The Bear and the Bees – Page 4 – The Bear and the Bees

People watching in Pondicherry

After a hectic week in Delhi and Bombay, I arrived in Chennai just in time for the weekend. I hate sitting in hotels on my own watching video channels and I keep making excuses not to head down to the gym and to go the bar instead. If I could, I’d be out Jalking (Jog + Walk) just after dawn to try and keep my jet lagged body functioning but you really take your life in your Nikes if you try doing that in a major Indian city. so, I decided that I’d head down to Pondicherry or ‘Pondy’ as the locals like to call it for the weekend.

Pondy is a former french colonial town, which is now pretty much a small city. The french actually pulled out around 65 years ago but the signs of their occupation are all around with blue enamelled street signs in french (and Tamil), french lantern street lights and the houses where La Francais used to live are coloured light blue, rather like the extremely non tactical uniforms they wore in WWI. The area frequented by them in their hey day was referred to as ‘white town’ -unsurprisingly because that’s where the ‘white folks’ lived. Outside of white town, it’s your usual chaotic provincial Indian city.

The local Police, some of whom still charmingly wear a red kepis, cordon off the side streets leading to Goubert avenue every day between 6pm and 6am to allow for foot traffic. This brings pretty much everyone who lives in that part of town down to the promenade at dusk and dawn and they well… promenade. Of course, being outdoors at those times makes the most of the slightly cooler parts of the day and you can’t blame anyone for that as it was well over 40 degrees C when I was there. Whilst I saw a couple of people obviously in their pyjamas for the dawn walk, most folks dress up for the evening parade and it’s clearly the place to ‘see and be seen’

Unusually for India where public displays of affection are not the norm, there are couples of all ages holding hands. Much older couples, with the chains of generational conservatism still holding them back, walk so closely to each other, that they might as well be holding hands and everyone seems to be in a good mood, smiling and nodding hello to each other. There are twenty-somethings, dressed in their finery, flirting together and others furiously swiping right, in the hope that they can find someone to flirt with. Traditional India Pondy might be, outside of white town, but not on the promenade.

The beach truthfully isn’t up to much and although there is a small bay where some brave souls do go down to the murky water, most locals seem to watch the action from the rocky man made breakwaters. Some just stare out to sea, others take selfies and some crowd around and eat from the street traders stalls; several of whom cook up their food on the spot. It smells really good, but I’m not sure I’d be game to try it, given that there’s no visible means of sanitisation around.

The promenade is actually quite like a Paris street in so much as it’s wide and stained by dog shit. There is also a large war memorial dedicated to the residents of ‘french India’ who died for the country in WW1. The site is considered to be french soil and becomes the focus of commemorations on Bastille day, with foreign dignitaries flying in and parades held. True, in some areas, it does smell a bit of urine, but the local authorities are clearly trying to do something about that as you don’t actually see the doggy landmines, just where they have been. Many of the alleyway walls back from the seafront have signs saying “Toilet this way, 100mts ->” The french would have had pissoirs set up of course, but sadly not here, not now and many dark corners seem to be used for that purpose. The beautiful bougainvillea that covers many of the buildings more than makes up for the occasional unpleasant aroma and I walked along in a bit of a daze from the loveliness of it all, having been moving through Bombay slums the week before.

There are many spectacular sea front mansions, some of them are sadly in ruins and there are several that have been taken up as government offices but have been allowed to become shabby over the years. Wonderfully, there are others that are clearly very well loved private houses. It has to be said that there are also some very prominent buildings that are being rebuilt in their original style, whether privately or officially, it isn’t clear.

I loved the small streets in white town and the cafes and restaurants really beckon you in. There isn’t the mesmerising smell of baking that you get early in the morning in other former french colonies as I think that must be done centrally elsewhere, but fresh coffee and flowers can be smelt everywhere.

My very French hotel. Out of the heat of the day.

I had planned to wander through the crowds along the seafront and have a drink at a small place I’d seen on an earlier visit. ‘Seagulls’ is at the southern end of the beach near the jetty and I was a bit wary of the name given that I didn’t fancy making like Rod Taylor in ‘The Birds’ fighting off the creatures while trying to have dinner. I thought therefore, I’d just have a couple of beers and eat elsewhere, but I needn’t have worried as I didn’t see a single seagull. Dozens of crows of course, but nothing hovering over me looking like it was about to open its bomb bay doors. ‘Seagulls’ doesn’t look elegant from the street and nor is it, but it has, as the french say – ambiance.

I usually look for a cold beer and a sunset to round off my days in the tropics. Preferably the sunset would be over water but as I was on the south east coast of India, the sunset was on the other side. As the light started to fade, locals appeared and ordered large bottles of cold Kingfisher beer. I was already a couple ahead of them by then and as one does, when sitting alone, I was people watching. Although I work with people, I am mostly alone on my travels and so I have a routine that works for me. Prior to the sunset, I’ll drink beer, watch people and read or try to write. Occasionally, I’ll strike up a conversation with someone as I try to talk to at least one stranger each trip I take.

The bar was patronised largely by locals who were mainly male but there were a few mixed couples of student age and a table of animated french families enjoying their pre dinner drinks. Pondy is still very popular with french expats who enjoy the mixed Indian and french food.

A lady of a certain age and her partner casually stepped in front of my table to theirs with an excusez-moi and a waft of expensive scent. She was casually dressed in the way that ‘Gucci meets braless backpacker’ is chic and they clearly knew the place and the staff well. The waiter darted forward unbidden with a tray of pastis and water and after exchanging pleasantries in fluent french, he left and they settled down to watch to the light fade.

Unusually for me, I wasn’t too irritated that they had sat in the way of the view and between them and the garlic fried peanuts that the waiter delivered, I was by now totally distracted from my book. He was probably in his early 60’s and Madame was possibly half a decade younger. He lifted his feet up onto the chair in front of him and she, in an impossibly languid and feline manner curled up next to him on the cheap plastic chair. I was happy for them, clearly in love and relaxed with being alone in a crowd together. I was also a little jealous to see how complete they were in each others company. They sipped their drinks and giggling at what he was saying, she nuzzled into his neck.

Ordinarily, I’d be cursing them for being french **and** blocking the view, but I was mesmerised

As day finally turned to night, I paid my bill and walked through white town and the crowds to a hotel I’d seen earlier in the day. Being far too early for most people to eat, the courtyard restaurant was almost deserted.

The lack of patrons helped with the service of course and the staff bustled around me fussing with the wine and food, all the time pushing me towards the sinful looking desert menu. I gave in, ate too much and there not being any more people to watch, waddled back to my own hotel. I really like Pondy and I’m sure you will too. So, if you ever get the chance to see it, please go.

Ambush?

In order to describe how I got myself into this particular situation I will have to backtrack a little. I am back on Jeju island in Korea. To get here it has taken me a nightmarish 22 hours down the back of several aircraft. I flew out of Melbourne to Bangkok, then onto Osaka before getting back to this beautiful little island very early in the morning.

Another airport dawn for me. This one is Osaka.

I had a couple of hours to wash the heinous aeroplane stench from my body in Osaka and had occasion to muse over the curious vending machine culture that exists in Japan. Most people are used to finding drinks and food in machines, but not so much items of clothing, alcoholic drinks and even toys to keep the kids busy. It makes sense when you think about it, as when little Kaito spills his hot noodles all over his clothes, you can buy him a new outfit, medication to sooth the burns and some small but incomprehensible digital games to keep him occupied. I also noticed that you can buy what looked to either be a woolly rabbit hat for your cat or a woolly cat balaclava for your rabbit. I was strangely tempted to get one, just for the hell of it, but I’m not sure that Bea, our new moggy would appreciate it.

I am here because of the same complicated reason as before but this time, the stakes are higher. Relations with the other party have deteriorated to the point where litigation and sensationalist headlines seem to be the only way out; unless we can reach an agreement with them that keeps everyone kind of happy. I don’t think that this is going to be possible, but I really like the other party and I sympathise with them. Business and personal relationships in Korea are highly ritualised and whilst I am fully conversant with the do’s and don’ts of polite business meetings in this culture, this will be something else. It’s going to be a meeting where emotions will be running high and death threats have already been made.

It’s definitely not usual for firearms to be used in Korea even in the conduct of most criminal activities, but knives and even swords are all fair game in persuading the other party to do what you want, so whilst I am not overly nervous for my own safety, as even with two new hips, I can run like a scalded cat when it’s needed. There are others though who might be at a greater risk than me and so I’m not looking forward to this upcoming meeting; as much as I might want to get closure for all concerned.

I may have mentioned before that I could, in some peoples minds be considered as a little paranoid (refer to the landing page) but if I’m honest, it’s probably true when it comes down to this kind of thing and that’s not a wholly bad thing as I’m not new to this and I have managed to stay more or less, in one piece.

There are a few things you need to do when you are going into this kind of meeting. The first is is to conduct a thorough reconnaissance of the meeting place. If you are sponsoring the meeting, you need to literally set the scene for hopefully, safe and peaceful cooperation, you make sure that the room is comfortable, there are no sharp objects within reach and that the furniture is too heavy to pick up and be used as a weapon against you. The second thing is to know at least two ways out of the venue if something goes wrong. It usually follows that you need to have an independent means of extraction standing by, just in case the plan goes adrift, as sod’s law dictates that it usually will. When you aren’t fully in charge of things, you just need to do what you can to minimise the risks.

This time, I have arranged for independent transportation, taken a look at the location by satellite (I didn’t like the look of it as there was only one road in and out) and plotted in a couple of escape routes on foot through forest tracks. It’s pretty cold and gloomy and there’s just enough of a wet mist in the air to cut visibility down to 200 mts, which won’t help me recognise any approaching threats. I borrowed a stab proof vest from a Korean contact just in case, but I think I probably need it more for its thermal properties than for it’s intended purpose. At least I hope so, because if it gets to that stage, bad press is the least of my worries.

I’m in a small mini van with a group of young colleagues. Aside from my other colleague, the lawyer, who is quiet but composed, one of them is crying quietly in the back of the van and the others have the kind of taut, pinched expressions that you don’t want to see on anyone, particularly someone that is the same age as your eldest son. They are nervous, to the point where I think one of them might vomit, so I try to talk to them and distract them from the winding misty road ahead of us

To the initiated, the term combat indicators (told you I was paranoid) will mean something. To the less so, it means ‘the absence of normality’ which in an urban environment practically means a lack of women and children in the streets; no people queuing at the bus stop, shops closed down and shuttered. You get that feeling low down in your stomach and for me, in my balls and on the back of my neck. You just know that something bad is going to happen, but you just don’t know when. Although it was only 30 minutes from the airport, this was a rural mountain road, through close forest and there was absolutely no clue as to what we were getting into. Approaching the meeting venue, which was discomfortingly known as ‘the charnel house’ I could make out a few parked vehicles with unhelpfully darkened windows and a highly decorated building, that looked rather like a squat pagoda.

Just in case you were wondering what a ‘charnel house’ is. I have googled it for you and I was really hoping it’s ‘only’ the first definition and not the second.

I asked the others to stay in the warm van and I got out and had a look around. My intention was to complete a 360 degree circuit of the venue to see if I could tell that we were being set up, but because of the mist, I couldn’t see any tell tales as to what we might be walking into. I heard the van door open and jerked my head around to see if it had been opened by one our ours, or one of theirs. Thankfully, if was one of ours and two young men stumbled out. One to revisit his breakfast and other for a nervous pee. Being an old hand (literally) at this sort of bladder woes, I had deliberately desiccated myself, not having had anything to drink after a final airline G&T. I also take an Imodium, just to make sure that I’m not caught out at the critical moment; as that does happen, even to an old hand…

I couldn’t see any lurking media nor indeed any charging ninja’s so I completed my circuit of the building and at last, I noticed a familiar face. It was the Father of our deceased colleague. He had a neutral expression on his face, but I bowed low and then offered my hand for him to shake; for as a westerner, I have always found that a better clue as to a persons intentions. You can also maintain eye contact and hopefully not get blindsided. He shook it, smiled sadly and thanked me for coming. I knew that was about the limit of his english, but I was comforted enough by his handshake and demeanour to at least wait and see whatever came next.

His wife and two aunts, whom I had met before, arrived out of the mist and I called down to my group and asked them to join us. When they got up the slight hill to the entrance of the charnel house, they stood in a line and as one, bowed very deeply in the most respectful way. I joined in, but looking up as I did so. We entered the building, removed our shoes and placed them in the racks provided and then walked slowly up the stairs. I was struck by just how cold it was, much more than outside. I also noticed that I was sweating slightly, but of course, I put that down to my ‘thermal’ vest.

When we got upstairs, I saw how light it was, with everything made of blonde coloured wood, with lots of gold leaf and scarlet highlights. The remains of the deceased had his own compartment and I noticed that there was photograph of him and not having known him in life, it struck me how close he was to the age of my eldest. He was smiling and it was the kind of photograph that you’d want your Mum and Dad to be looking at when they remembered you.

I took my cue from my colleagues who lined up in front of the mobile altar and lit joss sticks with a chanted prayer. There were padded mats lined up directly in front of the small compartment and they immediately knelt and recited what was as obviously as well known to them as the lords prayer was to me. They then prostrated themselves and I bent to join them. The Father stopped me and indicated that I should just pray. Having lost my faith, in so far as organised religion is concerned some years ago, I just bowed my head out of respect and said a quiet thank you for my still having my family intact.

Following what was one of the most difficult and emotional experiences that I have had in a very long time, we moved out of the inner sanctum of the charnel house and into what looked like an IKEA sponsored board room. It was the temperature of a walk in freezer and we sat around a large table. My local colleagues sat with their heads bowed, so bowed that I couldn’t see light between their chins and their chests. My friend the lawyer took our pre rehearsed, but very genuine line and in Korean, thanked the family for inviting us and reiterated just how sorry we were to have lost our friend and colleague.

The Father wanted to tell everyone about his son’s childhood and the hopes that he had held and the dreams they had had for him. He spoke about their hopes for grandchildren and for their family name to continue. He was the eldest child and their only son and that he was the shining light of their family. I knew this even though I didn’t understand the words. I just knew what I’d be saying under similar circumstances.

I looked at the young men with me. Not one of them could look at the Father when he spoke. In fact, to have done so, would have been considered disrespectful, but I could tell that every one of them was physically impacted by his words. After what seemed like a very long time, I looked at our lawyer and he nodded. I asked our team to leave and wait for us outside. It was now time to try and reach closure by negotiating a respectful settlement with the family; but it was far from being about money, in so far that the amounts were almost immaterial; it was more about acknowledging that their son had died in our workplace and that, despite the circumstances and responsibility, we were desperately sorry to have lost him.

With just the two of us from the company, the parents and two aunts, I began to feel like I could at least try to get the paranoid monkey off my back and stop looking for hidden cameras and concealed doors where the ninjas would attack from. My head isn’t a fun place to be in at a time like this believe me…

I made a short, but very genuinely felt speech, which was translated by our lawyer during which the family stared at me like I was naked and in the dock and that was how I felt. The settlement negotiations passed in Korean with me doing my bit when necessary and then the lawyer and I stepped out of the room. When we came back in, there was a nod, but no smiles, because how could there be? There was however, an air of closure. Something almost tangible but you couldn’t touch it, something that literally had a smell and a taste, but you couldn’t describe it as success, because it wasn’t. Someone was dead and we were all sorry.

We bowed low and at my instigation, we shook hands. I went back inside to the young mans final resting place and I said an official goodbye on behalf of the company. I lit a joss stick and lingered a moment longer just to inwardly express my thanks to whoever, that it wasn’t my son. The Father, who had stayed close to me throughout, put his hand gently on my shoulder. I placed mine on his shoulder quickly, possibly too quickly, but that was all I could manage and we both nodded in the way that (people think ) emotionally constipated middle aged men do.

I walked outside the charnel house and into what was surprisingly, the light of day. The mist had cleared and what had been a very gloomy, chilly morning had morphed into something much brighter and quite lovely. The lawyer and I quickly briefed the team and we noticed the Father walking down the small hill towards us. He spoke to each of the young men in turn and I felt, rather than understood what he was saying. I felt that he said that he would always miss his son, but that he hoped they would live their lives with his son in their minds.

I walked the Father back up the hill to where there was large bench seat. The family was sitting there, leafing through an A3 album of our lost colleague. I asked, in English, if I could sit with them and they as one, said yes, in Korean.

I was there while they reviewed – which isn’t the right word, it’s more they ‘relived’ his life and their parts in it. I felt, rather than understood, how much joy they had felt being there for all of the milestones in his life, right up to his finishing university and then winning a position with an international company that would have set him up for life.

And there, but for the grace of [a higher power] go I.

The road down the mountain was clear and bright. A bit like the way forward?

Polo and me

Polo and me. Well, that’s an oxymoron to start with. I don’t like horses and a sport that involves a bat (ok, mallet) and a ball is so far beyond me, I’m almost a natural. Watching me try apparently resembles a handcuffed crab with a blindfold on, so I don’t try anymore. It’s now officially summer in Victoria, but not so as you’d have known it today as it was close to 16 degrees. Last weekend it was much nicer weather and thanks to a friend in marketing, we had free tickets to the local polo and access to the clubhouse, which meant free food and booze.

I hadn’t been to the polo in years and actually, the last time I had had been was at Smiths lawn at Windsor in the UK where I had met Sarah Ferguson’s father. I’d like to claim I was one of the members there, but I’d actually been delivering some advertising banners on behalf of one of the sponsors. I scammed a glass of pimms and hung around for a while, soaking everything in until it became very obvious that I didn’t belong at all. This time, being Australian polo, it was a slightly more egalitarian affair, if you discount the folks that arrived by helicopter and the Porsches parked in the car park. There was a smattering of ‘names’ there and a well known TV presenter, who took a turn on horseback.

Looking down at the plebs, from the clubhouse

Not the national team, but nonetheless, a very keen group of young players

Between the chukka’s (they are seven minutes long and there are between four and eight of them in a game) it’s traditional to get out there on the pitch and ‘tread in’ the divots caused by the horses hooves. It’s hard to be doing it without thinking about Julia Roberts character in the movie Pretty Woman. The yanks call it ‘stomping the divots’ but ‘treading in’ is the proper British terminology according to a very knowledgeable friend who was an officer in the Welsh Guards.

A very sensible player riding up to the bar…

My well hidden but naturally larcenous nature came to the fore when I saw a couple of unaccompanied polo balls loafing around on the ground and I took a fancy to one. I exploited the competitive nature of my host and dared him to souvenir one for me. A little later, he slipped one into my hand with a request for some home made alcohol in exchange, which I will happily provide as soon as I can figure out what kind of redneck hooch ‘apple pie moonshine’ is. Not wanting to get caught with my swag and not having a pocket large enough, being the gentleman that I am, I slipped it into Mrs Jerry’s handbag.

I’d been lucky enough to have been at home for a few days and to have spent an hour or two as a garden slave to Mrs. Jerry (I was going to fib and say I’d spend days out there, sweating and toiling but I was caught typing this). She’s a really keen gardener; me not so much, but when cornered with no excuse or escape route, I’ll get out there and get my hands dirty. That said, I do love being in the garden but more specifically; sitting out there in the evening with a tall glass of my home distilled gin. A quick update on that score – from the first trial batch, where you really had to apply yourself, the second is a much more mellow affair and definitely worth drinking, without a major fear of organ failure.

A few days later, on the morning of the Ballarat rowing championships, we were standing admiring the garden and fine tuning the irrigation for the recent planting. The Bees were out and active, which was lovely to see as they hadn’t done very well over the winter. In fact, along with most local beekeepers, I haven’t had a honey harvest of note for several years and its been a job just keeping them alive. I’d been of a mind to try making mead, but you need an awful lot of honey and I just don’t have enough to spare.

Later that morning, I went out to nearby Lake Wendouree to see the rowing armed with a folding chair, a paperback, a lot of water and a couple of sandwiches. I found a shady spot and almost immediately had to loudly “excuse me” to several Chinese rowing fans who quite obliviously decided to stand right in front of me, in the 2 meters between my chair and the waters edge. The races started and as I was just by the finish line, I was in the position to see the rowers up close. I don’t know if you have seen the size of Australian school kids lately, but many of them; especially the farmers kids are huge. They look like blokes in school uniforms and I swear I saw one with a Ned Kelly beard! I almost felt sorry for #2 son, who mind you, is absolutely ripped and a very respectable 5’8″ (and still growing), but he looked like the cox compared to some of the others. I have to say that it didn’t seem to slow him down at all as his boat came first in both heats.

A victorious team rowing back to the clubhouse

Despite lathering on the sun screen and donning a large brimmed hat, I had managed to unaccountably burn my wrists, as they had obviously been exposed as I’d been holding up the book. I felt less silly when I saw the bare shoulders and necks of the rowers, as some of them had really been roasted. I’d really enjoyed the day out and although I was going to miss the following weekends ‘head of the lake’ competition, due to my next lot of travel, I was glad to have been out there and supported #2 son. This was the first trip home in a while where I hadn’t worked solidly on the house and it felt good. Stay safe.

Jerry.

Christmas Gin?

It’s always the time of the day/year to enjoy a glass of gin but this Christmas, I have decided to make my own. Distilling has been a long standing dream of mine, but I have never really found the time to get started and besides, bulk duty free Bombay Sapphire is quite affordable.

Things changed when my early Christmas present arrived from Portugal – a copper still! There is a small family business over there who make artisan stills and sundry beautiful copper pots and vessels. Mrs Jerry found the company on the internet and excitedly messaged me over a picture. I knew then that it* was meant to be.

*’it’ being hours of endless fun leading to days of unending hangovers, if I wasn’t careful.

My still arrived in two large boxes and as I was travelling at the time, Mrs Jerry unwrapped her and took pictures to send to me. As always, I couldn’t wait to get home, but there was now another reason…

*The main components just waiting for me*

We christened my rather beautiful still ‘Genie’ because she looks a little like the bottle in ‘I dream of Genie’ and also because she’d be almost as much fun as Barbara Eden… Due to the rather archaic Australian laws prohibiting home distilling in anything larger than a 5 litre container, she was cunningly labelled as a still for making ‘essential oils’ – but given that she has a 33 litre capacity, that would be an awful lot of peppermint oil…

The fabulous Barbara Eden with her own still…

Genie’s first test drive was last week when a friend and I sparked her up. I had made a ‘wash’ a week earlier to give the gin a base. The wash is the basic source for making alcohol and you can brew it from all manner of organic substances. When the base has stopped fermenting; the idea is that you boil it in the pot and the alcohol ‘heads’ start to vaporise at around 70 degrees. You don’t want that bit as it’s the stuff that gives you really nasty hangovers, it also smells of oily rubbing alcohol. Heaven is where you want to be and that’s found in the high 70’s and at about 78 to 80 degrees it’s called the ‘hearts’ of the distilling run. As the temperature rises out to 100 degrees C, the smelly ‘tails’ emerge from the still; promising a slow and painful death to anyone unwise enough to do anything other than degrease a tractor engine with them.

In a typically Heath Robinson moment, I decided that the best way to cool the vapour passing through the condensing coil in the small copper cylinder was to hook up an aquarium pump to tubes in the large red bucket, which was full of cold water. The closed cooling loop of water could then be chilled further with ice or freezer blocks. Primitive, but effective. We giggled like naughty schoolchildren as the first drops plopped slowly out of the pipe. It really was like magic!

The Irish have a long history of making illicit alcohol and they traditionally made it from potatoes, grain or sometimes even treacle. They spelt it Potcheen, Poitin or Poteen, probably depending on how many they have had. It was illegal over there until 1997, when reality persuaded the authorities to change the law so that the drink could be made and sold legally under licence. During a tour of the province in the early 80’s, I remember coming across a batch in a van that the Royal Ulster Constabulary had confiscated during a search operation in South Armagh, Northern Ireland. I watched the burly Policemen quietly test it by lighting a small amount to look for its lead content – yellow flame = bad, blue flame = good.

It obviously met their benchmark as they slipped it into the back of their vehicle, rather than pour it down the nearest drain (it could make pretty good drain cleaner apparently). The RUC men shared it out liberally at our ‘end of tour’ party and stood back to watch the havoc ensue. A little while after the first few glasses, I somehow ended up in a conga line, wearing a bloodied toga with a button sewn onto my head after having it cut open by the front teeth of a severed pigs head that was thrown across a room. Perhaps there’s a reason why people think that the Irish are always drunk or mad, or both…

We made our ‘wash’ from a lot of sugar, water and yeast, which is simple but surprisingly effective. Many commercial distillers also make their wash from sugar and water when they are making gin or vodka as its simple to work with. It’s also pretty cheap!

My first attempt at distilling the wash took Terri and I several hours and a quarter of a bottle of Bombay Sapphire (I was so taken with the whole gin making thing, that I decided to do some benchmarking) and that first run resulted in some 70% proof spirit that smelt a little bit like windex. I spilt a few drops on the table and when wiping it up, I noticed that the varnish on the table had bubbled slightly. Hmmm, perhaps my technique needed a little tweaking?

Leaning over the collecting jug, I felt my face start to tingle and my eyes watered copiously from the vapours, so I knew I was in the right ball park. Another run through Genie and after we had added some aromatic botanicals, we had an 80% proof London gin with only the slightest bouquet of methylated spirits. Obviously, unless you want to lose your eyesight and probably most function in some pretty major organs, you don’t drink something that strong and I watered ours down by volume, with water to a manageable 42% Most gins are somewhere around 38% to 45%, so I felt that ours was safe enough. We mixed up a modest G&T and gingerly sipped it, not really knowing what to expect. Not bad for a first try, I thought. There was certainly some refining needed, but it was gin and thankfully not a different kind of poison.

Apparently you don’t age gin in barrels like you do with other kinds of spirit, you use glass or stainless steel, so I decanted mine into a glass demijohn and in order to cut the time needed by around a third, after tasting it again, I placed it into the freezer. I read that this also helps rid the gin of the slight metho smell. If it doesn’t, it’ll go back in the still for a second try. We’ll see what happens.

Happy New Year.

Jeju and the sea

Jeju island is about 90km off the southern tip of Korea. It’s volcanic – not with any live volcano’s sadly, but it’s covered with craters, lakes and waterfalls. It’s very beautiful, has more electric cars than the rest of the entire country and they are planning to be carbon free by 2020.

I have been here a couple of times before but the first time; fifteen years ago was an eye opener to the seedier side of life here. I had been working on an anti counterfeiting investigation that led to a Korean national living in the Philippines. It transpired that he had substantial business interests on Jeju. There’s a lot of casinos here and along with casinos, there tends to be organised crime.

That fine gentlemen turned out to not only be (allegedly) involved with counterfeiting and smuggling of duty free, but also the (alleged) smuggling of people. There had been a steady stream of transvestite performers and singers shipped out of the Philippines and onto the cabaret circuit and some of them had never returned home. However, that’s a story for another day. My current task wasn’t any easier emotionally, but it was on a much smaller scale and so I had the time to get some exercise and check out the city in the daylight. The first time here, I hadn’t seen much daylight.

During my morning drag (no pun intended) around the waterfront contemplating life, I noticed that they were going to some serious trouble to protect the coastline. There were large barges unloading huge concrete tetropods and then stacking them in intricate patterns along the sea wall.

I watched the floating cranes placing the alien looking shapes on piles of large rocks in the harbour. The result was actually quite beautiful and it provides a kind of artificial reef for the fish and other sea life. This kind of coastal protection is ubiquitous in some locations, such as the Japanese prefecture of Okinawa where there are so many, it’s actually hard to find a stretch of unaltered coastline near the cities. I found that the fishing boats were moored just around the bend of the harbour, having returned from sea in the early hours of the morning. Very practically, the nets have floating lights attached to their booms in order to attract the fish but, also to make it easier to find and retrieve the catch. It’s just as well because at night, there’s almost an unbroken line of fishing boats across the horizon.

Jeju’s capitol is quite small actually; it’s more like a big town and you can tell that the place revolves around the sea. The fishing boats are close to restaurants with strange looking sea creatures in glass tanks all along the seafront. The side streets around the harbour are full of stalls, where seafood is sold almost off the back of the boats.

*Calamari anyone? – fresh out this morning*

Glancing out to sea again, I was a bit alarmed when I saw bobbing heads moving close to the barges, thinking at first that they might be seals stealing crab pots, as they were close to small buoys. As I looked closer, they weren’t seals, they were skin divers who were perilously close to the boats. They do wear flourescent vests, but clearly OH&S rules in Korea aren’t that stringent…

Aside from the fishing that is done from boats, there’s a traditional method of gathering produce from the sea by hand. It’s done by the Haenyo divers. They are all ladies, most of them in their 80’s and they go out everyday with no specialist equipment – just wet suits, fins and masks.

They are seriously impressive free divers and I tried counting the seconds when they duck dived under the surface. Minutes seemed to go by before they popped up with armfuls of seaweed, oysters, abalone and clams. In order to get their swag to shore, they drag a floating basket behind them on a length of rope suitable for the depth they will be diving to. The other end is tied around their waist, where they also carry a small knife.

Haenyo Free divers (an official photo)

These tough ladies have known each other since they were very young, most are related in some way and you can hear them bickering like kids at each other. The day after spotting them in the water, I went out early to see if I could catch them before they started work. I found the steps they were using and hung around to watch them go into the water. They noticed my white legs in my shorts and on what was a fairly brisk morning, one clearly made a ribald comment, to which the others laughed uproariously. Another, who was probably the trouble maker in the group indicated to me that I might like to join them in the water but all I could think of was the ‘not so nice’ mermaids in Peter Pan so I shook my head and bowed politely – much to their delight.

The Haenyo divers are so famous that they even have a ‘little mermaid’ style statue on the waterfront.

Later that day and once my work was done, I needed to clear my head so I headed out along the seafront again to find dinner. Obviously, it was going to be seafood of some sort, but I wasn’t sure what. I didn’t really care as I knew it would be fresh and fresh seafood with cold beer can’t really be beaten. I was waved into one of the restaurants and essentially told what I was having. I had some wonderfully oily mackerel fresh out of the tank and onto the bbq.

I like Korea, the food and its people. And their beer, I really love their beer.

Armistice day

The eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month holds special meaning for many. It’s also when barely known, if at all, but never forgotten relations and total strangers who gave their lives for freedom are commemorated. Commemorated, not celebrated, because who could celebrate something like 67, 000, 000 people worldwide dying in the first and second world wars alone? You can somehow celebrate the bravery of those who fought and died to protect their Country and their mates, but how can you do anything other than mourn the tens of millions of non combatants who ceased to exist as a result of war?

The word ‘armistice’ comes from the latin word ‘arma’ meaning ‘arms’ and ‘statism’ meaning ‘a stopping’ At this time of every year there are services and parades that help people born almost three generations since the cessation of hostilities of world war two remember that sacrifice. This is an account of my family, my wife’s family and others experience of conflict close to where I grew up. There wouldn’t be a family in the UK without a similar story.

As a child in England, I remember the parades in the village I grew up in through my years spent as a cub, scout and sea scout, where we marched proudly to the music played by the boys brigade band, we fidgeted through the last post being played at the local memorial and we flicked boiled sweets at each other during the following church service.

I bought into the whole Baden Powell legend of how scouts were used during conflicts to perform reconnaissance against the enemy in order to gain a military advantage. As a boy, I day dreamed during the countless hours I spent crawling through the predawn damp, misty woodland with my air rifle hunting rabbits that I was actually a soldier, sneaking up on an enemy who was about to attack my unit. By means of several well placed shots and a last minute berserker bayonet charge into the middle of them, I had defeated the enemy, survived the winning of the Victoria cross and had been sent back to Blighty to convalesce from several nasty looking, but non disabling wounds to the admiring glances of the young ladies in the village. I think the rabbits died laughing at me…

In the first world war, a young local man whose family had lived in the English village I grew up in had been killed in an artillery barrage whilst serving in France. His bereft parents had created a memorial park in his name so that he would never be forgotten. His name was Lieutenant William Lisle Rockley MC

William Rockley is commemorated beautifully in a peaceful location near the river that couldn’t be more different from the place where he ceased to physically exist, but he lives on in the memories of his family and villagers like me.

In Mrs Jerry’s family, her paternal grandfather Sidney was too old for military service in the second world war, but he served his country as an air raid warden and rode motorcycles throughout the blitz in order to lead ambulances through the bombed out streets. He was also an accomplished Jazz musician but tragically, he was killed when he was knocked off his bike by a drunk driver, leaving a widow and orphaned children.

He was obviously very proud of the motorcycle

Sidney’s widow Kate met a gentle man named Louis at the British Legion and she married him. Louis eventually became our village lollipop man (a crossing guard for the children coming home from school) and when he told Kate that he’d been a “conchie” or Conscientious Objector during the war, she thought that he was very brave and his name was the last one on her lips as she died. I don’t know his story, or what happened to him as a result of his beliefs and I wish I did, but it wouldn’t have been good as many CO’s had a very hard time of it in military prison. Others served very bravely as stretcher bearers and medics.

Mrs Jerry’s maternal grandfather Stanley, was married to Mabel and he was classified as unfit to serve as a result of childhood TB. He drove trucks up and down the country delivering food and other essentials. When Nottingham was bombed, the house next door was destroyed, with the family inside.

Mrs Jerry’s late father Peter, had spent the blitz in an air raid shelter and he did his national service in the RAF Regiment. It was the end of the war and he’d won a round the world trip as a bodyguard to an Air Marshall for being the best recruit. His experiences in Singapore, where there were still a few lost souls from the recently liberated Changi Prison, never left him. He was a very special man and I miss him.

Thats Peter, just left of centre in the front row.

In my own family, my paternal grandfather Charles was part of the non combatant ‘land army’ of workers who fed the country and provided the means to fuel the desperate fighting not that far away to the east. As I got older, I learned that he was probably what would have been unkindly called a ‘spiv’ during the war. He was certainly a farm worker and later a trader of necessities but not necessarily of luxury items.

My Grandfather Charles, selling his wares

My grandmother Violet and their young family no doubt suffered every bit as badly from the deprivations following WWII, but I did sense his regret whenever the subject of the war came up in conversation; as if he was embarrassed by not having medals to wear on Englands most special days. That generation was never openly affectionate to each other in public and for me, he wasn’t easy to know; nor was he an obviously warm individual, but I did get the impression that he was at least fond of me in his own way. Grandfather Charles attended the remembrance services but being a teetotaller, he avoided the groups of old soldiers who frequented the Royal British Legion bar afterwards. Perhaps part of the reason for that avoidance was survivors guilt?

Many years after the Falklands war (which I missed as I was just a bit too young and was in the process of joining up), I attended a reunion of my old Royal Marine Commando unit. Most of those attending the reunion had bravely served in that conflict and there really was a special bond between them. All of them, in their teens and early twenties at the time had sailed away, not knowing if they would return or in what state they would be in if they did. The organiser of the reunion read out King Henry the V’s speech (as written by Shakespeare ) before the dinner. That speech encapsulates the inferred shame and guilt perfectly.

“Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d.

This story shall the good man teach his son;

And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,

From this day to the ending of the world,

But we in it shall be remember’d;

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;

For he to-day that sheds his blood with me

Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,

This day shall gentle his condition:

And gentlemen in England now a-bed

Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,

And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks

That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day”

Although I eventually did see active service with them, it was hard to not feel shame that I hadn’t been there with them on their St Crispin’s day.

My maternal grandfather Ernest or Ernie, did fight. He had a chestful of medals and who never walked past an open pub door when he could enter, was the total opposite. His war was initially fought in Italy, Africa and Palestine with our local regiment; the Sherwood Foresters, and in later years with anyone who hadn’t served in uniform or who got in the way of his drinking.

Ernie’s ‘St Crispin’s day’ was at the battle of Anzio in Italy. He told me a few stories over the years with tears in his eyes when he was ‘in his cups’ but the story I remember most was when told me that he was too proud to ask for compassionate leave when his first wife, my grandmother, died and instead he went AWOL for the funeral. This resulted in him being busted back to private from acting sergeant.

I was once given an old car of his, an Austin Allegro, which had done less than 1000 miles in all the years that he owned it. The Allegro was certainly one of the ugliest cars ever to have been built outside of the soviet union and it even had a square steering wheel, but it was in pristine condition at the front, on the drivers side and at the rear. The nearside was a mass of scrapes and dents gained during his daily obstacle course back from the pub. I’m afraid that I inherited his affection for the bottle and his parlous mental state, but luckily not his habit of drunken driving.

The Austin Allegro – described as one of the worst cars of all time. But it was free…

When I was serving, my grandfather liked to talk about me to his mates at the pub and often said that we were the only ones in the family who “were keeping the war going” At the time, I was very flattered, but as I matured I became aware that he wasn’t the nicest of men to those closest to him and I only saw him on the rare occasions that I wasn’t overseas and on leave when both of us were usually hell bent on our next drink. When I left the service, he hardly ever spoke to me again. There was that inferred shame that I had left the ‘family business’.

I often wondered what a one to one meeting between my grandfathers would have been like. One, in the others eye’s, a teetotal ‘Arthur Daley’ like character, metaphorically (as he was quite short) looking down his nose and the other, a drunken bully swaying slightly as he knowingly asked of the other where he had served in the war. Conflict, pride, guilt and alcohol can make arseholes of decent men.

Right now, I’m sitting in Singapore at two minutes to eleven writing this and I’m feeling quite emotional. There are so many men who never made it to my age and got to live, love, marry and have children. I did and I’m a lucky man.

The streets of Jamnagar

This week, I find myself back in the far north west of India, in the state of Gujarat. As I have lamented previously, it is both vegetarian and ‘dry’ – neither of which do me any harm. Gujarat is the home state of Narendra Modi, the current Prime Minister of India, so it does not suffer from a lack of investment and in the area surrounding the provincial city of Jamnagar there are several refineries, one of which claims to be the largest in the world. Another has just recently been purchased by a Russian corporation and the locals are delighted because they see that as effectively being protection against being bombed by the Pakistani’s. The massive investment also means that unemployment is low and upon first examination, it seems to be a little wealthier and better served for amenities than most provincial town and cities.

I’m here to visit and learn how our project people manage multi million euro projects with a largely illiterate workforce, navigate political self interest, get the job done and still stay on the side of the angels. If there’s anything that I have discovered, it is that the Indian people have a fierce pride in their country, a wry appreciation of its failings and a willingness to defend it against all comers. That’s not a bad thing for any country. Most people know that cricket is India’s national sport and it is very close to being a religion. You’ll see people watching it on television, playing it on the hard baked playing fields at schools and on the litter strewn communal areas in the villages. I can barely hit a fly with a rolled up newspaper, so there no possibility of me trying to bond with the locals and join in but I have been invited, more than once.

A rickshaw driver accosted me on my morning drag today and said in very good english, “where are you from Sir?” I usually refrain from engaging in what is certain to be an attempt for my custom but in the interests of ‘talking to strangers’ (explained in a previous post), my well intentioned attempts not to be an alleged moody bastard, I wished him good morning and claimed ‘England via Australia’ as my origin. His eyes lit up and he recited the names of what must have been the entire current first XI for both countries. I say ‘must have been’ because I have no cricketing knowledge much past the memory that a man nicknamed ‘Beefy Botham’ had played for England, another named Shane Warne had shagged for Australia and that a fellow named Sachin Tendulkar had dominated Indian cricket through much of the nineties and noughties. When I ‘tossed’ his name out there, he reverentially waggled his head and said “ahh, the little master” which was India’s affectionate nickname for the diminutive cricketer. I dodged the jet of betel juice laden spit that he expelled on the ground as punctuation and left him to his reverie.

*Goats, just like my Dogs, have to climb and survey their territory.*

Rickshaw drivers routinely sound their horns at traffic, wandering livestock, other road users to warn, chide, attract and sometimes, just for the hell of it. They always seem to drive in the outside lane, which given your average streetscape of overflowing humanity is perhaps not a bad idea. I do try to ignore the drivers repeated attempts to get me to hop in as I am trying to exercise, but they rightly think that it’s strange for a middle aged sweaty white man to be be wandering the streets just after dawn and that I must be suffering from some sort of mental affliction. Speaking of the streets, if you have never been to India, they can be quite confronting and I rarely go wandering in Bombay or Delhi anymore without a good reason. The ‘Slumdog Millionaire’ vision of the Bombay underbelly is not entirely inaccurate and I have seen more than a few disfigured children begging on the streets. If you look carefully, you can usually pick out a Fagan like character lurking in the background, watching every rupee that is thrown onto the ground from cars and after a frenzied scrap between the young beggars, the coins quickly disappear into their grubby clothes, only to be seized later.

*A rickshaw drivers family getting ready for the day.*

Indian streets are much more than thoroughfares, they are living rooms, dying rooms, kitchens, bathrooms, farmyards, workshops and sometimes, even morgues. Poor peoples whole lives can pass living on the streets. Thankfully, I haven’t seen a body by the side of the road for a while but they don’t usually stay on the streets for long anyway as there is still a thriving trade in skeletons. In the mid 80’s, India reportedly exported around 60, 000 full skeletons a year to the US. According to the Chicago Tribune, that was enough for every medical student in the developed world to buy their own bone box for $300. I was also interested to read since the trade has been ‘regulated’ that the middleman is a Singaporean businessman. Along with middlemen selling landmines and other armaments.

On a brighter note, I also seem to have been very lucky with my hosts in India recently and this time was no exception. My colleague Vipul took it upon himself to overfeed me at every opportunity; marvelling that at my age (only 7 years older than him), I still had most of my hair and that unlike him, I was actually taller than my circumference. He actually suggested that such relative leanness was unhealthy, which I smiled at, as on this visit, I learned how you could actually put on weight with a vegetarian diet when you really try, as almost every dessert in India seems to have a pound of sugar in it. Vipul insisted that I try everything and as he finished off what I couldn’t, nothing went to waste. I also learned that later that evening, we were to go to the nine day long Navratri festival in the city. He said that there would be lots of dancing and many, many people there and that his friends wanted to meet me.

One of the colourful and very energetic dancers at the festival. Picture courtesy of Gujarat Tourism.

I have a self conscious horror of being selected to dance in public at touristy events and I was tempted, at that moment to fake a seizure and choose a night in a local hospital, rather than find myself dressed up in a Bollywood style costume and be paraded around. After rummaging in my bag for some kind of disguise and failing miserably, I did what every foreigner who visits here must do and I surrendered to India.

And no, that’s not me.

The dancers were incredibly athletic, spinning round and round in the arena for what seemed like hours to a hypnotic beat. It reminded me of the depression era marathon dancers, but with the contestants here being on LSD and speed. Vipul introduced me to his many friends and explained that the shiny new scooters that were displayed around the ring were actually prizes for the best dancers. No wonder they were trying so hard then.

Thankfully, no sparkly costumes in my size appeared out of nowhere and I was ushered through the crowds, who were rather embarrassingly parted by armed Policemen to allow us into the VIP seating area.

*The rather distant view from the VIP platform*

The thing with Indian VIP areas is that they are awfully obvious, being raised up, brightly lit and the nobs sitting on them preen whilst they are minutely scrutinised by everyone else in the crowd. Feeling rather fraudulent, I sat down in the middle of a double seat, provided purely for me and leant over to the neighbouring sofa to speak to Vipul, who by this time had assumed the pose of a Roman Senator waiting for his grape to be peeled. Excluding our small cameo, the show was certainly spectacular and very much enjoyed by everyone in the crowd. My head started to droop around midnight and not wanting to shame my host, I suggested that we return to the car before the crowds moved to the exits.

The next morning, we toured the site and I glad handed the local staff. I was asked to plant a tree, which once again had me feeling decidedly like fake royalty. I discovered that that it wasn’t just me as every visitor is asked to do the same as an environmentally sound gesture of land rehabilitation. In the local village there were many cows wandering around and of course, I knew that for Hindus, cows are considered to be sacred and that mistreating one would get you into a lot trouble indeed. I have even heard of car drivers who have hit one being beaten to death by an enraged mob.

*About to be mugged by a two bodied Bull*

People toss their scraps out just for them but sadly in the towns they have become effectively omnivorous, grazing on refuse piles full of plastic and paper as most vegetation at ground level has disappeared. Some kind people will carry large bunches of greenery a long distance through the dry and brown countryside as snacks for the local Zebu cows and you’ll often see them garlanded in the festive seasons and their milk being used in Hindu worship. I mentioned that in Australia we also have a very similar looking animal with the distinctive fatty hump behind the head. After explaining that they were bred specially for their drought and tick resistance and that Australian cattle were exported all over the world it began to dawn on me that I was approaching what could only turn out to be a car crash of a comment alluding to what fantastic tasting steaks they made. I tried to walk back my obvious train of thought before retreat became impossible but Vipul kindly put me out of my misery by commenting that in Australia, the cows weren’t Hindu…

Back on the road again tomorrow.

Talking to strangers

Don’t talk to strangers. This is, of course, the first thing that you are taught not to do and it’s probably the only early lesson that I paid attention to and took to heart. As a result of this I have occasionally being accused of being a moody bastard, because as I got older I have become been a little reticent about stepping outside my comfort zone when it comes to social situations where I don’t know anyone. If I find someone interesting, I’ll probably spend the evening talking to them, rather than attempting to chat to everyone. Don’t get me wrong, I can work the room in a business environment when there’s a need for it, but if there isn’t a specific reason for me to be sociable, I’m probably not going to be overly so.

This reticence has been noted and remarked upon by certain members of my family, so I do occasionally try to prove them wrong; usually when I’m on holiday and no one knows me, but that’s when it comes back to bite me.

I had really relaxed and stepped outside of my comfort zone by the time we got to the desert. Mrs. Jerry was attending an ‘Up with People’ reunion just outside of Tucson. It had been 35 years since she had seen some of the people there but with the wonders of social media, they’d mostly kept in touch. She’d been out to see them a couple of times in years since her original tour, but this was the first time we’d been invited to go along. The luxurious JW Marriott resort had around 750 rooms, all full of over excited alumni. The volume in the bars was like being on a runway at an air show, because when Americans are happy, bless them; they like you to know it.

The none too shabby pool area at sunrise

The resort really was surrounded by the desert.

There was no chance hiding away here and it was lucky that the over excited ones were so lovely. So much so that Ms. Jerry Junior drank the Kool aid and signed up for next years intake of the non affiliated community organisation that sings and dances its way around the world. She’s way more sociable than I am and she sang her way through the wee hours with Mrs. Jerry and her cast mates. I generally drank Gin and smiled a lot. Or was it drank a lot of Gin and smiled? I can’t quite remember.

I also wandered off into the desert in the early hours of each morning before it became inhumanely hot and anyone else got up. Clearly you expect to see Cacti in a desert, but as a kid, I only saw the miniature versions that you could buy from shopping centres in the UK on Mothers day. Some of these bad boys were over 6 metres tall and the Sonorus Cactus doesn’t even grow ‘arms’ until they are around 60 years old.

This one looks like a surrendering Pingu (in my overactive imagination…)

This is a ‘Teddy Bear’ Cactus. Some nut cases think they look soft and fluffy. Believe me, they aren’t.

A Barrel cactus. Just about to flower. They aren’t cuddly either.

In terms of wildlife, there are Lizards galore in the desert and although I didn’t see a live one (there was a 4 mm tall one spread out on the road), there are Gila monsters and Rattlesnakes around as well, according to the signs around the resort. I also saw a Tarantula whilst taking the kids for a nighttime stroll around the walking trails.

Not poisonous, but they’ll give you a painful bite apparently.

People do live quite comfortably out in the desert in Tucson, as evidenced by some of the luxurious pads near the resort. In the past, settlers did build their ranches out in the valleys and used them as hunting lodges (there are mule deer around, although I’m not sure how they find water) and some people lived for many years with the heat of the desert day and the cold of the night. I found one ruined hacienda on a walking trail, that had been built from the local stone.

You’d really need a good fire on some nights out here.

At the end of the week there was a big show with members of various casts dating back to the 60’s performing some of the songs from their years tour. I loved it and actually wished that I was a bit more musical. I can see why Mrs. Jerry had such a good time and why our daughter got the bug and auditioned. I also really enjoyed being out in the desert and although it wasn’t exactly the desert of Lawrence, it was fascinating and I could have spent days exploring. Hopefully I’ll get back there one day.

The next stage of the holiday was Lake Tahoe. Our lovely friends had arranged a hotel for us right on the edge of the lake. We were two families intent on partying as much as our sometimes embarrassed kids would allow us to and Tahoe is a good place for it. We had been before, when there was snow on the ground and enjoyed the fantastic ski runs, I’d even been cross-country skiing with Jerry Junior, who is now in his mid 20’s, in a back pack. This time however, there was no snow. Well, actually there was, but it was right on top of the mountains that ringed the lake.

Someone else’s snap of Emerald bay, just around the corner from where we stayed.

Most of the days were spent swimming and paddling around the lake and the evenings were spent partying. It turns out that Marijuana is legal in this state and obviously the folks in the apartment below us had purchased a large amount for the holidays. Every evening they blazed up a doobie and we sat on the balcony above deeply tolerating their fragrant second-hand smoke.

Which incidentally, went down well with the sunset.

One morning, feeling slightly jaded, we walked across the road to a diner for breakfast. I resolved that this would be another day where I would step outside my comfort zone and that I’d talk to strangers again.

I made eye contact and said “good morning” to a young man carrying a garbage bag who was walking toward me. He turned on his heel and fell in alongside me saying “My name is Anthony, do you know the bible is coming true?” I ignored the sniggers of my family behind me and looking at the bag in his hand, which as this was the US, no doubt contained a firearm of some sort. I resisted the temptation to come back with a smart answer and instead introduced myself. He held out his hand to shake and all of a sudden I noticed that he had rubber gloves on and that there was a strong smell of bin juice. He’d obviously been dumpster diving in between delivering parables from the bible and was prowling the streets in search of converts for whatever cult he belonged to. Oh, how the others laughed…

The next morning I was crossing at the same junction holding the blonde and leggy Ms. Jerry Jnr’s hand when a familiar voice yelled out “IS THAT YOUR DAUGHTER? THE BOOK OF LUKE SAYS THAT THE WAGES OF…” – not really wanting to hear all about the wages of sin from Anthony, but being very, very tempted to point out that the quote was actually from ‘Romans’ I just waved and accelerated away. The family and our friends just about lost it. Serves me right for talking to strangers…