Torbay weblog davecathy

The Queen, God bless her, was 80 years old on Friday. She is, by any standards a remarkable lady.  Looking like a fit and sprightly 60 year old, she walked out of her 1000 year old castle to spend the best part of an hour mingling with many thousands of her subjects, young and old, who had turned out to wish her Happy Birthday. Accompanied by Prince Phillip, who is 5 years older, they were both fit enough to walk around chatting and smiling, collecting vast armfuls of flowers, cards, and assorted gifts.

She was totally at ease among her people, and although I am sure there was some security around, it was not visible, and she was not surrounded by burly men in raincoats with guns. Instead she had a lady to take the flowers off her, a couple of old duffers in ceremonial uniform, and boy scouts to ferry the flowers and gifts away. Imagine George Bush daring to do that. When he visited London last year, he was too scared to ride in an open carriage with the Queen, or even venture out for a welcoming ceremony, which therefore had to be held behind the railings of Buckingham Palace. He was ferried everywhere in a ridiculous bullet proof limousine or by helicopter, as if London was as dangerous as Baghdad. In fact, it is a damn site safer than Washington DC. 

We have all grown up with the Queen. At the age of 14, she made her first speech to the nation, in which she pledged that her life, whether it be long or short, would be dedicated to the service of this country. 66 long years later, she can say that she has not once wavered from that promise or let her country down.

Calm and unflappable, steadfast, cheerful and hard working, she has come to embody the spirit of the British Nation. Her Coronation in 1953, when she was a very beautiful young woman was such an awesome ceremonial that those of us who saw it on television have never forgotten it. We sat glued to the screen from early morning until late at night, transfixed by the pagentry, and it had such an effect on the Queen herself that she now feels  almost as if chosen by God, sort of married to Britain and the thought of retirement is out of the question, now matter how demanding the job may be.

Through the good times and the bad, the Queen has always been there for us, representing us, sharing our joys and our sorrows, even if we have not always been there for her. She has seen 10 Prime Ministers come and go, from Churchill through Thatcher to Blair, and her advice and vast experience has been valued by all of them, yet even they never discover her private thoughts and ideas--she remains totally impartial.

All her life, the Queen has lived in a goldfish bowl, all be it a very luxurious one, a sort of golden cage, where she is surrounded by officials and ceremonial. She must have attended many thousand official meals and functions, toured countless factories, army bases, schools, etc, eaten tons of overcooked chicken and have shaken many million hands, yet has never been known to complain or show how much her feet were aching. She has attended more church services than the Pope, made more speeches than any politician, visited more countries than the US Airforce, and that is saying something.

She is a competely regal lady, who can wear the most fabulous jewellery and diamond encrusted dresses in the world on state occasions, yet be more at home with a tweed skirt and a headscarf riding her horse through the wilderness, be seen feeding her dogs, or at a race meeting, jumping up and down with excitement.

In this modern fast changing world, there are those who speak of abolishing Monarchy, of Britain becoming a republic, but whenever they get the chance, such as the Queens Golden Jubilee a couple of years ago, the people turned out in their countless thousands to wildly cheer her all the way along her procession, to chant at the Palace gates for her to appear to them, just as they always did.

She has become the Mother of Britain, and Britain has as much respect and affection for her as they would a Mother, and long may she reign.

Even now, she can sometimes work up to an 18 hour day, and it was on one of those that I came face to face with her. I was crossing a street in London, and suddenly, within 3 feet of me was the Queen, sitting in her (none bullet proof) car, and yes, she did smile at me, a suprisingly shy, girlish smile, but I was so shocked that I did not smile back. Apparently, she is used to that reaction. There were no wailing sirens, no cars full of security men, no police outriders, just  one policeman on a motor bike to stop the traffic as she passed. She was on her way to a full day touring all the theatres in London, before attending a banquet in the evening.

If she reads this, perhaps I may be lucky enough to be one of the 18,000 people who attend her garden parties each year, or perhaps I may be sent to the Tower of London, where at least I may be able to polish the crown jewels every day for her.

Happy Birthday Ma'am   

 

www.royal.gov.uk

Talk about a so called financial crisis in the NHS is largely unjustified. For instance, Torbay Care Trust has a budget of £243 million for 140,000 Torbay residents. That is over £16,000 per head, a fantastic amount of money, although of course most of it goes on the old, sick, and vulnerable.

Medical staff used to be poorly paid, and many emigrated to the US or Australia, but now our doctors and nurses are well paid by international standards, and medical staff are flocking to Britain from all over the world. It is possible for local GP's offering maximum services to earn £250,000 per year. Dentists negotiated a contract that guarantees them £80,000 plus another £80,000 expenses, yet some turn their nose up at it.

The National Health Service is one of the wonders of the modern world. Sure, it is far from perfect, and some money gets wasted, and there are still shortages, and while waiting lists have come down a lot, they still exist. We go to see our doctors without a second thought, and pop pills as if they grew on trees, yet for people in most of the world, this is an important part of their budget, and many cannot afford to even see a doctor let alone buy their medication. Even in America, unless you have a health insurance policy, you are up the creek withouit a paddle, and millions of Americans cannot afford such a policy, and just pray that they never get seriously ill.

Lets stop moaning and grumbling about everything, and just once in a while realise just how lucky we are to live in such a caring and decent society whichever party is in power.

    

Bimbo was for several years the mascot of St. Marychurch. He was the friendly, intelligent little black and tan terrier that sat precariously on a ledge outside the living room window above the butcher’s shop in the Precinct. He loved his position as King of the Castle, greeting friendly locals with a wag of his tail, and a slightly suspicious growl for grockels, in true Devonian fashion. Little old ladies and paperboys would shout “Hello Bimbo”, while strangers thought him about to fall off, but he never did. Twice daily, regular as clockwork, he would set off on his social round, visiting other shopkeepers in order, for a quick chat, pat, and tit-bit, never outstaying his welcome. He was an institution.

 

Bimbo had been found as a young abandoned puppy, shivering and crying under a car in a cold, wet car park. Taken home, it was as if he knew he had to make himself lovable, and set about his task with a will, being in turn friendly to Charlie the butcher, pathetic to Mum, and playful with the 2 schoolboy sons. Not daft our Bimbo.

 

Each day, he was taken for his exercise through the car park, over the by-pass, to the field behind the Model Village, where he would chase his ball and any passing rabbits until he was exhausted. One day, while walking through the car park, his lead broke, and Bimbo ran the rest of the way, despite calls for him to come back. Out of sight, he ran across the by-pass, and there was a bang, and we thought that was the end of him. Catching up, we found a car with a big dent in its bumper, but no Bimbo, and feared the worst. We searched and called desperately, but no sign of him. If he was not dead, he must have been seriously injured.

 

On returning to the shop, we found a trail of bloody footprints leading to the shop doorway, but as the door was closed, the prints continued down the street. The police were informed, search parties organised, and many people spent hours searching the whole district. Later that evening, we received a phone call from a lady several miles away. She had found Bimbo in her garden, bloody, shivering, and in much distress. We piled into the car, and went to collect him straight away. We carried him gingerly to the car, and took him to the vets. Amazingly, Bimbo had no apparent serious injuries, but was very sore, bruised and stiff, and in deep shock. We took him home, made him as comfortable as possible, and one of us slept alongside him for several nights. Bimbo made a full recovery, but it was days before he could walk without obvious pain, and slowly, he regained his spirit, but never lost his fear of cars.

 

One day, a new company took over the butchers shop, and they decreed that dogs and butchers shops were incompatible, and that Bimbo would have to go. In vain, Charlie the butcher pleaded that he was part of the family; that he never entered the shop premises, that he helped trade, not hindered it. No, the decision was not negotiable: It was Bimbo or the job, take your choice. 

 

Fortunately, Auntie Joan, Mum’s sister who lived with us, had just got a job as housemother to a family in Cornwall. They were a lovely family of 3 children, a dad, but no mother, who lived on a farm with six dogs, and a pony. Bimbo would be very welcome to take up residence with her. Reluctantly, we drove Auntie Joan, and Bimbo down to Cornwall, and Bimbo stuck very close to us, intimidated by the 6 assorted dogs. It was obvious when he suddenly realised that he was not going to come back with us, and it was truly heartbreaking when we could not let him back into the car to come home. There were bitter tears on our return journey, and if dogs can cry, Bimbo must have surely shed many.

 

Auntie Joan reported back to us that Bimbo was continually being terrorised by the other dogs, lead by a large black mongrel, which apparently resented this intruder. Joan said that Bimbo stuck to her like glue, and she protected him as much as she could. After a month of this, one day, Joan heard a commotion in the field behind the house. She ran out to find a terrible dogfight going on between Bimbo and the leader, which was several times the size of our little champ. Joan thought that Bimbo would be killed, but after a while, when she managed to separate them with a broomstick Bimbo emerged as the winner, bloody but unbowed. She took him in, bathed his wounds, and comforted him until he stopped shivering, and she just did not know what to do for the best, but need not have worried, as the dog world is very different to ours. Bimbo had emerged not only as the winner, but also as the new leader of the pack, once again, King of the Castle, and joy returned to this plucky little life.

 

For a while, Bimbo enjoyed the good life, leading his little group into all sorts of adventures on the farm, with his old adversary becoming his most trusted lieutenant and pal, but for him, good times never lasted for ever. He began to suffer from a skin complaint that made him bite his fur off. Frequent visits to the vet and various creams failed to cure him, and his condition grew slowly worse, making him unable to sleep, and he even became uncharacteristically snappy. Eventually, the vet said that he could do no more, and that Bimbo should be put down to bring his suffering to an end. With a heavy heart, we all agreed that this should be done, and he was taken to the vets for the final time. We would never forget Bimbo, a singular dog, loved and even respected by many people.

 

Eventually, the farm was sold, and Joan returned to the family fold, although we had in the mean time also left the shop. On day, the phone rang. A lady asked if we knew anything of a little black and tan terrier by the name of Bimbo. Of course Mum said yes, we had a dog of that name once, but he had been put down: Why?  The lady said that she had been given the dog by a vet, who could not trace its owner. She said that it had been very ill, but had made a full though unexpected recovery, She said that he was a lovely old dog, friendly, but reserved, who spent all day sitting on the back of a chair, looking out of the window, as if waiting for someone.

 

One and all, we piled into the car, and made the fastest journey to Cornwall you have ever seen. The re union, when it came, was spectacular and indescribable, and never to be forgotten. Bimbo had wings, and seemed to have the ability to fly the last few feet to us. Bimbo returned to us to end his days happily as the King of our Castle.

 

 

 

 

 

   

 

 

 

What follows is a true story, but I am NOT the David in it.

      

                          DAVID AND JONATHAN

 

For me it was a life-changing experience, a biblical epic, the love affair of a lifetime, a Shakespearean drama, and a re-run of a notorious romance, while for David, it was merely an occasional harmless bit of fun.

 

My name is Jonathan, a single, hard working bus driver in Babbacombe. Although friendly and sociable, I had always been something of a lone wolf, with many acquaintances, few close friends, and no attachments; alone but far from lonely. Although gay, it was not a large part of my life, and I had never experienced love in any form; lust maybe, but no more than that.

 

When we met, he suggested casual sex.

“Oh no” I said, “I am 54, old enough to be your father.”

“That’s no crime is it? I have been with men much older than you.” he responded, and my heart warmed to this smiling, articulate, highly intelligent guy who managed to find something attractive about me.

 

David was 21, a first year law student, down from Cambridge for the summer. For me, he became, and always will be, the Golden Boy. He was not gay, and had regular girlfriends, but also, it transpired, enjoyed dabbling on the other side of the fence, with a frequency and abandon much greater than my own. Once home, I disappeared to make coffee, but we never did get around to drinking it. The sex, for a first encounter, was relaxed, uninhibited, unselfish and rather beautiful.

 

I never expected to see David again, but he returned the next day, the next week, the next month, the next year, for 8 wonderful but agonising years; gradually and inevitably, I fell deeply in love with him. It was more than physical love: I always knew that aspect could not last forever, and was not important, but it became increasingly essential to me that I would continue to know him in some form or other. I just could not bear the thought of losing contact with him. Strange though it may sound, it was more of a fatherly love: I became proud and protective of him; I admired his intellect enormously and knew he was destined for great things. I said, “David, you will tell me when it is all over, won’t you? You just won’t disappear on me will you?” He reassured me, and, to his credit, he did keep his word.

 

The trouble was his visits were usually unannounced, infrequent and necessarily short, him being at University much of the time. Sometimes he would ring me from the station, and I would pick him up for a couple of wonderful hours, before dropping him off near his parents’ home. Sometimes he would come while I was at work, and just leave a note. Once or twice, visits were arranged, but on one of them, I was called to the deathbed of my closest friend, and missed him. I was totally distraught by both happenings, feeling that I had lost both my one true friend and the only love of my life at a single stroke, but a few months later, he returned.

 

Every time I waved him away, I thought I was waving Goodbye: it was like an endless bereavement that never faded. I would mourn his loss, as if he had gone forever, only to be transported to delight for an hour or so, then for the pain to return once more, only deeper.

 

Of course I could not tell him I loved him; he would rightly have run a mile. We were so different in our lifestyles and background. All I could desperately hope for was some continuing thread of a friendship and understanding. I needed him to understand that I was not just a bit of rough on the side, but someone with a good intellect, integrity and code of honour. I started writing to him to show him that I was worth talking to as well as going to bed with, and I was never sure if he did understand. I just prayed that my words would get his attention, I suppose.

 

After he qualified, he went to work in London, and a couple of times, I told him which hotel I was using on my rare visits there, and rather to my amazement, he turned up both times, and one of those evenings turned out to be the most wonderful of my whole life: I had never felt so close to anyone before.

 

Over time, my letters became more obsessive and compulsive. The relationship now uncannily paralleled the Oscar Wilde love affair with his ‘Bosie’ exactly one hundred years before, my letters an echo of his “De Profundis”. They were, of course, totally counter-productive, and the more I wrote of my sanity and total trustworthiness, the more I proved exactly the opposite, and I appeared to be increasingly flaky and dubious. It was a vicious downward spiral. I wanted nothing from him but perhaps his respect, and hope of a tenuous permanent if distant friendship, but the more I pleaded, the less likely it became, and I was all too aware of it. There is no fool like an old fool. I recognise, and must accept that there is a quirk in my character: While consciously I seek love and a soul mate like anyone else, my unconscious destroys anything or anyone who comes within firing range.

 

I became deeply depressed and distraught, which is out of character, as were all my actions at this time, I became irrational and permanently morose. My asthma became much worse, and I took time off work. My closest relative Aunt Jackie, asked me what on earth was wrong with me, and I made the mistake of coming out to her. I suppose I was unburdening myself of an intolerable load, but I should have known better. When I had finished telling her the story, there was the most awful interminable silence, and a look of utter disgust on her face. Foolishly, I had sought sympathy; instead it was the permanent end of my relationship with my family.

 

Eventually, I had to give up work because of poor health, cut myself off from the world for a couple of years, and grieved in a way I thought impossible. Looking back on those dark days, David did show remarkable patience, maturity and understanding, but eventually tired of my extreme emotional outbursts. One night he went out and got drunk, before sending me an e-mail telling me to get lost. He was entirely right to do so.

 

This was 4 years ago. I follow his spectacular professional progress on the Internet, and cannot yet resist sending him a very unwelcome birthday card each year. One day, maybe, I shall come to terms with it, but not quite yet.

 

Oh, Shining Star, ascendant in my evening sky,

beyond my farthest reach, too high, too high.

The brightness of your light bedazzled me,

awakening dreams that could never be.