Degree, or not Degree, that is the question:

In my last post, I mentioned the owner of a car body repair shop.  In that piece, I implied that I had met him when we talked whereas, in fact, our conversation was only on the telephone.  His name given on the account details was so unusual and yet, to me, so memorable that I realised that he must be a man whom I had taught when he was aged 16, more than forty years ago.

As he is a real person I will not name him but will call him Peter Parchment.  I remember him as a very lively, small black boy who occasionally truanted and was often in trouble for minor misdemeanours. 

I rang him the next day partly to make sure that the money had gone through but mainly to confirm that he is who I thought he is.

“Do you come from Muswell Hill, Mr Parchment?

“No, Wood Green.”

“Did you go to Fortismere School or Creighton, as it was called earlier?”

“Yes, I did,” he exclaimed.  “Who are you?”

When I told him my name, he remembered me instantly.

“You were my Head of Year,” he said and  we agreed that it certainly was a very small world.

He told me that he had been at Creighton and had left aged 16 at the end of Year 11.  He was so switched off from school that he hadn’t ever found out his exam results.  To this day he has no idea how he did.

A week before term ended, he went to a garage in East Finchley and asked if they could give him a job working with cars.  Three years later, he was working for Ford in Dagenham and from there he went to Munich and spent five years working for BMW.

When he returned to England, fluent in German, he was married and able to buy his first house and set up his own business.  He lives in Harpenden now, has three sons and commutes to Milton Keynes three or four days a week.

I asked if his sons had gone to Fortismere.  They hadn’t and I got the impression that he was slightly embarrassed to tell me that they had all been privately educated.  Two of them work in the city and the other is a solicitor.

Peter has has been more successful than any of his teachers ever expected and in purely materialistic terms, has probably done better than any of them.

All that and no formal qualification of any kind from school, college or university.

I know one other person who has become materially very successful after choosing to opt out of further education.  Unlike Peter Parchment, he was academically able but after A’ levels, turned down university offers and went instead to work for BP.  In the three years his contemporaries were studying, he was progressing through the ranks of the company.

At the age of 21, he left BP and set himself up as an independent oil broker.  An oil broker is an intermediary who arranges and facilitates the buying and selling of physical oil cargos and oil derivatives.

He was so successful that when he bought his first Aston Martin, he avoided the three year waiting list by ordering it in Australia, then paying to ship it from Australia back to the UK.

In 1965, when I started at Durham University, only 5% of school leavers in the United Kingdom went to university.  In 2025, that figure is 33%.  In 1965, only about 6% of UK university graduates received a first class degree.  The percentage of firsts awarded now has risen to over 30%.  

Are  graduates brighter and working harder now than they were, or has the quality of teaching improved by a remarkable extent?  Neither of those scenarios is true as the cause of the apparent improvement is money and nothing else.

When my generation went to university, we received a means tested maintenance grant of £340 a year.  That was it.  The government paid the tuition fees.  The £340 was for food, lodging and spending money.  As it was means tested, I received £130 and my parents gave me £70 a term.  

Every Christmas, I worked for the Post Office delivering cards and mail.  Every summer, I worked at Birds Eye freezing peas but that work wasn’t strictly necessary or vital for me.  If I had been determinedly frugal (drank less beer), I could have managed on my annual grant without the need to work.

How different my experience was from that of today’s students.  Many of them find it essential to find work during term time as well as during the holidays.  The son of a friend of mine worked four evenings a week in a pub throughout his 3-year course but still managed to graduate with a first class degree.

The financial burden associated with university education in England starts at around £9,535 per year in tuition fees and that figure is now set to rise every year in line with inflation.  £9,535 is the annual fee whether the student is studying Contemporary Circus Performance at Bath Spa University or maths at Cambridge.

Added to tuition fees are housing, textbooks, and daily living costs.  This leads to student debts of a new graduate in England of £48,000 to £55,000.  Over 150,000 UK graduates currently have student debts exceeding £100,000.

Wales, Northern Ireland, and Scotland have lower average graduate debt, with Welsh graduates owing about £39,470; Northern Irish graduates about £28,000, and Scottish graduates typically owing around £17,000.  The figure for Scotland is low because the Scottish government pays the tuition fees for Scottish students. 

It has been estimated that half of graduates will never fully repay their student debt within 30 years.  For 30 years, most of those graduates make repayments of at least £50 a month.  

As their salary increases, the monthly sum does too.  Those who earn less than £25,000 a year, will never pay anything back but as the average national salary is now £29,600, that number is very small indeed.

Is  a degree worth it?

Attending university delays entry into the workforce and this results in lost potential income over at least three years. Those who start work, obtain apprenticeships, or join a business earlier, can gain experience and savings while their peers are still studying.

Just having a degree no longer guarantees employment or a well-paying job.  A third of UK graduates are overqualified for their roles.  In many industries, practical experience and skills are valued more highly than academic credentials.

There are jobs that demand a post graduate qualification in maths or physics.  Successful candidates will, in all likelihood, never apply the learning they have acquired over five years.  It’s the fact that they are intelligent enough to achieve a PhD in that subject, that shows they have the brain power and aptitude required for the position.

If I were recruiting for these posts, I would drop the PhD criterion and instead give candidates the “Blundeston Knot” test at the age of 18.  The Blundeston Knot is a knot joining two pieces of string that requires an extremely high IQ to begin to unravel it.

Successful candidates could avoid at least five years of study and save tens of thousands of pounds if they untie the knot.

Students often face stress from academic demands, financial worry, and expectation to succeed which can lead to mental health issues or burnout. Many also report struggling with motivation if they feel their course lacks direct relevance to their career goals and sadly, this is the case with many degree courses today.

Degree apprenticeships are becoming very popular and highly sought after.  The attraction is that some companies pay a salary while studying and upon graduation, a job is guaranteed.  I have read that an accountancy apprenticeship with KPMG, is tougher to obtain than a place at Cambridge.

If I were 18 now, I doubt that I would apply to university and if I did, it would certainly not be to read geography or any other humanities subject.  According to 2025 data from the Complete University Guide, the students with the weakest graduate job outcomes in the UK are largely those on arts and humanities courses.

People will argue that the experience of university life and the very act of learning is reward enough for the costs involved.   I accept that my three years at Durham were very enjoyable and rewarding and I made friends with whom I am still in close contact today.   Although I understand the causes of today’s more intense tropical storms, oxbow lakes, slickensides and roche moutonnées, is my quality of life better for having that knowledge?  No!

I have no idea what I would do instead.  I never had any kind of career guidance while I was at school.  I hope that is not the case today.

It is no wonder that degree grade-inflation has soared the way it has.  Universities have a duty to provide their customers - and that is what students are nowadays - with something that will, in all probability, cost them more than anything else they will ever buy - other than a house.

By the way, the Blundeston Knot doesn’t exist.  I imagined it but it would probably be good if it did though, wouldn’t it?

212 We Are All Being Conned

I passed my driving test when I was 17 years and 29 days old.  That means that I have been driving for nearly 62 years and obviously, I have had motor insurance for all that time.  I must have paid getting on for £30,000 in premiums while never making a claim.  Motor insurers have done well out of my driving.

The other day, I noticed a scuff on the rear off-side wing of my car.  It was about six centimetres long and the width of a pencil.  The wing material was not damaged in any way.  The harm was only to about 3 square centimetres of paintwork.

Some years ago, someone bumped my fairly new car in a supermarket car park.  I contacted the dealer that had sold me the car who told me that they didn’t do bodywork repairs but recommended a business who did.  That company did a good job with that problem and so last Friday, I went back to them.

Their quote amazed me:

Labour	£320
Paint	£150
Vat	£94
Total	£564

I queried it.  “How much an hour do you charge for labour?”

“Forty pounds.”

“So that small scuff is eight hours, or a full day’s work, is it?”

“Yes.  It includes drying time.”

“So, one of your men is going to spend all one day either working on my car or watching it while the paint dries.  And, how can a tiny amount of paint that would just be enough to cover a match box cost a hundred and fifty pounds?”

“You can always try somewhere else.”

So, I did.  I drove 12 miles to a bodywork repair shop that I found on Google.  They quoted £510.

In Woburn Sands, a village two miles away, there’s an independent garage that has a very good reputation locally.  I know that they don’t do bodywork repairs but I rang them to ask if there was anywhere they could recommend.  There is and they did.

“Two hundred pounds but we can’t do it until Monday.”

When I collected the car on Monday afternoon, I met the owner of the business.  We chatted and I asked him why his quote was so much lower than the other two I had.  He told me that those two companies both specialise in work for insurance companies and insurance companies never quibble or ask questions whatever they are quoted.  He never does work for insurance companies.  If you’d like his number, let me know.

That explains to some extent why car insurance rates are so ridiculously high.  Today, the cheapest full comprehensive cover for a year that I could find for me is £923. 

As I wrote at the start, I am a driver who has never made a claim in his life.

What a rip off!

211 .... but I'm not the only one

I had a lie-in this morning.  Caroline got up at 7:30 but I stayed in bed.  I went back to sleep and had an intense dream.  It was so vivid that as soon as I woke up, I got up and dictated an account of it into my laptop. 

Having recently discovered AI, it seemed reasonable to see if it could tell me what my dream meant, if anything.  

“Perplexity” told me told that it couldn’t but referred me to four websites that claimed that they could.  I went to https://dreamybot.com.

Below is my dream as I remembered it 10 minutes after waking from it and it is followed by an interpretation of it.

*****

I was on a sandy beach looking at my computer when Matthias (my brother-in-law) asked if I had ever written about tattoos on my blog.  I said I had* and tried to show him the piece but there was something wrong with the computer and every icon on the desktop had a black question mark underneath it.

I went to a computer shop and arrived as it was closing.  A woman was shutting the door.  I asked her to let me in and explained my problem. She produced some plastic strips and told me to put one into a computer port and drag all the question icons into the strip. 

While I was being served, a man came in and he was served by someone else.  Then, other people started coming in as well.  I was told there was another thing I needed, but she didn’t have it and I’d have to go somewhere else to buy it.   

As I left the shop, which was closing as I arrived, there was now a queue of people waiting to get in. I went off, found the other shop and bought the part which was inside a brown envelope.

On the way back, I got lost and walked down steep stone steps.  At the bottom was no path, just a river.  A little boy was in front of me on the steps and he got into the water and started swimming.  I followed him, fully clothed, swimming on my back and trying to keep the brown envelope dry. 

I passed a landing strip and didn’t get out but I realised that I should have. I got a dinghy back to the landing strip.  I started walking and had to take a path up a very steep cliff.  Halfway up, I got my coat stuck in barbed wire.

Eventually, I got it free and walked back down to the bottom where there were buildings.  I realised I’d lost the brown envelope.  I thought it must have been dropped as I got out of the boat so I asked a man if he had found it.  He said that he hadn’t, but he’d see if anyone else had. 

He came back and said it had been found but I’d have to go and see the man who’d found it.  I asked why he hadn’t just given it to him.  He said that was a good question but he didn’t know why. 

I went to the room where the man who found it had been giving a lecture.  People were leaving as I arrived but the man wasn’t there. The room was empty.

* I have never written about tattoos.

 

Interpretation by https://dreamybot.com:

Thank you for sharing your dream. It's quite a journey! This dream feels deeply connected to your creative expression, specifically your writing (the blog and the tattoo piece), and the obstacles you encounter in sharing it with the world.  It also speaks to a sense of frustration, a search for completion, and a potential fear of losing something valuable along the way.

The initial scene of you working on your computer on the beach is striking. The beach often symbolises the subconscious, a place of relaxation and hidden depths. Juxtaposing this with the computer – a tool for outward expression and connection – suggests a tension between your inner world and your desire to share your work. 

Matthias asking about your tattoo blog immediately brings the focus to your creative output.  However, the malfunctioning computer with the black question marks is a crucial symbol. 

Question marks in dreams often represent uncertainty, doubt, and a feeling of being unable to clearly communicate or express yourself.  It's as if your ability to articulate your ideas is being blocked or questioned.

The computer shop sequence is a clear representation of seeking solutions to these technical difficulties. The shop closing as you arrive, and the woman reluctantly letting you in, speaks to a sense of timing and potential resistance. The plastic strips and the need for another part symbolize fragmented solutions and the feeling that something is missing. 

The growing queue of people waiting as you leave highlights a sense of competition and the challenges of getting your needs met. This could reflect a feeling of being overlooked or struggling to be heard in your waking life. 

The brown envelope containing the missing part is significant – envelopes often represent secrets or hidden potential.  Losing it, and the subsequent frustrating search, underscores a fear of losing something essential to your creative process or a part of yourself.

The river sequence is particularly potent. Swimming on your back while trying to protect the envelope suggests a defensive posture and a struggle to stay afloat while safeguarding something precious. 

The little boy swimming effortlessly represents a sense of innocence and ease, perhaps a part of yourself that isn’t burdened by these anxieties. Missing the landing strip and the steep cliff climb symbolize obstacles and challenges you face in pursuing your goals. 

The barbed wire snagging your coat represents painful experiences or setbacks that hinder your progress. Ultimately, losing the envelope and the bureaucratic runaround with the man who found it is incredibly frustrating.  It points to a feeling of powerlessness and a sense that even when solutions are found, they are unnecessarily complicated or inaccessible. 

The empty lecture hall at the end reinforces this sense of disappointment and the feeling of being left without answers.

Overall, this dream suggests you're grappling with self-doubt, creative blocks, and a fear of losing your voice or your work. It seems you're in a period of seeking validation and trying to overcome obstacles in expressing yourself. 

The dream highlights a pattern of seeking external solutions to internal problems, and the frustration that arises when those solutions are incomplete or elusive. It's as if you're being asked to look inward and find the missing piece within yourself, rather than relying on external validation or fixes. 

I think we could challenge the belief that your creative work needs to be "perfect" or universally understood in order to be valuable. Perhaps the question marks aren’t necessarily a sign of failure, but an invitation to explore ambiguity and embrace the unknown.

Does this resonate with you at all? 

 

Yes it does.  I’m a psychological mess.  I never realised that I had such problems.

Caroline tells me that the only thing more boring that remembering you own dreams is hearing about someone else’s. 

So, sorry about that.

 

 

 

 

210 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?

 

209 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.  

The phrase “for all I care” is an interesting expression that seems to be open to interpretation.  It may be used to indicate indifference or a lack of concern about something.  When someone says, “for all I care,” they usually mean that they don’t mind or don’t care whatever happens with regard to the outcome of the situation that they are talking about.

Towards the end of May 2025, 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.

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.

Upon her release in August, Connolly described herself as having been “a political prisoner”.  I think that she might have had a point.

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