FraserWords

I have been living in the past for a week, and have been happier there. Not that life was better. They had rickets and everything. But things were simpler.

Today, inexplicably, Internet Explorer stopped working on this laptop. It froze me time and again. I have no more idea why, or what to do about it, than I have of how anybody can watch more than 30 seconds of an episode of EastEnders.

Then a man from Tesco tried to explain to me the Byzantine workings of their loyalty card discount of 20p per litre on fuel. I hadn’t asked him to, you understand. I guess he just felt he had to share the news, rather like those tiresome evangelical Christians who insist on being happy at you in the high street. He must have noticed the look of incomprehension mingled with disbelief. Sympathetically, he stopped saying whatever he was saying and pressed an explanatory leaflet the size of War and Peace into my hands.

Then it carried on raining. I imagine Brother Badger must have forecast sunshine again, for today has been a comprehensive return to the bad old days of the rest of winter.

In simpler times, this had little impact on cats. They came, they went. They ate rodents. They did not expect Claude dry cat food nor a bed in front of the fire nor a bed with one of the children.

Now cats must not enter when wet; the rodents are not inside the house with the rest of us as of yore, and must stay outside. Therefore a catflap is not permitted at Fraser Towers. So Captain Pusstasticus, when it rains, haunts doorways and windowsills begging to be let into the dry and then, when I sneak him in past Management, haunts doorways and windowsills begging to be let out because he’s bored.

One member of the household will be acting as commissionaire to Captain Pusstasticus every hour, on the hour, until it stops fucking raining. Guess who?

A similar situation prevails for the children and I. When, in simpler times, families were perpetually up to their fetlocks in shit, nobody bothered too much. Sure, everybody died of unspeakable diseases, which was a Bad Thing, but there was considerably less stress leading up to the departures. Now we are Sophisticated and have sofas, so much shouting must attend the ingress and exit of muddy children.

Now here I am typing a useless pile of words that, in simpler times, would probably have got me hanged for being of no use whatsoever to society. I am wondering how, Explorer-less, I am going to upload it and stealing myself to fly Chrome or Firefox or Safari or whatever my fingers hit first. This will feed no children.

Let us bring rain and history and sophistication together to conclude this: part of my work last week involved the diaries of a 19^th century Cornish landowner, who kept meticulous weather records. For 1823, at year’s end, he recorded nine dry days in July and 22 wet; this was followed by three dry days in August and 28 wet… “and so had ended the most rainy year that ever was remembered and no summer.” Wonder if he kept cats.

Born to run

Last week I took Fraser Minor Major to the climax of the cross-country running season for primary schools in our part of Cornwall, in which 600-odd of the little buggers hurl themselves into bogs and across ploughed fields.

Parents are encouraged to run with their children, but sadly, owing to an unfortunate condition called Being Born Far Too Long Ago To Be Lumbering About In The Mud, I was unable to do this.

The heroic Brother Bertie, on the other hand, set off with his daughter, Bertie Minor Minor, who was among the elite runners and finished brilliantly in an elite position. I regret to report that her father did not finish among the elite runners. However, he did finish, which was, as I say, heroic. He may even have been wearing skin-tight lycra, but I was too scared to look.

Brother Hamster and I watched the runners cross the finishing line (197^th out of 600-odd for Fraser Minor Major, seeing as you ask). The winner finished wearing only one training shoe, which was impressive.

Even more impressive was the little drama involving the two boys coming in third and fourth. The third-placed lad, comfortably ahead, missed the very last turn leading to the finishing line, and while a marshall put him right the fourth-placed boy overtook him. But the fourth-placed boy had seen he owed his place to an unfortunate mistake, and so he slowed down and waved the other lad back into his rightful third place. He got the biggest cheer of the day, that lad, and quite rightly too. Wonderful piece of sportsmanship and I hope his school and family were very proud of him.

Music, maestros

The inestimable Buffalo Tom belting out of my speakers to drown the sound of the rain reminds me I forgot to say that I hope you all watched BBC4’s sun-kissed compilation of Californian music the other day. Tom Waits, before he disappeared up his own fundament clutching a megaphone, and the great, doomed Tim Buckley’s Dolphins were joys beyond praise. What would we do without BBC4?

Grant Gump

And finally, haven’t we all enjoyed the fallout from the poster campaign launched by the Conservatives’ very own Forrest Gump, Grant Shapps? You’ll remember he put out a poster praising his party for taking money off beer and bingo so hard-working people could do the things “they” enjoy. Social media has been alive with wonderful satire ever since. Search the hashtag #ToryBingo on Twitter, but here are a couple of favourites:

“No tax on pies, flat caps or whippets. Keeping our commitment to patronise the working class. Now get off my land.”

And:

“I say, you there! How is your whippet? Jolly good, jolly good. Carry on.”