Discuss and Discus

The St James Church bulletin was promoting a regular Saturday men’s breakfast: ‘full English for a fiver’.  And, happily, this turned out to be the right slot in the month.  Mary seemed content that I should take myself off for the morning.  She was planning to be in the garden if the weather was cooler.  

In my lunch hour, I emailed Barry, whose contact details were added (something like champagnecharley@gmail).  I got three swift responses: from Barry himself, from Ian the organiser, and from Roger the cook.  They included tips on where to park, mentioning that over 30 guys were expected. 

I have a theory that it’s a mark of middle-classness if you’re motivated to invite yourself along without introduction to an unfamiliar social gathering or interest group.  Working-class people will only try something new if there’s a relational route in.  Like, for example, only going along if their neighbour or father-in-law is already involved.  It’s a point to remember when churches lay on events to attract new people.  Was I engaging in betrayal of my class roots? 

My experience of men’s breakfasts has been positive.  I’ve been to the monthly one in Bath, when visiting my brother-in-law Tony.  Last time, they had about a hundred guys along.  The pub was packed and the restaurant-served food was excellent.  They pull in some class speakers: top physicists from GCHQ, seasoned explorers and household-name footballers.  

The Sheffield equivalent I’ve sampled was memorable, too.  But for different reasons.  The menu choice was grilled bacon or sausage, or bacon and sausage; in a white or brown bread-cake; with red or brown sauce.  And a ‘proper’ mug of tea.  None of your low-fat, veggie or decaff nonsense.  Indeed.  The gritty Northern gospel.

I parked near the village hall behind an SUV sporting a fish badge (local angling club?).  Ian introduced himself and a couple of other guys, and I headed for the coffee.  There was one long table.  This limited the conversation to a person on either side, and two or maybe three opposite.  The familiar worst-case hearing-aid challenge.  And, looking around, I wasn’t the only contestant.  I found an accountant on my right, and a local councillor on my left.  Another new boy was opposite.  I could see a large HS2 planning chart over his shoulder.  

Brian, on my right had moved up from the Home Counties bible belt to retire.  He’d visited Sheffield a few times and we had some Anglican acquaintances in common.  My councillor friend had retired twice, but was fully busy on housing and HS2 committees.  He possessed a wealth of knowledge and solidly-formed opinions.  However, no-one could tell me where I may find an electric car charging point in the town. 

We had an illustrated talk on collecting cigarette cards.  Given the attendance, this took on the nostalgic air of a public schoolboys’ hobbies club meeting.  Afterwards, Brian and I exchanged email addresses, and he introduced me to Barry, too.

Back home, Mary had been hacking her way through a vigorous cotoneaster standing in the overgrown border.  I finished off the job with a pruning saw.  There, in the sunshine, liberated from its bushy confinement, was a statuette of a naked discus thrower.  True, his right shoulder will need some Polyfilla.  But at least that will leave him slightly more decorous than the garden’s other classical figure – a maiden who appears to have suffered an unfortunate wardrobe malfunction.  Maybe Mary will find her a tee-shirt.

Baking at Blenheim

It’s a matter of record that the summer’s been a scorcher.  The aircon unit in my workplace office hasn’t done its job properly since we had a move-around and it was rewired.  Neil takes the pragmatic approach and – with his laptop – he disappears off to a spare desk elsewhere.  Linda drops meaningful hints every time I glance in the direction of the window.  She’s tied to her desk by essential paperwork.  I survive, being a tropics veteran: minimum-energy movement and plenty of hydration.

 However, after two full working days’ around 30C, I couldn’t face clearing gutters or building a flat-pack chest of drawers at home.  “Let’s go to Blenheim for the day, tomorrow,” I suggested.  Mary was keen.  Our one-year free entry passes being still in date, meant it would be a guilt-free trip, too.  “I suppose,” I added slowly, “We could think of taking the Leaf.  I bet Ed would.”

So, the evening found Mary sorting out a cool-box and me standing up the Drive above our garage, desperate for a phone signal so I could check available charging points at Blenheim.  Zap-map said there were four Pod-Point units.  User comments said they were out of action.  I rang Ed.  “You’ll need to download the app, first.  Then you have to confirm with the operator once you’re connected up.  The good news is that some points are free.”  He went on to explain the equivalent arrangement with Ecotricity.  Later he texted details of Oxford’s nearest Nissan dealer.  It really wasn’t worth the risk.  I’m not sufficiently far along the learning curve.  

In a new home it’s amazing how many little things you have to learn.  The shower had kept stopping while Mary was using it.  So I had to step in (literally) to give an opinion.  Thus it was late morning by the time we reached Woodstock.  

It was indeed hot.  Last time, with Gav and Georgie and crew, we had Nate’s off-road pushchair.  I realised that my ambition to take two folding chairs, a cool-box and something to read, meant loading up like Donkey Daniel under an unforgiving sky. 

This has been a week of family school reports.  Mine were invariably dreadful and uncomplimentary.  After visiting the English History display, I found that Winston Churchill’s were, too.  

We got lost trying to find the Lakeside walk.  Again, last time, we’d used the restricted-access buggy-friendly path.  But instead we found a lovely (and probably illicit) shaded slope blessed by the breeze coming from the water.  I had a much-needed snooze.  The air-bed had deflated overnight.  I’d been left miserably counting the chimes from St James clock-tower for two hours.

We made it to the Cascade, with measured tread.  Back at the car, blobs of rain fell as I read for an hour and Mary took her turn to doze.  The radio teatime news announced that London was beset with thunderstorms, and the main East Coast rail line and Channel Tunnel were both out of action.  We suffered a mere couple of minutes traffic delay at Banbury Cross.  

At Blenheim we did spot the estate’s tarty zero-emission vans, but I never found the vehicle charging points.