LOOSE ENDS

The humidity is palpable.  There is scarcely a breath of wind, and the moisture in the air seems to settle on my hair and eyebrows, as if I were pushing my face through a clutch of cobwebs.  There is hardly a sound in the back garden, except for the clucking of a scared and mad blackbird, which goes off at the slightest sound or twitch of a blade of grass. The heavy air smells sweet – the orangey odour of the philadelphus is pleasant to my nostrils.  Everything is saturated: the wood, the stones, the bushes, the trees, the walls. They have absorbed about as much moisture as they can, and brushing against a tree brings down a shower of water on one’s head.  I have never seen such rapid plant growth – the ancient rhododendron has exploded into life and has grown hundreds of new leaves in a few short weeks. 

Suddenly, out of nowhere, in a garden just behind my wall, a little girl starts jumping on her trampoline and shrieks out loud every time she bounces up in the air.  It is like being at the women’s final at Wimbledon.  The journalist Patrick Kidd describes Victoria Azarenka’s shriek like that of a seagull falling down a well.  The little girl across the way sounds exactly like that.  The silence is shattered.

The carpet fitters are due to lay a new hall and stair carpet this afternoon.  I have to pay them in cash so that they won’t be troubled by the excise man.  Some Tory grandee says that’s immoral.  I’d like to see how he gets on asking a couple of thick-ears to give him a VAT invoice and facilitating payment by way of a debit card. He’d get one on the end of his proboscis, without doubt.  As it happens,  I’ll need to make myself scarce for the afternoon – a cycle ride on the pretext of posting a letter sounds ideal.  My wife can deal with the fitters.

I listened to ‘Dad’s Army’ on Radio 4 Extra this morning.  The platoon had to pass some tests at a training camp.  Needless to say, they were hopeless. The final test was for them to scale an electric fence to reach some dummy ammunition which they could then fire at advancing troops from their Smith’s smooth-bore gun.  ‘Ideas men, I want them thick and fast,’ says Captain Mainwaring.  There is complete silence.  Finally, Corporal Jones suggests that Private Walker jumps from a large oil-drum onto a plank, perched on the other end of which is Jones himself.  In theory, Jones would then be catapulted over the fence, in the manner of an acrobat.  The first part is easy.  Walker jumps from the oil drum to the plank.  The second part is not.  The plank breaks and Jones stays where he is.  Eventually, Sergeant Wilson has a brainwave.  Why doesn't the platoon use onions for ammunition? There are some in Jones’s van. These have been bought by greengrocer Hodges from Walker on the black market.  Hodges is attempting to remove same from the van when the platoon roars up. ‘In the name of the King, hand over those onions,’ commands Mainwaring. Hodges refuses, instead demanding payment. ‘Give him a pound, Wilson,’ orders Mainwaring.  Wilson does, most reluctantly. On their return to the camp, they shoot the onions at the troops, who retreat forthwith. ‘Best initiative I’ve seen this war,’ says the Commander of the camp. ‘I’m giving you full marks.’  The platoon celebrates later over bowls of onion soup, prepared by Sgt Wilson.  Priceless.