Stand in line please

Stand in line please

Us Brits pride ourselves in being the best queuers in the world, don’t we? We know the drill. We form an orderly line when required, politely declaring, ‘Please, you were first’. Often resulting in a back and forth of ‘No, you go. No, you’, which must seem utterly baffling to people not familiar with the genre. There’s no scrum or pushing and shoving and shouting to get to the front that we see in other parts of the world, at which we shake our heads. We’re not like that, we murmur smugly.

Wait…

However, all is not sweetness and light in the British queue in these taxing times. Because our polite, you-go-first system has never been so tested. Most of us, in living memory, are lucky enough not to have had to stand in line for a supermarket or pub, a café or restaurant, a coffee, a school pick-up etc. No more can we think to ourselves, I’ll just nip in and grab a latte/child/pint of milk, on the way home.
We haven’t resorted to scrums yet – the loo paper/pasta/baked bean fiasco was mercifully short-lived. All, on the surface, is orderly still. It’s the simmering anxiety beneath the surface that’s new.

 Cornwall

 

Fishy business

We were in Cornwall recently. There is this wonderful fish café near a harbour. It’s famous. But it doesn’t take bookings at the moment. So for most of the day, there is a long queue snaking back over the small bridge that overlooks the café. We all stand there watching the proceedings intently. ‘They’re on coffee,’ I mutter eagerly, nodding my head surreptitiously towards a table outside. But a moment later the waiter brings them another two glasses of wine. It surprises me that the diners aren’t put off their fish supper by the collectively hostile queue-stare drilling into their heads, willing them to hurry the f*** up and get the bill. At this precise minute, we all resent the diners and the people waiting in front of us as if they’ve stolen our car-parking space.

    fishy business

    Suddenly a trendy couple rock up – cool, urban, clearly only in Cornwall because Santorini has closed its doors this year. They go boldly up to the maitre d’ and start having an intimate, whispered conversation. Are they… are they actually trying to queue-barge? The line stiffens, all eyes fixed on this entitled pair who clearly think it’s their god given right to dispense with the plebeian process of the queue. We hold our breath. There is polite laughter, the maitre d’ nods. NO! But staunch fellow that he turns out to be, he manages to hold firm. The couple look disgruntled, surprised their privilege didn’t work this time, and reluctantly waft away. By the time it’s our turn, it’s started to drizzle. But we don’t care. Wet chips and diluted wine is just fine by us.

    I have faith that The Great British Queue will survive. We won’t lose our nerve and descend into chaos. But we’re being sorely tested. And it can’t be good for us, this regular anxiety-provoking uncertainty of waiting in line.

    More from Hilary’s weekly ramblings

    Old? Moi?

    Old? Moi?

    Getting older (note, older, not old, pls) is a royal pain. Although better than the alternative, perhaps. Much of it is a confidence thing. Some a physical thing. Or a memory thing. Anyway, I’ve identified five standards I hope to maintain even when I’m as old as the indomitable Captain Tom.

    1. Doing my own feet. Which means bending and reaching my toes for a sustained period. It’s way better to get a proper pedicure, of course, but I must be able to trim them myself. The whole shiny red polish thing can be tricky, but a neutral shade that doesn’t show the wobbles is fine with me.

    feet 

    1. No groaning or grunting when I sit down or get up from a chair, or in and out of the car. Such a tell. And with arthritic knees and dodgy hips, I understand the impulse. But resist, resist! Similarly, no muttering under my breath as I go about my business. No idea why this is an old person’s trait, but it is.

     

    1. Shoulders back! Walking all bent up is a sure sign of looking old. Not good. Now, seeing as I’m so tall, I’ve tended to stoop since I was about 15, but it’s got to stop. Currently implementing exercises to stretch my pecs and strengthen my lats before it’s too late.

     

    1. Not checking my travel tickets Sounds like a small thing, but I know perfectly well when the train/plane/ferry is, I’ve looked a million times. Then I’ll run just one more itty-bitty check to see that I’ve got it right. Of course, it’s perfectly possible, being a nervous traveller, that I’ve been doing this all my life. But even if I have, I’m going to try and restrain the urge now it’s beginning to look like an old lady thing.

     

    1. Resorting to Google when I can’t instantly recall something. This is handy, I know, but what’s it doing to my potentially demented brain? Conversations in our house sometimes go like this:

    ‘You know that actress… the one in the film we saw last week on Netflix… or was it Sky?’

    ‘Which film?’

    ‘The courtroom drama… a remake of that seventies series… you know the one.’

    Long silence. The answers are there, on the tip of my tongue. But neither of us can remember the name of the actress, the title of the film or the seventies original, or even the platform we saw it on. Then one click… and all is revealed.

    Google Things

    But All Is Not Lost.

    Stay alert! is my motto du jour – despite its dodgy associations. Look at Captain Tom: coherent, upright and determined at 100. Or, of course, there is an alternative stance. I could decide not to give a damn, like Rhett – my favourite character from a now-unmentionable movie – and just sink into bent, muttering, dithering, foggy old age. Not.

    To sleep… no chance to dream

    To sleep… no chance to dream

    My trusty little alarm clock sits idle. Gone are the days when our schedule frequently required us to be up and doing, catching trains or going places. Even getting up a bit earlier for a much-needed appointment to fix something – hair, muscles, eyes, car – seems a bit extreme. I’m slightly dreading the expectations that’ll come with the world getting back on the proverbial horse.

    Not that I’ve had a wink of sleep for days now. Our bedroom is lovely and warm – such a boon most of the year, but hell this last week. I lie there in the stilly watches of the night – like everyone else I’m sure – not knowing what to do with myself I’m so hot and cross. I feel almost panicky, as if I want to climb out of my skin. Getting up does no good, there’s no breeze to stand in at the window. I think I’ve got a poor thermostat. Don can stride about – or sleep, dammit! – in 30°C heat or -5° and not be too bothered. I’m either freezing or boiling or worried I’m about to be either or both.

     

    Knickers in the freezer

    Although someone did suggest knickers in the freezer – next to the crumpets and the frozen peas but they are clean, I promise.

    I’m just not sure my bum is the hottest part of my body – !!! – and it would be of only passing benefit anyway. I suppose I could have put the frozen knickers on my head – although worrying consequences might ensue should anyone see me like this, obviously. Another ploy is splashing water over your face and neck, but this has clear disadvantages in that you drip all over the place. Fans just move the sizzling air round the room faster.

    The only solution I’ve found is to sit or lie very, very still. Not move a muscle. Just give up. No cooking or cleaning or socialising (exhausting and everyone’s ratty) or writing – fingers slide off the mouse, brain fogged – or anything that might agitate your ecosystem. And wait for it to pass.

     

    Cool, cool water

    Unless, of course, you’re lucky enough to be somewhere traditionally hot like France –  maybe France is a bad choice right now, but you get the gist – and there’s a pool/sea and aircon and the general feeling that siestas and supper at nine, al fresco, are the order of the day. Oh, for a waft of aircon! I reckon we should get more organised in this country, pdq. These baking summers ain’t going away any time soon.

    Where have all the toilets gone… long time passing…

    Where have all the toilets gone… long time passing…

    We went on a recce at the weekend, for locations for my next book. The wind was howling and the rain tipping down. Perfect conditions for standing on a cliff/vast stretch of empty beach and taking photos with my hair whipping across my eyes, rain soaking my jeans. In fact, it played well for the story I’m telling, the miserable day lending a sinister quality to the place, which will come in handy as a backdrop for the house on the cliffs I’m inventing.

    Anyway, things were going pretty well, I was excited by what I was seeing. But trips away from home these days, especially to this rather isolated spot, have major inconveniences, if you’ll excuse the imminent pun. Because there were no conveniences. Something you’d never have given a thought to back in that rosy past when everyday aspects of our lives were so thoughtless and casual.

    But, here I was, beachside, and buying a cup of coffee – more on that later – at a food truck positioned by the side of the road, and I needed to pee. ‘Where,’ I asked the person cooking sausages to put in buns, ‘is the nearest toilet?’ Waving a hand vaguely to the east, she replied, ‘Oh, about a mile that way, I hope you’re not walking!’ Bloody good thing we weren’t.

    Relief!

    Off we drove along the coast, clutching said coffee, getting a bit more desperate with every passing minute. Could we find the damn place? No. There was no one about to ask, obviously, on such a filthy day, as we scanned every building for some sign of relief. Finally, hidden behind a hedge in need of trimming, we found it, only the disabled area open. Phew! No wonder everyone is peeing in peoples’ front gardens in recreation spots this summer. We were that close!

     

    Coffee to die for

    So, back to the coffee. When we finally had the peace of mind to drink it, it was absolutely delicious. The best cup of coffee I’ve had in years. Decades, perhaps. It was cold brewed, apparently. I didn’t know that was even a thing, but apparently – as further research has revealed – it removes around 67% of acidity from the brew, makes it more mellow. You soak grounds in cold water, store it in the fridge, then use the concentrate to make hot or cold coffee. There’s simple equipment you can buy – more research needed. But has anyone out there tried it? Love to hear if you have.

    Annoying stuff on a screen near you

    Annoying stuff on a screen near you

    I think I’m watching too much TV/online streaming platforms at the moment. But I’m starting to notice things that are beginning to annoy me big time. For instance:

    Orphan Annie

    Female characters who wear the sleeves of their oversized sweater pulled over their hands as if they’re orphan children left out in the cold. I assume it’s supposed to be sexy, the Vulnerable-Little-Woman syndrome, and falls into the same category as pearl-pink lipstick in 19th Century Russia. (Although Julie Christie got away with it.) Of course, this may just be envy, seeing as I was six foot at fifteen!

    In the same vein, women who wear their jumper slipped casually over one naked shoulder. Have you ever worn your jumper like that? Even by mistake? Because if you have, you’ll know that it’s phenomenally irritating and all you want to do is haul it back into place.

    And again, the women detectives on British TV who wear heels to work. They dash up rusty metal ladders in deserted warehouses and wade through mud to the riverbank to examine dead bodies in shoes better suited to their sister’s wedding.

    If you watch Scandi-noire, or even Euro-noire – which we do quite a lot – the female detectives wear the equivalent of Doc Martens and look fantastic – proper professional women, not the glossy mag types that are the Brit equivalent.

    The infamous wall-slide

    Characters, men or women this time, who slide down walls when in distress. Am I missing something? Is this a thing? If I’m distressed I sit on the nearest chair or sofa or hurl myself onto a bed. But regularly on screen there are these actors doing the infamous wall-slide, ending up in a heap on the cold floor to weep. Maybe it’s again just jealousy on my part, because my knees aren’t what they used to be, but I do feel they’d be more comforted if they used the furniture instead.

    Guild for Maligned Teenagers

    Then there’s the main protagonist who has the dysfunctional teenage daughter. It’s always a girl, never an annoying boy. They’re astonishingly rude to their parent and completely moronic/incompetent – even by teenage standards – getting themselves into all kinds of hot water, from which said protagonist, (whose parenting skills, admittedly, probably leave much to be desired), then have to extricate them. If I were still a teenager, I’d form the Guild of Maligned Teenagers to protest.

    And why do characters always chop carrots when they’re cooking? Does the carrot community demand Above The Title billing? The amount of carrots eaten – or at least chucked into saucepans – on screen should certainly warm the cockles of the Five-A-Day mob. But couldn’t we have a bit more imagination? Maybe a courgette or two, a nice bulb of fennel, a spud? There’s no evidence of what dish emerges from all these carrots… I’d love to know.

    Castles made of sand – pace Jimi

    Castles made of sand – pace Jimi

    We went swimming at the beach last week, twice! Both times were exhilarating. Whatever the conditions, being in the sea is somehow life-enhancing. 

    Logistic Nightmare

    But beach swimming is a logistics palaver worthy of the most talented expert in the field. To start with, I must check that my cozzy still fits – it’s a year since I last dug it out. And check there isn’t inappropriate hair sprouting from places now made visible by the costume. I always put my cozzy on at home – I’ve seen these cute little sundresses that slip over a bathing costume perfectly, but, needless to say, I don’t have one, so settle for shorts. Must remember my knickers, I tell myself. And my neoprene beach shoes, which look ghastly, but my feet are rubbish on stones. Then there’s all the other essential paraphernalia: the towel, the sunscreen, the hat, the sunglasses, the bottle of water.

     

    I arrive at the beach, but should I leave my phone/watch in the car? Is the car park safer than the beach bag I’ll dump on the sand, then turn my back on for hours to swim? I hang onto the car keys, certainly, stuffing them into some obscure back pocket of my shorts I hope a robber won’t find – and I probably won’t find either, of course.

    At last, I’m ready. Cozzy on, shoes on, sunscreen and sunglasses on, towel and clothes piled neatly. ‘Left of the yellow blow-up boat’ I remind myself as I skip off to the waves – hoping the family who owns it doesn’t go home before I get out of the water, because the tow on our beach is really strong. Even a good swimmer is swept along without realising it and gets out miles from where they went in.

     

    Beach-towel juggle

    The swim is gorgeous. I splash and frolic in the waves as if I were twelve again and when I get out I’m glowing and invigorated. But what to do next? If it’s boiling hot, I could sit on the beach and dry off. But we’re talking British summer here. I don’t know about you, but in all the many decades I’ve been swimming in this country, I’ve never mastered the beach-towel juggle that involves dragging a wet cozzy down over wet limbs and replacing it with dry knickers without revealing acres of naked bum to various innocent bystanders – probably traumatising the family with the yellow blow-up boat into the bargain. It’s just not possible. I could do it in the car park, of course, crouching by the open boot in vain illusion of shelter. But the same applies. Just at the moment the towel slips off, is the moment a whole gaggle of gawping teenagers saunters past.

    By the time I get home, there’s sand in every nook and cranny of my body and my clothes – which I then deposit on the bedroom floor to crunch over when I go to bed. My hair is stiff and creaky with salt, my skin dry, my cozzy cold and nasty, and I’m shivering because I forgot my hoody. But I’ve loved every minute and as soon as the sun comes out, I’ll be off to the beach and start the whole seaside rigmarole again.