A day in the life of a litter picker.

 

A man is standing in his garden, the summer breeze riffles his grizzled locks like a friendly grandfather, the zephyr slips round the hairs on his manly thews and exposed chest. Who is it? It is me, the Captain, starting the day with a breakfast peach in the garden, there are several reasons for this: I like peaches; it enables me to discern the temperature and pollen count; it avoids dribbling peach juice on the carpet or my shirt. I then retrieve the bike from the shed, strap on the grabber (the litter picker’s friend, an extension to the arm that avoids bending and the direct handling of festering rubbish, both of which are essential to the picker of a certain age) making sure it doesn’t grab anything important or compromise the steering, then I hit the road and start up the hill to Potten End.

Aha, the Pinot Grigio dumper has been back, there are now seven empty wine bottles scattered along the verge, now with the added bonus of a broken Vladivar bottle, why remains a mystery, teenagers on the raz, overflowing bins … SHAME? Who knows? Still this gives me a chance to hone my litter-spotting skills.

As I cross the golf course, I stop to pull some Himalayan Balsam, trying to ignore the half-acre I know is hiding just over the bank, and also trying to ignore the nettles that have discovered I’m wearing shorts. As I return to the bike, brambles wrap me in their spiky embrace like lovers spurned. Then, cross-country to Coldharbour, followed by Lady’s Ride, I pull up to the gate to check the Old Dairy field for deer, none, flippin’ wild animals never about when you want to see them!

There then follows a quick wheeze up Monument Drive, to strap the bike to the bike stand and a pop into the office to demonstrate my presence, and to check the “out-of-date" box for goodies, becoming mildly depressed when it reveals a welter of fruit jellies and nothing else. I then head purposefully out to the start of my run along Duncombe Terrace, I say purposefully, I actually head over to the PMV (Personal Mobility Vehicles) guys so that they can take the Michael out of my hi-viz, grabber, and monster plastic bag ensemble, then I head purposefully out.

Behind the gate there is a baby wipe, then another... and another, consulting my inner Sherlock and disdaining the prospect of examining said wipes in detail, I plump for: the devastation caused by exposing small children to ice cream! This is reinforced by the fact that the baby wipes stop after 500 metres, where they are replaced by tissues, as used and discarded by serious walkers. Tissues that give me time for introspection, two years ago at this time, I was in the Dolomites, battling my way up a black dotted path (those of you familiar with Alpine maps will know what this means, for those of you not familiar it’s a path that, if you fall forward onto, there may be a slight abrasion of the nose, backwards, and there may be a slight abrasion to the path, when you hit it - on the bounces), there, at every turn there is a tissue discarded by the “serious walkers”, personally I use a handkerchief and pockets.

I continue, more tissues, a banana skin, some cigarette butts. But, behind the “Observe-a-tree" bench there is a cornucopia of filth: first a tangerine skin (Pink Floyd – St Tropez pings unrequested into noggin*), tissues, a coffee cup and finally a plastic bag. Eyes glassy with fulfilment I continue: a packet of cigarette papers – empty, a packet of cigarette papers with the corner torn off (Ping! PF- Grantchester Meadows**), the front of a bicycle light, a bank card (is there anything I need from Amazon?), two Red Bull cans. There are, of course, the inevitable dog poo bags, this is new psychology, a bloody annoying meme. “I’ll pick it up, but then I can’t be bothered to do anything else so I’ll hide it. No, even better, I’ll hang it from this tree so people will see how responsible I’ve been!”

Then the breeze sends me a signal, I am within nose-shot of the septic tank at Clipperdown, my turn round point. On the return I head off–piste, disappearing into Hazel Copse to admire the clandestine off-road MTB track, and returning through the gorse to emerge near the Observe-a-tree again. I then head back to the Visitor Centre via the backs of trees (always good for tissues – I never study these closely, and always hope for a decent amount of rain the day before I pick) and climb the tumulus at Moneybury Hill, on the top I find – nothing(!), perhaps a respect for the dead, or more likely respect for the brambles? Ancient burial sites have always fascinated me, I find I always seem to lose a piece of myself there, this time a piece of my calf.

Back at the Visitor Centre I dump the bag, wash the gear, sanitise myself – liberally, and head back to the bikestand...

”You know you told us to tell you if we found any rubbish?”

I gurn assent.

“Well we’ve found a lot, a hundred yards down there by the meadow.”

“Umm, thanks, that’s not actually my pat... I’ll sort it!”

Emma gives me a new bag. I find a fish and chip supper with extra chips, 14” pizza box, plates for 6, spoons, napkins, and tomato ketchup – 2 pots, plus assorted detritus.

Back at the Visitor Centre I dump the bag, wash the gear, sanitise myself – liberally, and head back to the bikestand.

On the way back, I pass the apple tree in the back garden of Woodyard Cottage, I contemplate my grabber and wonder if there’s a way in.

 

*

“As I reach for a peach,

Slide a rind down behind,

The sofa in St Tropez.”

 

**

Nothing specific just being stoned in the countryside.

Vertically challenged.

There is a soundtrack that accompanies ageing, the first one you probably notice is the orgasmic yelp accompanying any sort rising from a low position, ascent rather than assent. Then there are brief bouts of tinnitus, where you stop your ears to check if it's the radio - or a mosquito - disappointingly it isn't, though in the case of the mosquito this could be a good thing. Later your joints pop, growl and crackle like breakfast cereal, small explosions accompany the mundane, the click of a wrist when picking up a cup, tennis -watching can be metronomic. Later arthritis lends its peculiar sticking agony to the mix.
So then, imagine my horror as I went upstairs accompanied by a new sound, a graunchy rattling every time I raised my right leg. The sort of noise that suggests the frayed ends of gristle going through some sort of mincer, a cthonic resonance of pending catastrophic failure, should I turn round and descend to make it easier for the ambulance crew? First things first, let's investigate.
Which leg?
Right.
Put hand in pocket, hold change and keys, raise leg.
Rocks fall distantly in a cave, possibly into a Deep, Dark pool.
Get to a flat area to reduce the distance of gravity-induced travel should the worst happen. WHAT'S THE WORST? I dunno knee-cap going for a meander, joints misaligning like a five year old's Meccano, detached h... SHUT UP!
Take off trousers to avoid any pocket-induced noise, raise leg.
Concorde reaches Mach1 about 15 miles away.
Unsettled, my balance shifts.
Death plays boney dice with the Devil for the souls of the damne...
Wait a minute. The heel of my shoe has worn through, it is hollow, inside there is a pebble, that rattles in a synovially-challenged way as I walk.
I laugh, and, as I sink to the bed in relief my neck creaks!

Courting trouble

Today is International Women's Day (IWD, only a v away from a contraceptive device, what irony? I was going to go on about patriarchal imposition and phallocentric  irresponsibility, but I thought better of it).
What better way to celebrate IWD than by making a lemon meringue pie?
"Wha...?" I hear you expostulate, let me explain:-

Lemon meringue pie (LMP) was one of my favourites when I was little, well, smaller, the best LMP was made by my mother's Auntie May (whose recipe I appear to have lost), and it would be this recipe that Mum would use. She detested making LMP as it takes time, patience ... and luck, and would then inevitably be declared as "Not as good as Auntie May's", so why did she bother? Because she loved me, and would selflessly grate, squeeze, shell, whip and stir to deliver the goods (and cos it was a lot nicer than Steve's favourite Queen of Puddings".

So then, I celebrate IWD with LMP to remind me of the selflessness of my mother,  a woman, and to get rid of the inordinate amount of lemons I got on the market the other day.

Domestic blis(ters)

A grey-haired man is standing in the garden next to a green bin, a pair of secateurs is grasped in his tanned, muscular hand, and with them he is calmly shredding the shrubbery that he has so far removed into 4" (10cm) lengths, so as not to fill the green bin too quickly. Occasionally a look of concern will eclipse his ruggedly masculine features as he contemplates whether it is the shrubbery that is actually holding the fence up.
The unnatural February sun is warm on his hands as they ply the secateurs, the rueful smile that plays across his lips as he encounters a particularly reluctant twig is prompted by the knowledge that the arthritis in his hands is going to play merry hell, unnatural sun or no. Smaller twigs he leaves on the ground as a boon to nesting birds (expect new posting soon, called "Bloody Birds").
Soon it will be time to go in and press his tofu, but for the moment he passes an hour in sylvan slicing, while trying to incorporate "O tempura, o mores" into something about Japanese health professionals. Later he will discover that "o mores" has nothing to do with death and will therefore give up the idea.

God's in his heaven ...

Yesterday, I decided to go on a hunt for yet more bluebells; bluebells, those merry harbingers of Spring, though actually the native bluebell is a bit more dispirited than its Iberian cousin, that's one of the ways you tell them apart - Spanish, perky - English, droopy (there's some sort of metaphor here).
Anyway, it was lunchtime, or in retirement parlance, just after breakfast, so the forest was deserted apart from me and about twenty deer, as I pedalled along in the sunshine the coconutty smell of gorse wafted over me, causing great angst. Why? Let me pontificate.
Surely in colonial or maritime circles the coconut was discovered by said settlers or shipmen familiar with the smell of gorse, so why isn't it the  gorsey smell of the coconut?
Over the past three days the oak had produced new leaf, so that the bare trees of Thursday were now covered in brilliant lime green (Goddamit, there's another one, surely it should be new oak green) foliage. Thus buoyed by the sun, the trees, the turning wheel of the seasons, and the azure undergrowth, I continued on my way, only stopping to berate some children intent on making a foray off-piste, irrevocably damaging my droopy blue friends. Yes, I was happy!

Naughty Doris takes the cake.

Here in the UK storm Doris is battering away at my home and castle, more specifically she's destroying my fence, aided by the neighbours sodden peat hanging baskets, now removed. U had finished the painting, though I'll have to do another coat tomorrow (hence Facebookers, I'm not making a cake - as promised), and went out to survey the blusteriness, it was then I noticed my poor fence swaying like a Dad at a disco. "Hmm?" I thunk "That's gonna go." I apologise for my contractions - I was distraught. Reaching over the fence I removed said baskets, but the damage had been done. "Hmm? How can I stop the fencepost breaking and the fencing taking off like a murderous sort of kite, visions of Gordon Kaye in 1987?"

The answer popped into my noggin (rather like the fencepost and Gordon Kaye in 1987) - rope. Somewhere I have shockcord, somewhere I have 5mm rope! I searched, thoroughly and after 10 minutes obscenely, eventually I unearthed (see pic) my SRT gear and two luggage straps, whereon I dispatched myself to the garden and tied the fencepost to the cherry tree. At the moment both are holding, but so's Doris.

 Wish me (and the tree) luck.

 

Magpie Mind.

Each morning as I traipse down the hill to the station I see magpies. Sometimes two (joy), sometimes three (a letter), sometimes four (something better), but more often then not - one! By this point some of you will be shouting, "Three's a girl, four's a boy!", I will merely point out that they certainly weren't until ITV set up Magpie as a rival to Blue Peter, filling all teenage boys with a new appreciation of older women, as Susan Stranks, one of the co-presenters was forty, FORTY!


Anyway, what to do about "one for sorrow", I of course, spit, salute and say "Good Morning Mr Magpie" but then have to decide what that sorrow could be, to prevent it being anything worse. I used to go for , "There'll be no copies of the Metro at the station." but have lately decided that, "There will be copies of the Metro at the station." may be more apposite. Sometimes I delay the train, and sometimes (when I'm late) I make the train arrive on time. Fridays  prove to be a real dilemma, they are treat days, when I have a Danish with my morning coffee, there are always Danishes, there is always coffee, so now I go for, "There'll be too much icing on the Danish.", and do you know, sometimes there is!