Die deutsche Frage

Wednesday 27th March, 2013, 11.10am: 

I'm congratulating myself, the 'Well Man' clinic visit that I'd been so apprehensive about is going unexpectedly well; explaining to the friendly, but efficient 'health professional' (whatever happened to the practise nurse?) how having recently left work I am now making a conscious effort to eat more healthily and to cut down on my attempt to singlehandedly drain the wine lake, and no I am not a smoker, and yes I do exercise regularly - mainly brisk walks most days around the local woods and hills.... 

'Well, that's very good then,' she cut-in, 'your cholesterol's about average,' 'but weight-wise you've still got a good way to go.' I nodded readily, relieved that she had not actually used the dreaded 'O' word. Removing the blood pressure monitor from my arm she went on in a jolly, positive tone, 'That's quite a high reading, probably you should talk to the GP.' Still smiling she picked up the phone and continued brightly, 'I'm just seeing if your doctor has an emergency appointment available for this afternoon.' 

Three weeks later once again I am sitting in Dr. W.'s office. She runs through the results of 'further tests'. 'All the bloods are are positive,' she assured me, 'and your kidney function is healthy.' Lucky, I thought to myself, no-one's checking my liver! 'You've responded well to the medication and your blood pressure reading is now 142/82, still a bit high, but going in the right direction. How are you feeling? 

'A bit odd actually,' I replied, 'before the treatment I was quite OK, but now, I feel really off-colour as if I'm going down with a virus that never materialises, my tummy gets upset, I have  occasional bouts of chest pains and palpitations, I seem to have developed a ticklish, dry cough and much of the time my hands and feet tingle in an weird way, like low level pins and needles.'

'Hmm, interesting,' Dr. W. reached up to the shelf above her desk and pulled down a well thumbed, brick-sized paperback. After a moment's deliberation, running her forefinger down two columns of tightly packed text she advised, 'All those things are recorded side effects of Ramopril,' then added wryly, 'but it is quite unusual to suffer so many of them simultaneously'.

The funny thing about hypochondria is essentially it afflicts the healthy. I reflected that throughout adulthood I had been spectacularly well. Apart from the usual coughs and colds I had managed to stay out of the clutches of the NHS all my working life and in 37 years of uninterrupted work taken precious few days off sick. What this meant is that I had little experience of illness and was totally unprepared for the minor indignities of being a patient. The result - I overreacted to the tiniest symptom or the most insignificant medical procedure and assumed these were a prelude to my immediate demise.

So when Dr W. explained that she had noted a minor anomaly on my ECG which she would like to have checked by a consultant cardiologist I thought well, that's it then. I felt the chances of me even surviving the ten minute walk home were probably minimal and reflected gloomily on not having taken the time to prepare a living will. Impressively I put on a brave face and asked, 'How long is it likely for the appointment to come through?' '

'Could be two months or more,' the doctor replied.

'I'm going to America in July, hopefully everything will be sorted by then,' I mused, half to myself.

'Somewhere nice?' enquired the doctor, busily updating my notes on her computer.

'We've planned a road trip from Las Vegas to Vancouver taking in The Grand Canyon, Yosemite, San Francisco, then heading North through Oregon and, Washington. Do you think I should inform my travel insurers that I'm on medication for hypertension?

'Probably just as well as a precaution,' the doctor advised. 'Sounds like a great trip though.'  

If I had phoned my travel insurers' medical assessment team and informed them that I had just been diagnosed with cancer and had less than nine months to live, then for a tidy sum they would have covered a hastily planned three month long round the world cruise. However, trying to cover travel if you are awaiting a cardiology appointment investigating an as yet undiagnosed condition is quite another proposition. Add in some further risk factors like being aged 58, planning to travel to the USA, and being the the primary driver on a journey that included driving across Death Valley in the mid-summer heat then crossing the 10,000 ft Tioga Pass, well you could almost hear the insurance assessor suppress a quiet snigger.

So that was that, our meticulously planned US road trip was a non-starter and I began the depressing task of meticulously unplanning it, not easy, since every element had been separately booked and had different regulations about refunds and cancellations.

A month later I found myself checking our bank statement, highlight pen at the ready, monitoring what had been refunded, items still to be credited and what still needed to be claimed through our travel policy. The healthy balance on the bottom line should have cheered me up, but actually it depressed me further. Due to the redundancy settlement we had never been so cash rich, yet circumstances seemed to be conspiring against us enjoying it. I felt a bit crestfallen.

However, the Turpies don't do crestfallen, at least not for long. That evening I mentioned to Gill in passing, 'You know that we'd planned to buy the motorhome next Spring when you finish work?'

'Mmm,' said Gill, nodding as she manoeuvred a knot of tagliatelle mouth-wards.

'Well, why don't we do it now and use it this Summer? We can't afford exactly what we want, but I've been checking the web, and we could still get something quite nice.'

'Sound like a plan to me' Gill replied, 'lets have a look.'

So that is how, three weeks ago, we found ourselves driving home from South Yorkshire in a 2006 LMC Liberty motorhome thinking, blimey!

The next challenge, where to go. 

We've managed to explore a good chunk of Southern Europe over the past twenty years  because we've always had cars that made short shrift of the giant wheat field (French Yorkshire we call it) that lies between the Calais and Burgundy. Even the sedate Ford Galaxies we had when all five of us holidayed together would sit happily, if illegally, on cruise control at 140 kmph bowling southwards among the BMW estates; our current car, a little Ford CMax is even quicker.

However, it took us almost 3 hours to get the motorhome just 90 miles from the garage to home; even factoring-in that I did take it steady as I was unused to the van, still it became quite clear that we were looking at a different style of travel, more akin to how we planned trips when we cycle-camped.

Mulling all of this over I suggested to Gill, 'What about Southern Germany and the Bavarian Alps?'

'Certainly new territory,' she agreed, then added somewhat darkly, 'but you'd have to behave....'

From this throwaway comment some might infer that I hold a prejudice against out Teutonic cousins, something which I feel there is slight evidence to support.

So, Die deutsche Frage - the German Question, let me set out the facts, you be the judge.

Have I not, I asked myself, always been a great admirer of German music? I recall often and at tiresome length the delight that I felt by Bethsada Fountain, while waiting one sultry July afternoon to meet-up with the rest of the family who had gone to  Central Park Zoo, unexpectedly I was joined by a young violinist who decided to practice outdoors in the cool shadows of the trees. She stood less than ten feet away from me and worked studiously through Bach's Sonatas for solo violin, concluding with a beautiful rendition of the Sarabande from the first Partita. A special moment.

Furthermore, (the inner, listening me groans, as some other bit of Pete hits the high-horse stage early) when I acquired a Kindle, only last year, was not one of the first books I downloaded a voluminous, free copy of the complete works of Nietchze? 

And on sundry European occasions when the orchestra strikes-up the noble anthem 'Ode to Joy', am I not moved, more deeply than when obliged to sit through dirge-like renditions of God Save The Queen? 

Do these seem like the thoughts and feelings of someone who may harbour anti-German sentiments?

It's true that my favourite moment from 'Fawlty Towers' is the 'don't mention the war' sketch, and yes, on occasion I have expressed my enthusiasm for it by joining-in with Basil's goosestepping Hitler walk.

And surely all Englishmen share my heartfelt disappointment, disgust even, at the Football Association's petty, illiberal decision to ban English fans from humming the Dam-busters March during games against Germany. What better solace can there be, as you watch Herren Schweinsteiger and Muller make mincemeat of our bamboozled and demoralised defence, than to quietly hum Eric Coates' stirring melody?

Well, yes, there is the question of what has become known in family lore as 'the Lucca incident'. Let's face it, all I was doing was taking video of the Duomo's noble Pisan Gothic facade, did I deserve to be poked between the shoulder blades by a portly, irate German tourist who accused me of 'standing in HIS photograph? Well, maybe my reaction was a tad puerile and I should not have wreaked revenge on every German tourist in every campsite we stayed in for the next five years by surreptitiously flicking spent olive pips at any who passed. I concede, this was not a good role model for the children, especially my faux German accent and the fact that my running commentary was entirely based on a boyhood obsession with 'Commando Comics'.

So, back to Gill's initial observation, 'but you'll have to behave.' This hung momentarily unanswered as I considered the foregoing facts; then mustering my best beatific look I sought to reassure her, 'Don't be silly, of course I'll behave..'.

Inwardly, somewhere in my over-fertile imagination, Herr Flick's eyes narrowed; imperiously he gathered his black leather trenchcoat and flung it over his shoulders like a cloak, spinning on his heels he strode out muttering,

Sooh, you vish me to behave, ya? Zis vee shall soon see at zee time.....

Oh dear!

Among Woodland Folk

Reflecting on our first weekend away, what have we discovered, what have we achieved, what small, niggling challenges have we been set?

So, discoveries:

1. Driving

BWB can be fun, you just need to be attentive, or in 'life-coach' speak, mindful; the bike rack, 24 feet behind you is not always quite where you think it's going to be, especially when turning sharp left. Equally disconcerting is the way traffic following you simply disappear into a blind spot. I thought that I could use the reversing camera like a rear view mirror, but even on 'long view' cars need to be right up your proverbial before they make an on-screen appearance. Soon though you begin to learn a few tricks, always checking the wing mirrors when you corner, often the Eddie Stobart monster truck just out out sight makes a fleeting appearance; in sunny weather you can sometimes see the shadow of an invisible vehicle skittering along a hedgerow or railings. So all those things I learned about defensive driving on the naughty driver course I had to go on five years ago suddenly become really useful. It's true, driving BWB is not so scary as I'd feared. 

2. Technical Stuff

I can proudly announce I have prepared, used AND emptied the Thetford toilet and I did not need to wash my feet afterwards! How I acquired this skill does have a slight 'new millennium' feel to it. Finding the written instructions incomprehensible, I downloaded the video below from Thetford Australia's site onto my Nexus 7 tablet and followed the guidance when we got to the campsite, ah the wonders of technology!

As a recently retired teacher of that most maligned of subjects, Media Studies, I quite admired this little instructional video which managed to communicate the essential facts whilst achieving a nice balance between delicacy and humour; I think Mr Simmond's deadpan delivery in broad Yahwksheer helped here. Not so sure about the 'motivational' music in the background, maybe that was put in to appeal to people watching who suffer from constipation.

Over the two days we camped at Delamere we managed to get our heads around most of the 'habitation' systems, other than the blown air heating as the temperature hardly dropped below 25 degrees.

3. Why I gave up camping in Britain.

Since the early Eighties we've probably camped in the UK less than half a dozen times. I've always maintained that this was the result of a week in Mid-Wales during the summer of 1985 where the weather deteriorated from 'mixed' to 'unsettled' then developed monsoon characteristics. Baling out our flooded little ridge tent after a cold, uncomfortable night I probably said, 'never again' and for once meant it. The upside of this is that over the past two decades we've travelled at every opportunity as a family across Southern Europe and the Mediterranean, seen wonderful places and done lots of fun things. The downside to this is that our children don't really know and appreciate the landscape of England to the same extent as me and Gill, who cycle-camped here extensively during the 1970's.

I decided, however, after merely two hours in the Delamere Forest campsite that British weather was not the only, or indeed the primary reason why we headed for years to the Med. Yes, you've guessed it, the real real reason for scooting off towards the continent is to escape the idiosyncrasies of the British camper. Of course there were quite a few boring, mild-mannered and generally innocuous people on the campsite, but I swear they were out-numbered by the odd, the needlessly aggressive and generally obnoxious.

Nowhere in England can you escape the malign influence of the class system, supermarkets, newspapers, the house-market, televisions, food, fashion - everything is subtly 'socially differentiated' as sociologists say. This particular form of low-key tribal warfare could be seen by simply observing the antics of people on the pitches surrounding us.

White van man, plus his brother, their spouses, kids, buggies, dogs, gazebos, inflatable armchairs, corralled in a clutch of budget hoop tents to the left; uptight retireds in ageing, but well loved, bungaloid, motorhome opposite; well, it was never going to be harmonious was it? Not that the Whitevanman tribe got up to any shenanigans, they were just enjoying themselves, lots of banter and laughter among the adults, their kids dodging about soaking each other with super-gun sized water pistols, and spoiled to death pooches, hyperactive and yapping ecstatically. 

This really narked Mr and Mrs Greyhair. As they occupied a corner pitch people heading for the shower block tended to cut across right in front of them. Every time this happened Mr Greyhair grumbled loudly about having paid for his pitch and people were 'using it like a runway' (an odd observation as I did not see anyone, not even the camp's most feral seven year olds, swooping past the grumpies with arms outstretched going, neeeyaaaaah' - like Peter Kay on speed). When public grumbling failed to have any effect, the injured party now took to directly pointing out his concerns to the errant trespassers. No altercation actually resulted from this, but when he tried his more direct approach on a stocky chap sporting a shaved head and acres of tattoos the atmosphere did edge towards the menacing. Following the abject failure of both initial strategies, Mr Greyhair removed a large stripey wind-break at least fifteen feet in length, from his van and, mallet in hand, angrily erected a barrier right across the back of his pitch. 'It's funny how the English come together to assert their separateness,' I commented to Gill, dubbing the newly erected barrier, 'The Nylon Curtain'.

Pleasing abstract pattern in the wing mirror, The Nylon Curtain in the background.

Aside from amusing outbreaks of class skirmishing, as individuals campers can be tiresome too. What is it about campsites that encourages people to make fatuous comments of a semi-personal nature? First example: I decided to take a few bits of washing up with me in a plastic box when I went to the shower block for a shave. A simple act, do the washing up at the sinks designated for the purpose then carry the said items to the toilet block, shave and return to van, normal behaviour surely. Three people decided to be helpful. An elderly chap exiting a shower piped up, 'I hope your not going to wash up in here, son, there's a place for that' (minor irritation level 1). As I left the shower block I was greeted twice; first immediately as I stepped out of the door by a slightly cocky guy who laughed in a jokey way, 'Can't find the washing up place mate?' (hilarious mate, irritation level notches up to yellow). Seconds later, some woman, possibly shower-man's wife, repeated the advice about not washing dishes in a shower block (irritation red alert - brief steam whiff from ears). Is it me, am I over sensitive?

While some unsolicited comments are annoying, others are plain baffling. Example two: evening falls, Gill and I relax beside BWB, each of us lost in our Kindles, Mark Twain for me, Bill Bryson for Gill, suitable bedtime reading for wannabe travellers. A fellow camper wanders by, an aged Daily Male propped up on a walking stick. 'Don't work too hard,' he shouts across to us. I am left pondering what he means. Does he find the fact that we are sitting down and relaxing mildly irritating? Surely not, half the campsite is chilling out. More bizarrely I wonder if the fact that we are both reading has irked him, perhaps he regards reading as 'hard work'. Even if this were the case, then why distract us, what gives him the right to comment? Is it me, am I over sensitive?

Gill subverting campsite norms with her Kindle.

Example three: We have decided that there is little point using the van's 'on-board' facilities if the campsite provides more comfortable ones on-site. Hence, mid-morning finds me enthroned in the toilet block thinking abstruse thoughts. I hear a kerfuffle at the entrance and a pompous voice announces, 

'Gentleman, as we are now entering the campsite cleansing period, please vacate the facilities as quickly as you can'.

I am amazed at how compliant my fellow ablutionaries prove to be, sounds of electric razors switching off, showers trickling to a halt, cubicle doors closing, each accompanied by an encouraging, 'And thank you sir,' from the block Gruppenfuhrer. However, a man's got to do what a man has to do, and it was some minutes before I exited myself, soliciting no thanks whatsoever. I did check on the UN website to see if my Human Rights had been violated but due to some drafting oversight there seemed to be no clause relating specifically to being hoicked off the bog prematurely by some quasi-fascist twerp. I did wonder though if it constituted a minor violation of Article 5 which refers to 'cruel, inhuman or degrading treatment' Is it me, or am I oversensitive? 

4. Why I should not have given up camping in Britain

It's official, the Met Office announced a heatwave this morning. Immediately the tabloids are predicting a mass extinction of the elderly, an urgent need to share bath water with distant relatives and the Ministry of Health advised 'the vunerable' (whoever they are) to stay indoors between the hours of 12:00 and 3:00pm. As the mercury hovers around 27 celsius our national urge to panic must be regarded somewhat wryly by the citizens of Tokyo, Sidney, Los Angeles or even Nice, who would regard our weather as an airy, pleasant Summer's day. 

Too busy making a national crisis out of a spell of fine weather, nobody ever mentions just how green, lovely and winsome the English countryside looks under clear blue skies and bright sunshine. Too often people spend most of their life in an asphalt corridor, struggling down traffic choked roads to work in office complexes or rushing to buy stuff in retail parks, coming home to a 'new-build detatched with en-suite', then spending 'quality time' on Facebook. What is astonishing about England is that for all the litter strewn sprawl and shabbiness just a mile or two from anywhere there are empty sunlit fields, shadowy ancient woodlands and lonely footpaths where you rarely meet a soul. This weekend our trip to Delamere Forest, a scrap of woodland in North Cheshire, reminded us just how delightful our ordinary countryside can be. So, here's a few pictures of our first venture out with BWB. all grumpiness forgotten the moment you walk into a silent forest and watch sunlight filtering through the shimmering leaves.

Newly arrived - note electrical hook-up and levelling triumphs

The essentials of middle-aged life - a beer, a BBQ and a smart phone that's incomprehensible...

Evening view towards the Whitevanman encampment.

Cheers!

later the same evening....

The footpaths into the forest lead off straight from the campsite.

So next morning, off we trot,

then sit down to admire:

Jurassic Park style bracken,

thistles franchised from Highland and Islands Development Board...

and Kermit the Frog coloured fetid pools,

Happiness is a Digital SLR and many a scene to point it at.

The Forestry Commission thoughtfully provided an OS map near the visitor centre - we walked all around Blakemere Moss, maybe 3.5 miles, hardly a hike, but more than a stroll.

While experimenting with the macro setting on my camera, due to circumstances I still can't fully explain, I managed to suffer a nettle sting to the tip of my nose...ouch!

The woodland elves have recently updated their transport arrangements.

Oddly enough the wetland area reminded me of the Daintree River in Northern Queensland. No surprise then that recent years have seen a marked increase in the sighting of Crocs at Delamere, indeed Gill has some bright blue ones.... 

Gill and the giant sandwich, an undiscovered classic by Mr Dahl?

Well, it looks as if there might be crocodiles.

The problem is, every path seems identical.

Horse riding, don't get it, at least with a Segway there's no fiddling about with saddlery, no need for grooming, no vet's bills and they don't crap all over the place.

People having fun up trees at 'Go Ape'

Interestingly, stuck twenty feet up in a tree, humans begin to sound as well as act like monkeys, with much shrieking and whooping.

Tea and strawberries, a very English end to a very English day, well apart from the transatlantic influence of the bright blue Crocs, there's globalisation for you.

Sunset over Blakemere Moss, 'One of Those Days in England'' like the mighty Mr Harper used to sing about

So, back to my opening comments, we have discovered much, but, adjusting my spectacles in best Ofsted inspector mode, what have we achieved, what has been the impact. Well what we have achieved is the confidence to take BWB to Germany in 10 days time. There are a few minor glitches on the van itself - the shower tubing leaks, there's a drip from the grey water tank, the Fiamma awning needs attention and the fridge does not get cold enough when set to work on electricity, nothing a bit of cash won't fix.

But the real achievement of the weekend is our new family member has name - for reasons best known to herself, while sitting staring at the lake munching on a monster coronation chicken sandwich, Gill announced, 'I think we should call the van 'Maisie'. I'll go with that. Immediately I thought of the balsy female protagonist from the Daily Mirror's long running strip cartoon, 'The Perishers'.

So, (switching to mid Victorian travel log mode) our expeditionary party is fully assembled, Pete, Gill, nos trois grands enfants (when they want to tag along), Muriel the Satnav and Maisie the Motorhome - seven in all; maybe not always magnificent but pretty intrepid nonetheless. Let's find those 'roads less travelled' - Heels for Dust!

First week traumas

Later today we're off on our first overnight stay to a campsite in Delamere Forest. The heatwave continues, the forecast is for wall to wall blue, sounds idyllic does it not? Well let's hope so, because the process of getting to this point has been less than an idyll, in fact low level stress and irritation all round.

Now the said un-named white beast is too big to park permanently on our drive and is garaged at a farm campsite about three miles away. Good that it's in a big barn and under cover, but this is not without challenges. Remember Arkwright's twitchy till in Open All Hours? Well the security barriers at the campsite entrance seem to have been manufactured by the same company. Now BWB (big white beast) being an automatic does not exactly manage a' le Mans start', there is a momentary delay in setting off, just long enough for the entry code to invalidate itself and send the barrier swiftly downwards just as you inch forward, so basically it's a two person job to access the place.


This is a piece of cake compared to operating the security roller shutters to the barn. The code opens the doors no trouble at all, but come to shut them, then all that happens is that mechanism bursts into life, lowers the door by about an inch, then stops. You have to wait 30 seconds before you can re-enter the code, then the same thing happens. Given that the barn doors are designed to accommodate a combine harvester I guess they must be about fifteen feet high. By my estimate, factoring in the time delay on the code pad, 5 seconds to re-enter the code, 20 seconds every fifth attempt for a blue language break and two 20 minute phone calls to your therapist to seek advice on stress management strategies, then shutting the roller doors would take precisely 10 hours, 47 minutes and 23 seconds. I was less than half way through this process when Ed, the farm's owner, turned up and revealed to me an arcane, masonic ritual that speeds things up. Apparently, you enter the code on the inner pad, wait for it to fail, press the yellow emergency stop button, re-enter the code on the outside pad, then twist the stop button in a clockwise direction and BINGO! the door mysteriously lowers. Thanks Ed, you could have told me that at the outset!

Gill and the 'magic roller door'

1. Enter code

2. Wait for mechanism to jam

3. Press emergency stop, re-enter code, twist red button to the left...

4. Drive off, wondering how we ever managed without technology to help us.

I am given to understand that if the above procedure fails, then drawing a pentagram on the floor of the barn, lighting five black candles at each point, seizing one of Ed's Spring lambs from the adjacent meadow and ritually slaughtering it while reciting the Lord's prayer backwards can be equally effective.

Now all of this is just low level aggravation when compared to mechanical failure affecting BWB itself. All was going well until Tuesday when I turned up to stock-up BWB (must think of a name) in anticipation of our weekend away. Battery, stone dead, not a sausage, not a glimmer even on the dashboard clock. With benefit of hindsight I should not have parked the thing with the cab facing the wall between a livestock trailer and a gleaming white, cruise-ship sized, twin wheeled caravan. No way was I going to be able to attach my newly purchased 10 foot jump leads to restart the thing. There ensued many hours of trying to communicate with Ed, who as his other half always asserted, is a very busy man plagued by staff who are either on holiday or off-sick. All I needed to happen was for someone to move the livestock trailer forwards by about twenty feet, but after a day and a half of prevarication I decided to adopt plan B and call the RAC, thus reducing hassle for Ed and, as I thought, frustration for me.

Simple you might think. Realising that there was no chance of getting a mobile signal at the farm I parked my car at the nearby Brierlow Bar Bookstore. My new iphone may look the part and be a whizz at downloading apps to provide cyber-assistance that enhances every aspect of today's mundane and tawdry existence, but it did not let me make a simple phone call from this particular rural spot - no choice, drive three miles back to Buxton.

Duly ensconced in Spring Gardens' car park I finally got through to the worldwide helpline thoughtfully provided by my insurers whose policy allegedly covers every imaginable mishap from repatriation in the case of sudden death to multi-lateral negotiation with Somali pirates. Of course they'd never heard of me, my vehicle or the policy that I'd purchased at enormous expense just ten days earlier. 'Let me look into this', Tom, said, magnanimously promising to ring back in just a few minute 'at my company's cost'. I felt overwhelmed by his generosity.

Dum de Dum de Dum.... funny how time slows when you await a phone call; I wonder how Professor Cox explains the quantum theory behind that?

Meanwhile, enter stage left two men of girth, each clutching a Greggs' paper bag; they plonk their ample behinds on the low car park wall not three feet in front of me, I have plenty of time to make a brief anthropological study of my new companions. Both wear voluminous below the knee shorts, roughly the same acreage as a king-size duvet cover, one pair is khaki, the other 'combat camoflaged'; both garments sport many side pockets of mysterious purpose. Person A, a fierce, stocky individual with a grey pony-tail, effusive white beard and death's head tee-shirt, withdraws a large meat pie from its bag and proceeds to devour it slowly and silently with just a touch of menace. His friend, a little taller, but of equal girth sports a ribbed cotton vest, the sort my eldest daughter calls 'a wife beater'. It is gleaming white, chosen to show- off the blue tinged 'American Eagle' whose noble profile is tattooed across the back of his shaved head and down his blubber-creased neck, its quivering wings stretched across his shoulders. From his paper bag he withdraws a baton length jumbo sausage roll. and in what is clearly a well honed move, grips the monster savoury snack in his teeth, while his left hand scrunches-up and deposits the paper bag on the ground, simultaneously with his right he pulls out a smart phone from his shorts' upper thigh pocket. Deftly he operates the device with a single thumb; as the device connects he removes the sausage roll from his mouth and begins an intense, crumb spluttered, conversation with some unfortunate distant acquaintance.


So fascinated had I now become that I considered lowering the window to overhear what was being said, but a modicum of good manners prevailed and I contented myself with listening to him babbling away incomprehensibly, catching only the occasional 'mate,' 'pal,' 'bro', and 'buddy' which peppered the lengthy harangue. I was about to embark on a profound re-consideration of how this novel use of multiple terms of affiliation quite squared with Jakobson's pioneering post war work on phatic modes of speech when my own phone burbled its silly ring-tone and Tom (remember Tom?) announced with a note of pride in his voice that he had Aviva customer service wishing to speak to me.

A voice, quietly spoken, almost posh whispered, 'Good arrfternoon, Mr Turpie, I am Mohammad, how may I assist?'

Now I have to say, I was amazed. We are all well used to wiley colleagues from the Financial Services sector taking 'costs out of their businesses' by out-sourcing support functions to far flung 'emerging economies' who then employ well educated, low waged staff skilled in every aspect of their job apart from EFL. However, Aviva's 'coup de grace' was clearly to be the first major insurer to franchise such services to a Divine. Sadly, not even The Prophet was able to deal with my case; he kindly explained he was only able to assist direct customers and not those using a broker. Quite obviously no one developing this new business model had factored in the limitations of monotheism. Resisting the temptation to ask my well spoken friend if any of his pantheistic colleagues, Krishna or Aphrodite for instance, may be better placed to help, I gave up and decided to head home and phone the broker from there.

All the while as I communed with the Divine, staring bleakly out of the windscreen, I watched Buxton Festival Fringe's groundbreaking re-working of 'The Life of Pie' move into its next act. Enter stage right, Mr. Eagle-Headman's comely female companion. Of equal girth but somewhat more squat, and similarly kitted out in sahara-sized shorts, impressively, this stalwart lady carried two Greggs' bags. Standing legs apart, facing her partner she placed one bag on the wall and took from the second a jumbo sausage roll even longer than her beloved's. I speculated briefly if the happy pair had colluded on a 'three for the price of two deal, but was distracted by an outbreak of robotic twitching involving the lady's over-lively, scoop-neck, candy-pink tee-shirt. Its innate tendency towards sideways slippage provoked a flurry of simultaneous garment-tugging, black bra-strap hitching and sausage-roll devouring no less impressive than her partner's artistry in combining speed snacking with smart phone bullying. As I pulled away, glancing in my wing mirror, I saw Mrs Eagle-Headman reach over to the wall and take from her second paper bag a pork pie which in terms of size and shape resembled a disused gasometer. Well, there goes my three for two theory, I thought to myself.

From this point on my day became much less stressful but considerably less entertaining. Jim from the brokers was a paragon of helpfulness and efficiency; he fixed the RAC glitch in a jiffy. Within five minutes, Stuart from Breakdown Services was on the phone informing me he was less than half an hour away. When I explained my problem and where the van was situated, 'Ah yes,' he said, 'I know the place. I was there on Sunday to another call. Do you have the barrier code, it's a bit difficult isn't it?'

After the two of us pushed all 3.5 tonnes of BWB half way down the barn, Stuart's worst predictions of battery death through 'reversed polarity' failed to materialise. Connected to his truck BWB soon spluttered into life and my day of technological challenge and impromptu street theatre indeed ended idyllically. Gill, Laura and I took an unexpected trip around the lanes of North Staffordshire ending up watching some ducks bobbing about on Tittersworth Reservoir.

Gradually the calm waters took on a golden sheen as the sun set, a peaceful scene ruined only by the low throb of BWB's diesel engine which we dared not turn-off fearing the battery was still insufficiently charged.

Blimey!

Guess what? after years of planning, blimey, we've gorn and done it - last week we adopted a new family member.....

No, not Gill, I mean the as yet nameless large white addition to the family just behind her.

I have to admit I was a nervous wreck at the thought of driving the thing back from the place we bought it high up in the West Yorkshire Pennines all the way back home to Buxton in Derbyshire. Less than forty miles as the crow flies, but no way was I going to attempt the narrow twisting route across Holme Moss and the Woodhead Pass suggested by Muriel (she's our posh and slightly uppity sat-nav). Instead after much consultation with Google maps, street view, satellite view, our UK road atlas, GCHQ, Julian Assange, National Geographical and the ghost of Captain Scott we settled on a more leisurely route using the M62 and M60 motorways. If you live in Buxton, situated at over 1000 feet, there's no way you are gong to completely avoid twisty roads through the hills. So, my 'coup de grace: having survived being squashed between two enormous artics on the M62, avoiding prowling Darth Vader Audi's near Wilmslow and failing to rid North Cheshire of it's Bradley Wiggins wannabees on Macclesfield's many roundabouts, finally our new big white baby toddled its way across the 'Cat and Fiddle' to be tucked-up safely in a storage barn near Buxton.

What did I learn? That life in the slow lane can be very relaxing, especially if you have an automatic; that car drivers keep their distance and sheer size engenders a modicum of respect even from boy racers; that flat out you can only expect to manage a sedate 55mph; that we're going to have some serious fun with our new big toy, and that we have a lot to learn.

You have to ask yourself, who exactly would shoot, then post on Youtube a detailed instructional video of how to empty a Thetford chemical toilet system? Bogman, I am eternally grateful to you, even if you are weird. The sanitary attangements are just the start of it, what about the 'habitation' electrics, the Truma heating system, the omni-directional TV antenae or the wind-out awning the size of a greengrocers's shopfront. I can't wait to get to grips with it all. Right now though, the best we could manage was a Sunday drive down to a local car-park, where we sat in the van and went through a stack of instructional booklets and felt a bit bewildered, and a lot smug....

Next challenge, a weekend away.