilot to write a funny story about joint of beef meeting a jar suntan lotion, two random objects that I thought would never go together.  

The result was 600 words that were far from nonsense.  The ‘amusing’ parts were mainly to do with the beef getting hot and the lotion trying to help out.  It was by no means very good but it was beyond anything I would ever have thought of.

This could be the last you hear from me.  Next time, who knows?

 

Ennui

Have you ever been really bored?  

Until this week, I don’t think I had ever been even a little bored, but for the past 6 days, life has been surprisingly uninteresting and jaded.

Last Friday, we arrived at the cottage in France that belongs to my sister-in-law and her husband.  They they have allowed us to stay here on our own for a couple of weeks this summer, and ever since we arrived, I have been bored stiff.

The cottage is delightful and Talais, the village where we are, in the northern part of the Medoc region of France, is quaint and unspoiled with a Gallic, no fuss, rustic beauty.  It has a population of fewer than 700 but only has three operational functions: a church, a boulangerie and a bar/restaurant; no shops or anything else other than housing.

I was feeling unwell as we travelled down the motorway to London Luton airport last Friday to get the flight to Bordeaux but as the alternative to carrying on regardless, was staying in Wavendon and wasting a lot of money, I tried to make the best of it.  “I’ll feel better tomorrow,” I kept telling myself.

A bombshell emerged just after we arrived on Friday evening.  There was no internet!  I felt worse than ever.

My computer informed me that I was connected to the router and it had WIFI, but it would not connect to any server.  The company’s help desk had closed for the day at 7:00 p.m. and so we would have to wait 12 hours to seek assistance.

Caroline hardly slept on Friday night, her mind preparing for the technical conversation she was to have the next morning.  It was to be a severe test of her ‘A’ grade, O Level French.

Following my wise advice, the first thing I heard her say on the phone to the technical adviser on Saturday morning was, “Parlez vous Anglais?”

Her broad smile and fist pump told me the answer.  But, from that point, things got worse.  The first time a technician could get to us is next Friday – in six days’ time.

So, here we are in exactly the same circumstances that we would have been in if it were 1995 and not 2025.  Then, were all holiday makers in private accommodation bored?  No of course, they weren’t.  

What do people do if they are not catching up with the news on their laptops over breakfast?  Do they talk to each other?

Thirty years ago, I would possibly have spent most days on the beautiful nearby beach at Soulac-sur-Mer.  But thirty years ago, I doubt that the temperature had been at a constant 38°C, as it has been ever since we arrived.  Shade is essential and beaches are not renowned for natural shade.  Also, thirty years ago I was fitter and able to be more physically active and resourceful than I am now.

English newspapers are harder to find today than in the past.  In 1967, three friends and I, travelled for five weeks by road to Dubrovnik and back.  Throughout the whole trip, I maintained a news-time-lag of just 24 hours, largely by always being able to buy yesterday’s Daily Telegraph wherever we were.  

The only newspaper I was able to here has been a day-old Financial Times.  A chatty, friendly villager I met this morning, told me that 30 years ago, there was a kiosquier in Talais and he sold many different foreign newspapers.  

By Monday afternoon, I was feeling a lot worse, suffering from the heat and as bored as I can imagine.  I found that short naps were the best way to pass the time.   How dull.

30 years ago, I suppose, the first thing we would have done on our first full day’s holiday, would have been to buy a number of postcards and then write and send them.  That would have occupied an afternoon.  Do people send postcards anymore?  An email is so much more convenient.

This is a beautiful part of France but all there is to see are fields, pine forests, vineyards and coastline and all there is to do, is eat and drink.  As I was feeling under the weather and very rough, I just sat in the shade in the coolest part of the garden I could find.  God, I was bored!

I found a spot in Soulac on Tuesday where I could obtain 4G and I messaged my GP for advice.  As I had to tell her my problem and symptoms, I suppose this is the time to tell you too:  

I had chronic constipation and it was beginning to cause pain. My bowels had been inactive since the previous Wednesday and so it was now 6 days with no action.  I was feeling worse every hour.  I had hardly eaten for a week and virtually the only ‘sustenance’ I was having was water.

The surgery replied after an hour: “Visit a hospital or a pharmacy”.  

Very helpful! 

The nearest hospital is in Blaye which although it is “only” 40 miles away, it is on the far side of the Gironde estuary and so takes two hours to reach by road.

I went to a pharmacy in Saint Vivien de Medoc, five miles from us and walked up to the counter.  I looked confidently at the young woman who was to serve me and in my very best French, I said,

“Parlez vous Anglais?”

“Comment?”

“Do you speak English?”

She smiled, tilted her head back a little, let out a tiny laugh and said,

“Aaah, d’accord.”

Then she stopped smiling, looked me straight in the face and said,

“Non!”

I had expected that and so I was ready. 

“J'ai besoin d'un laxatif puissant.”

“Puissant?”

“Oui.  Très, très puissant.”

She went to a shelf and picked up a packet.  Then, she gabbled at me for a minute or two, occasionally jabbing her finger at the packet, until finally, almost with a look of pity on her face, she allowed me to buy it.

That was at 7:15 p.m. on Tuesday.

By 6:00 p.m. on Wednesday, I was cleared - and what a clearance it was!

Our two young grandchildren arrive tomorrow and there is no possibility whatsoever that I will be bored for the rest of the holiday.  No more afternoon naps.

I will miss them.

208 You Must be Karen

I’ve seen them on YouTube; I’ve heard about them on Facebook and a couple of years ago, they were even mentioned on the television programme, Question Time.  Now, I have met one of them for the first time.  I met a ‘Karen’.

On Monday, I went into Waitrose car park and headed to the line of disabled parking bays near to the entrance doors.  I drove slowly, looking for a space.  There were none.  

I really need a disabled parking bay because I have to be able to open the door of my Mini as wide as it will go in order to get in and out, easily.  None of the eight bays were free and so I went to a group of six bays in the middle of the car park some way away.  I parked in the last free bay.  

I displayed my blue badge on the dashboard, got out of the car and went to the boot to get a bag.  Just as I was about to close it, I heard a woman’s voice from close behind me.

“Where are your children?”

I turned to look at her.  “What?” I asked.

“This space is for shoppers with children.  Look at the sign.”  

I turned to look and she was right.  I had thought they were all disabled spaces.  The photograph below, was taken after I had shopped and that free disabled space on the other side of the sign had been occupied when the woman accosted me.

“So, where are your children?” she demanded again. 

I think that if she had been just a little less threatening and obnoxious and had just pointed out that I shouldn’t have parked there, I would have apologised and moved, as I was in the wrong.  But her behaviour became even more aggressive.

People who behave like her have become known as ‘Karens’.  A Karen is a middle-class, middle-aged white woman who rebukes other people in angry, public displays.  I decided not to move as she was talking to me like that

.“Well,” I said, “I have three children and so I think I meet the necessary requirements to park here.  One lives in Cambridge and the other two are in Yorkshire.  Would you like to see photos?”

That made her apoplectic.  She shouted louder and louder, stepped closer to me and began making furious hand gestures at me.  Five people had stopped and were watching with interest.

I tried to soothe her.  When I could get a word in I said, “I think you should calm down. People are watching.  This is Waitrose, not Tesco, for goodness sake.”

She took her phone out.  “I’m going to film you and put you on YouTube.  Then, people will see what a selfish bastard you are.”

Despite her trying to physically block me and stop me walking away, I evaded her and went to the store.  When I returned, I was pleased to see that she had gone and she hadn’t done what I feared she would do – scratch the car.

So, if you see me on YouTube, please let me know.  I am wearing a blue and yellow summery shirt.

Did I remain dignified?  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

207 May I Have your Money Please

At least once and sometimes three times every weekday, but never at the weekend (because even thieves need a break), I receive a call on my landline.  

I don’t think I’ve had a genuine landline call for more than two years. These daily phone calls are always from a person whose only aim is to help me by giving me or saving me money.  I only really keep the landline as a memento of the past.  Surprisingly, although other people tell me they do, I never receive scam calls on my cellphone.

The subject matter of these calls has varied over time but the aim is always the same: to obtain my bank details.  Five or six years ago the man, or occasionally the woman who rang, would tell me that I had paid too much for something like my electricity and I was due a refund.  Therefore, my bank details were urgently needed.

When we moved to Wavendon 13 years ago, we obtained our landline telephone through British Telecom and we have always been ex-directory.  The account is in Caroline’s name (C Dawes) and the callers always greet me as Mr Dawes.  Consequently, it is obvious that they only have our number because someone at B T has given or, more probably, sold it to them.  

These days, there are two main reasons they give for needing my bank details but a couple of days ago, there was a new one.  The most common attempted scam begins with a robot voice telling me that this is a call from “bank security” or “visa security” as they have noticed unusual activity on my card.  

“This morning you purchased a train ticket from Edinburgh to London for the sum of one hundred and twenty pounds which is something you haven't done in the past by using your card.”

“Press ‘one’ to confirm this purchase or press ‘two’ to talk to an investigator.”

When I press ‘two’, either the phone goes dead or, after a short delay, I am greeted by a man with an Indian accent so strong as to be almost incomprehensible. 

“Hello, my name is James Worthington.  How can I help?”

The second most common topic of these calls is to tell me that I am due a rebate of £149 for an insurance policy I took out to cover kitchen appliances.  Again, the caller will be an Indian with a name like Roger Simmons or Mary Russell.

I try to play along with them for as long as I can.  The longer I am wasting their time, the less time they have to contact someone more vulnerable.  “Altruistic” should be my middle name.

One thing that all these callers have in common is that the moment they realise that I am not falling for their scam, they abruptly hang up.  Whenever I call the number that they used, I either hear, “This number is unobtainable,” “This number does not exist,” or "The number you have called is not recognised." 

Sometimes though, it does ring and when it’s answered, I tell the person that their number has been cloned by scammers and they can expect to receive a lot more calls like this.  That happened to me a few years ago.  It got to the point where I was receiving more than 20 calls a day on my cellphone from thoroughly disgruntled, angry callers and I was forced to change my phone number.

A few days ago, I received a call that introduced me to a scam that was new to me.  Darren White, who has probably never been out of Mumbai in his life, told me that I was to receive a free gift.  

“Is that Mr C Dawes?” he began, pronouncing ‘Dawes’ as “Dow-wess”.

I confirmed that it was.  I know my place in life.

“We are giving you a personal Fall Alarm that costs £300 on the market and we are getting all that amount for you, so it will cost you nothing.”  

He went on to tell me that if I’m wearing this alarm and fall, an alarm will promptly bring medical aid to me.

Just to confirm that I qualify by being over sixty, would I please tell him my date of birth.

“Certainly, it’s 01-04-1919.”

"Have you ever been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s or dementia?"

“I don’t think so, can’t remember.”

It was obvious that ‘Darren’ was reading from a script.  If I asked a question, there was a pause while he went back to the relevant passage in his script and simply repeated it word for word.  Absolute proof that he was reading a script came when I heard this from him: 

“Your health will be monitored by our doctors twenty four divided by seven.”

He must have read, “Your health will be monitored by our doctors 24/7,” but 24/7 wasn’t an adverbial phrase he’d ever used or come across before.

For all that, I only had to pay them £29 a month and that’s when he began fishing for my bank details so that I could pay my monthly subscription by direct debit.

I don’t mind these calls except for the fact that I can never have a proper lie-in as they start at 9:30 every day but they do break up my morning.  

I must have had around six hundred of them so far and the consequence is that now, if ever anyone with an Indian accent calls, I assume that they are up to no good.

That is a dreadful thought to have but I’m afraid it is inevitable.

*****

You might find this as strange as I do:  

A neighbour has been in the US for a month, visiting family .  She flew out from Heathrow, leaving her car parked in the long-term car park.

At 11.00 in the morning, looking out of my kitchen window, I saw her return as she parked outside her house.

A short time later, I was on my way to Waitrose and as she had flown overnight and then driven 55 miles, I thought she might like me to get her some basic food and perhaps, a ready meal.

She was very grateful but the essentials she needed, surprised me.

“Just a pint of milk and a watermelon please.”

206 For All I Care

I must make it very clear at the start that I am a neutral yet interested observer of the matters that follow.  

Towards the end of May here in the UK, there was a lot of coverage in newspapers and on television about the failure of the appeal by Lucy Connolly against her sentence of imprisonment for two years and seven months.  Her crime was that on the day of the Southport riots, she had tweeted, “Set fire to all the f***ing hotels (full of asylum seekers) for all I care.  If that makes me racist so be it.”

Most people who objected and complained when her appeal was overruled did so for the reason that they believed that 31 months in prison is too severe a sentence for a tweet, no matter how obnoxious and vile it might have been, especially as Ms Connolly is the mother of a 12-year-old daughter and we are continually being told that prisons are full.  

They said that it was a ridiculous waste of a prison place for it to go to a woman whose crime had been to write something and others complained that it was an infringement against her right to free speech as it is not against the law to be a racist.

At the hearing, her barrister said that her offending tweet was “angry hyperbole”; an expression of misdirected anguish and rage, and could not be regarded as an incitement to serious violence.

Connolly told the appeal judges that, despite conversations with her legal team, she had not understood that by pleading guilty at her trial (which she did because the maximum sentence could otherwise have been seven years) she was accepting that she intended to incite violence.  She denied inciting violence.

I saw discussions on television programmes such as Politics Live and Newsnight about the outcome of the appeal and I read a thoughtful opinion piece on the matter by Daniel Finkelstein in The Times.  What aroused my interest in this case is that not once did I hear or read of anyone mentioning the significance of the four words “for all I care” that Ms Connolly included in her incriminating social media communication.

I have no legal training whatsoever but it is my belief that, no matter how awful the main body of her message was, the words “for all I care” remove any suggestion that she was calling for, or intending to incite, violence.

The phrase “for all I care” is an expression used to indicate indifference or a lack of concern about something.  When someone says, “for all I care,” they mean that they don’t mind or don’t care whatever happens with regard to the outcome of a particular situation.

If Australia were to win the final deciding test match in an Ashes series against England by an innings and 400 runs, I might say, “They can drop a nuclear bomb on Sydney for all I care.”  That would show the depth of my despair and disappointment.  However it might sound or read, I promise you that it would not be a call for mass murder.  It could be argued that Connolly wrote with the same feeling of despair at the killing of three children.

Those four words can also express a feeling of indifference: “You can come on a walk with us or stay at home for all I care.”

It could be said that is what Ms Connolly meant in her offending tweet.  She wasn’t calling for the hotels to be burnt down but even though she didn’t say so, she probably wouldn’t mind if they were.  In fact, it’s likely that she would be delighted if they were but adding, “for all I care,” cannot be considered incitement to do anything, no matter what dreadful thoughts were preceding it.

Yes, in case you are wondering, you can tell me I’m spouting nonsense - for all I care.

205 Mistakes? I’ve Made a Few

The blog I wrote recently about trying to ward off dementia has reminded Caroline of some things I did in the past that caused her concern as to my acuity.  

As generous as ever, she has been kind enough to remind me of them so that I may share them with you.

*****

A day or so after we moved into this house in 2012, Caroline had gone to work and I went for a walk around the area to see what was here. When I got back home, I realised that I had gone out without my keys.  It was 10:30 in the morning and Caroline wasn’t due back for over seven hours.  I rang her to explain my predicament and an hour later, she arrived.  She did not look happy; in fact, she looked fairly cross.

“Why did you drop the latch?” she asked.

“What?  I didn’t.”

“You must have done or it wouldn’t be locked.  I left it up when I went.”

She pushed down on the handle and opened the door.  Without saying a word, she got back into her car and set off on the 18 mile trip back to Luton.  

She did say something about it that evening, though.

*****

We often go to Milton Keynes Theatre.  It frequently has shows that are about to open in the West End or are touring having just ended their West End run.  In January 2022, the theatre’s pamphlet arrived listing the shows later in the year.  Among others, I bought two tickets for a Sunday, ten months later in October, when the Glenn Miller Orchestra were performing.  

There’s a Chinese restaurant next to the theatre and so that evening we ate there, leaving at 7:10 to be in our seats for the start.

It was all surprisingly quiet at the theatre and it wasn’t until we saw a poster that I realised that the only performance that day was the matinee and that had ended some two hours ago.

Oops!

*****

I will not go into the details of how I once spent two painful hours on my knees, taking apart and reassembling the unit that powered a string of dysfunctional solar powered festoon lights, only to discover that the cable had been severed - almost certainly by Caroline’s over-enthusiastic pruning.

*****

Yet again this year, I failed to back the winner of The Grand National.  I am not a great follower of horse racing and like many people, virtually the only time I ever bet on a horse race is on the Grand National.

In Caroline’s opinion, the biggest error I have ever made in my life involved the Grand National.  In 2000, we chose four horses to back. 

One of the horses Caroline chose was Papillon, ridden by Ruby Walsh.

“No,” I said, confidently, “That will never win.  No female jockey has ever won the National and there have been a number who have tried.  They rarely even finish the race.  They always seem to fall, refuse or get pulled up.”  Reluctantly, Caroline chose a different horse.  

Papillon won at 10/1.  

How was I supposed to know that Ruby Walsh was actually a 20-year-old man named Rupert?  

The only Ruby I’d ever heard of was Ruby Murray and she was definitely a female singer.  The diminutive terms for Rupert are Roo or Rupe or possibly, Bert.  Certainly not Ruby!  

Every April for the past 25 years, I am reminded of that teeny weeny slip.

*****

I made a bit of a cock-up on Christmas Day 2013.  There were 14 of us for Christmas Dinner and I planned to serve it at 2 p.m.  

Our next door neighbour was spending Christmas in New Zealand and as our single oven was too small for roasting a 25 pound turkey, a joint of ham and lots of potatoes, he gave me his door key and told me I could use his oven as well.

The turkey would take 7 hours to cook and so at 6:30 a.m. on Christmas Day, I let myself into next door, set the oven temperature to 180°C and put the pre-prepared turkey into the oven.  The turkey would come out at 1:30 in the afternoon to rest for 30 minutes before I began carving.

At 11:30, after I’d made sure everyone had a drink, I went to check on the turkey.  

Disaster!  The oven was not on and it never had been.  I examined it and realised that there were two dials I should have turned.  All I had done was set the temperature.  I hadn’t turned the oven on.

That caused a few problems.

204 Bird Brained

At ten o’clock last night, just as the BBC television news was starting, my cell phone vibrated, indicating that I had a message.  

Rambling:  ‘Cell phone’ is one Americanism that I do use.  It is much easier and quicker to say than “mobile phone” and although a ‘mobile phone’ may be used in the way its name suggests, ‘cell phone’ is just as acceptable as it is named after cellular networks, where service areas are divided into ‘cells’.

Unlike the mobile phone which can never be anything but “mobile phone”, I foresee the day when the single word “cellphone” is recognised just as “telephone” is an established word now. Telephone is derived from tele (at a distance) and phone (sound or language).

I looked at my cellphone screen and saw a message that I had never seen before.  It read:

[Alarm] Anti-theft alarm triggered.  Check your vehicle.

Electric cars like ours have become very popular among car thieves but our model has Immobilisation Technology which is supposed to make their theft more difficult.  Nevertheless, I have read that a determined thief, with the skill and technology, finds it quite straightforward.  

Our car was parked right outside the front door and as I opened the door, hoping that I would not be confronted by a burly figure wearing a hoodie and a Covid face mask, I could hear the wailing of the car alarm and all four indicator lights were flashing.  It was pitch black but as far as I could tell, there was no one there.  The doors and the boot were still locked.  After a minute or two, the wailing stopped.

Twenty minutes later, the alarm went off again.  This time, I rushed out.  The alarm was sounding, the lights were flashing but again, there was no one there.

I thought that possibly, the thief had scurried off as soon as the alarm sounded and was hiding behind a bush somewhere nearby, watching me.  

I devised a shrewd plan: I turned on the outside porch light so that now, the car was visible.  I went upstairs, got a chair from a bedroom and sat on it so that I could look out of the window on the landing and watch the car below.

After a few minutes, the indicator lights started flashing and the alarm sounded, louder than ever.  No one had gone anywhere near the car.  There was clearly some kind of fault and so, we had a problem.  

Five houses are within 50 yards of us and if the car alarm was going off every now and then throughout the night, there would be justified complaints from angry neighbours.  I had to do something and the something I did was to drive the car some 200 yards away and park it a long way from any houses.  At 11:10 p.m., as I went back into the house, I could faintly hear the alarm in the distance.

At nine o’clock this morning, I went to the car to drive to the KIA dealership and get them to fix this irritating and annoying fault.  As I approached it, I was becoming a little worried.  All was quiet.

“Oh no,” I thought.  It’s happening again.  I’ll ask them to fix a fault when that fault seems to have fixed itself.  What if it starts again tonight?

As soon as I reached the car, I felt relief.  The problem wasn’t coming from outside.   I could see through the windows that what was causing all that fuss was inside the car.  A blue tit was on the top of the front passenger seat.

Its movement inside the car when the doors were locked had been what caused the alarm to sound.  How it got into the car, I have no idea but it just sat there, staring at me and it didn’t fly off until I opened the door nearest to it and then it was off and away. 

Problem fixed.

*****

Talking of birds, this photo shows an interesting fact that I've discovered recently about bird behaviour.

Blue tits in Wavendon prefer to eat to the left.

Both sides of this bird feeder, which is fixed to the outside of a glass patio door, were filled at the same time with sunflower hearts from one packet.  The birds, most of which are blue tits, are clearly drawn to the left side first.

‘Lateralisation’ among birds, akin to being right or left handed in primates, is a known characteristic.  It’s been shown that many parrots tend to be left-footed, meaning they prefer to use their left foot for tasks like holding food and some bird species prefer to use their right foot for picking up food or scratching their beaks. 

Apparently, lateralization in feeding is food-type specific and it somehow impacts on feeding success in wild birds.  Maybe, I’ll fill the feeder with biscuit crumbs next and see how they deal with them.

Interestingly (I think), while primates are usually right handed, orangutans tend to be lefties.  

 

 

203. How do You Know?

Recently, there seem to have been a lot of news features on television about older men suffering from dementia.  As I am now well entrenched in the ‘old age’ category of the population, becoming demented is something I think about now and then.

Quite how old I am was forced into my consciousness this afternoon when, completing a survey from The Stables, a nearby music venue, I was asked to indicate my age by putting a tick next to the right category.

How insensitive of them.  I was given 14 rows to peruse with the first being 0-14 and the last was 75+.  Why have groups of 5 and not 10 years?  

36-45 would be much more sympathetic than 36-40 followed by 41-45.  Then, I would have put my tick in the eighth row and not the fourteenth.  It would still have been at the bottom of course, but at the bottom of a much smaller tower.  It wouldn’t have made me feel and appear quite so ancient.  Incidentally, the final age group on the NHS website is 91+.  That’s more like it.

Every day for the past 20 years or so, I have completed a Sudoku puzzle rated “Super Fiendish”.  At first, I did them because I enjoyed the challenge but recently, while doing one I keep thinking something like, “This must be helping to put off dementia.”

There is a timer on the screen ticking away as I do the puzzle.  I don’t know why it’s there and I never used to pay any attention to the time it took me to complete a puzzle but nowadays, I do keep an eye on the clock.  Today, it took me 37 minutes and that is worryingly slower than usual, especially as Caroline rattled it off in 9 minutes.

This brain damage business reminds me of something that happened ten years ago.  We were in France on holiday with Caroline’s sister and her family.  Oscar, Joanna’s elder son, who was 12 years old at the time, was playing around on the roof of a shed.  He slipped and fell, landing on his head and was unconscious for a short time.

As soon as he came round, the questioning began to see if he was OK.  

“Where are we?” asked his mother.  

“Talais in France.”

“What day is it?” Caroline asked him.  

“Thursday.”

“Say pi,” said Timo, Oscar’s ten-year-old brother. 

“3.1415926535897” Oscar began.

“OK, that will do,” interrupted his Mum.  “You’re fine.”

“93238462” 

“Stop now.”  

“64338327950288”

“Stop it!” bellowed his Mother.

“197, but I used to know the first five hundred,” Oscar mumbled, almost tearfully.

In 2008, when I was in Broward Hospital in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, recovering from my liver transplant, I was asked questions by a doctor I had never seen before to find out how my brain was coping after weeks in Intensive Care.  I can still remember three of the questions I was asked. 

“Who was the last left-handed President?”

“Sorry, I’ve no idea.”

“Who’s in charge of The Department of Education?”  

“Ed Balls, I think.” 

“What state are you in?”

“Very ill, I suppose.”  

I don’t know if that doctor knew I was English and not American.  If he didn’t, I expect he thought I was showing signs of dementia.

202 A Quiet, Ordinary Day

I got out of bed on Wednesday morning thinking that the day to come would be yet another quiet, ordinary day spent sat in my comfy recliner, reading a newspaper, doing online puzzles and then planning and preparing that evening’s food.  There was, however, one thing I knew that I had to do and I expected it would cost me around £35.

The day before, on Tuesday evening, Caroline had left her office and as she approached the car, had seen a note on the windscreen.  It read ‘YOU HAVE A FLAT TYRE’.

The KIA EV6 doesn’t carry a spare but every one of its very expensive tyres contains a sealant that supposedly fills holes made by an intrusion.  In this case the sealant had clearly not worked.  The screw that had punctured the tyre was too large.

Our car insurance includes AA breakdown cover and so Caroline called them. Within an hour, the problem was fixed and she could drive home.  The man from the AA had warned Caroline that his fix was only temporary and she should get it repaired properly as soon as possible.  While Caroline went to work in the Mini on Wednesday, my job was to have the KIA’s tyre repaired.

At FastFit, the tyre mechanic told me that a repair was impossible and I needed a new tyre.  He said that the presence of the sealant made reparation impossible.  I suspected that this was just a line to get me to buy a new tyre and so I went outside, sat in the car and made some phone calls.  I found out that he was right.  The tyre was irreparable and so I went back into the tyre company’s office and ordered a new tyre

“£250 please.”

Back in the car, I pressed the start button.  I saw messages that I’ve never seen before.  One said, “12 volt battery low”, while another read, “Press the start button with the key fob”.  I did that and the screens went completely black.  The car would not start.

I called the AA and within 30 minutes a yellow AA van pulled up next to me in the car park.  After doing some tests I was told that the 12 volt battery was not charging and I need to have a new one.  Luckily, he carried one.

“£215 please.” *

When I got home, the post had been delivered and an ominous brown envelope was lying on the mat.  In October last year, I drove into London and according to a letter from the Metropolitan Police that I received a few days later, I went through a red traffic light.  I didn’t think I had but on November 2nd, I phoned to pay the £60 fine.  

The reference number on the letter the police had sent did not match any that the call handler could find and so he told me to hang up and they would either send me another letter or phone me.  

I heard nothing from them until more than four months later in early March when I got a letter advising me that as I had not paid the fine in the time allowed, I was either to attend a court hearing or fill in an online form.  The form asked all kinds of intrusive questions including ‘What is your monthly income net of tax?’

The brown envelope glaring at me from the door mat contained a letter headed ‘Result of court case’.  The fine I have to pay is made up of three components.

Fine                             £216.00 and 3 penalty points

Costs                           £50.00

Victim surcharge         £86.00       Victim?  Surely that’s me.

The last line of the letter is: If you don't pay, you could be sent to prison for non-payment.

“£352 please.”

I phoned the number on the letter and explained that I had tried to pay the fine last year but because of their incompetence and through no fault of mine, I had been unable to.  I was told there was no record of that call (what a surprise!) and that I had 28 days to pay the amount stated.  

So, my quiet, ordinary day cost me £817.00, three penalty points and a threat of imprisonment. 

* In 1977, a new 12 volt battery for my Honda Z cost £5.00.  That's £40.00 today, allowing for inflation