Iorek heads south

Sam and Lucy's French sabbatical went sour at the beginning of the month when a chap pulled out in front of Sam in Bourg St Maurice. His car was damaged on the front nearside and he was also forced into the kerb, damaging his front wheel and strut.

It's the sort of thing you dread happening. Fortunately no-one was seriously hurt, although Sam has some whiplash, or similar. The worse thing is that you have to go through all the bureaucracy of filling in forms (but they're in French) and contacting your insurers (from France).

A few days later, Sam heard that his car would be written off - the cost of repairs was greater than the value of the car. It's a shame, because the Ford Focus (that had been Margaret's) was a really good car - reliable, fairly economical and pretty comfortable. There was no rust on it and every likelihood that it would have kept chugging along for another five years of so.

So the reality was that Sam and Lucy were stuck in France with no car and not even sure they would be able to hire a car short-term so they could continue to ski. I thought Sam would be able to do so and claim back the cost, but his insurance company said he'd have to claim back against the French insurer, so it was not going to be very straightforward. They certainly couldn't buy a car in France, as they'd be faced with either selling it in three months' time or else importing it into the UK and driving round in a left-hooker.

Max had said to me that he would get rid of his car in summer when his MoT ran out. He's not been using it very much and it's a further expense that he could do without. I'd said that if he did decide to get rid of it, I'd have it and we'd keep it in Thorney as a second car, so that any of the children could use it when they were home or wanted it for holidays. Frankly, it would have been useful these past few weeks as Andy Bunyan seems to have had my car more than I have,

Max's VW Polo was bought aboutfive years ago for £975; it's a 1-litre car with 160,000 miles on the clock and is 15 years old. I have a certain affection for it and some admiration for its longevity.

Anyway, I called Max to tell him about Sam's problems and asked him whether he would be willing to give Sam the car; he was, so on Monday, March 3rd, I caught the train to London and drove it back to Thorney. The plan was to get winter tyres fitted, get a new roof rack (so the ski clamps could be fitted), have it serviced and then drive it down to Bourg St Maurice the following Monday. I'd stay a few days, do some skiing and fly back.

This was one of those weeks when nothing seemed to run quite to plan. Andy Bunyan had the car for servicing and would also change the cam-belt and try to fix the exhaust (which is sound enough, but has an annoying rattle when you go round a left-hand bend or when you get past 70mph in a straight line. At some time, Max has had a new exhaust fitted and my theory is that the garage fitted the wrong one, so it's not properly seated in its channel below the car. At a couple of points, the exhaust heat shield is close to the bodywork and when the exhaust vibrates at higher throttle openings (or left-hand bends) it knocks against the car body. It's bloody annoying on a long run. Andy said he couldn't cure it, but he had lessened the problem.

It seemed much better, but it remains annoying, if at a different level than before. Getting winter tyres fitted in March was easier said than done. Most people are taking their winter tyres off and putting summer tyres on, so I was swimming against the tide. Kwik-Fit didn't come back to me, an internet based fit-at-home company took the order on their website, but when I called to confirm the fitting time, they said they didn't have any winter tyres and it would be two weeks before any could be ordered. Finally I found somewhere to do it, but they would need a week to get hold of the tyres.

Two jobs ticked off, but the third - the roof rack - proved most difficult. Sam could use my roof bars (and already has my ski clamps), but would need feet and fittings to attach the bars to his roof. I've used Thule bits and, because my car has roof bars, I just need the feet to attach to the bars. Halfords had the feet, but not the fittings, but could order some (ready in 2-3 days). I stressed I needed them for Saturday because I was driving to France. To cut a long and frustrating story short, they didn't arrive. Annoyingly, we discovered we could have paid an extra couple of pounds and had them next-day delivery (why the sales guy didn't tell us that, I have no idea); double annoying, I discovered they were available cheaper direct from Thule and they would do a next-day delivery. By the time I discovered this, it was Friday and the post had gone, so I could only order Monday for Tuesday delivery ...

In the end, Halfords gave us a refund and Sam ordered some magnetic ski clamps for £80, cheaper than the £110 for the Thule feet and fittings.

I booked the 6.30am ferry from Dover for Monday and the snow train back from Bourg Saint Maurice the following Saturday. The train was £95 one-way, compared to as little as £35 for a flight, but it left from Bourg (five minutes away from Sam's chalet). If I'd flown, I'd have had to be driven to either Geneva or Grenoble, with probably £30 in petrol and £20 in tolls; I'd also have had to pay for the Gatwick Express back to Victoria and then the Underground to King's Cross. Cost would have ended up somewhat higher; also, the flights were all around 9.30am on Saturday morning, so we'd have had to leave around 5.30am to allow travel time and to be there an hour before the flight leaves.

The Eurostar snow train leaves Bourg at 10.15am and 10.15pm (two trains on a Saturday only) and goes straight through to St Pancras in London. I went for the night one (it was cheaper and I could have a relaxing day in Bourg) and that got me back to St Pancras at 7am on Sunday.

The drive to Dover involves a 3am start and the M20 was closed so I had to use the M2 from Dartford to Dover. It wasn't too bad a trip and I was there in plenty of time. When I stepped into the back garden at 2.30am, Jupiter was setting in the west and Mars was shining red in the southern sky. As I approached Drover, I could see Venus shining brilliantly in the south-east just ahead of the dawn. Getting up early has few compensations, but three magnificent views of the planets is one of them.

Max's car is called Iorek Brynison, after the armoured polar bear in the book Northern Lights. I've never really been one for naming cars. My Ford Mondeo was called Monty and my first BMW GS motorcycle was called Beaky. I quite like giving a name to some inanimate object, but the name has to come, rather than be found by deliberation, so most of my cars are just called "the BMW" or "the Merc" or "the Golf".

Anyway, Iorek and I stepped off the P&O ferry at Calais with 600 miles of French roads between us and Bourg Saint Maurice. The car cruises comfortably at 70-80mph, but the exhaust rattle was a constant annoyance. It kicks in at 70mph, but also rattles even on gentle left-hand bends. I went through about four Bruce Springsteen CDs, then I think I Bruce Springsteen was more annoying than the exhaust rattle, so I pressed on regardless. I found that getting the speed up to about 85mph made the rattle disappear, but I thought running the car for six hours at that speed might be a bit much for a 15-year-old car with 160,000 miles on the clock.

The Polo doesn't have power steering or ABS and it's surprising how quickly you get used to such aids to driving. If you read about my first car on this blog, then you’ll see that the Polo is an absolute technical marvel, but compared to the BMW or even the Focus, it's from a different, pres-electronic era.

The other thing you have to do is wind down your own windows. I found that if I pulled alongside toll booths so that I was very close, I could lean across, wind down the passenger window and either grab the card or insert card/credit card to pay. I got into a bit of a swing with winding down the window on the approach and winding it back up as I accelerated away.

After a few of those, I decided that I'd get out of the car and run round to pay or grab a ticket. After six hours in the car, with just one petrol stop, I was getting worried about deep-vein thrombosis and thought the stretch would do me good.

Iorek did me proud, I took perhaps an hour longer than in the BMW, but still got to Sam and Lucy at around 6.30pm. Time for a beer and some food. They were pleased to see me but (I think) even more pleased to have a car once again. They were also pleased by the sight of two boxes of Tunnocks chocolate tea-cakes and a bottle of sherry. We don’t realise it, but these are British delicacies.

Next day Iorek had a wash at Super U and Sam and I gave it a waxing to restore some of the shine. The magnetic ski rack came after a couple of days and that seemed to work quite well. However, Sam had discovered you could get three sets of skis in the back, resting on the seat back and tucked under the passenger seat. With a towel to protect the back seat from being cut by the edges, you could get three people and skis inside without a ski rack.

The boot is good and deep, so it takes ski boots and poles quite easily. This Mk II Polo was a brilliant little car.

Iorek getting a wash at Super U. I think Lucy just wanted to play with the jet wash

All aboard the snow train!

Lunch in La Plagne

My skiing was much improved in February under the harsh regime of Sammy Ski School. After the bitter reality of Renard, how I longed for ESF and the sarcasm of Guy (are you looking for ze mushrooms Eric?) and those gentle days of Route Des Animaux.

But there's no pain without some gain and I was certainly skiing much better after February. These three days in March were something of a ski bonus brought about by Sam's misfortune with Parisian driving standards imported to Bourg Saint Maurice during Paris holiday week. Basically, don't bother looking right, just turn onto the main road and hope for the best.

Sam's car was written off, Max said he could have his old Polo to tide him over and I was delivery driver. This meant that after a quiet day on Tuesday to sort out a few jobs, we were good to go for skiing on Wednesday, Thursday and Friday.

The weather was absolutely beautiful. It was super sunny and around 20 deg C, which meant the snow was quite slushy in the afternoon and quite icy in the morning. That caught me out on the first day when I found some marbles - little balls of ice - under my skis. It's the motoring equivalent of a patch of ice, one minute my edges were gripping, the next I'd lost the back end, crashed onto my back, cracked my head (good job I had the helmet on) and went sliding down the slope backwards and on my back.  It was a bizarre crash, especially when I overtook Sam, sliding by like an inverted tortoise.

There was no harm done and we headed across to the south side of the mountain where there's a big bowl (2300) where I could spend some time practising my turns. Unfortunately the lift there was out of action and so Sam had to revise his plans, which meant a trip down the dreaded Renard. This reddish-blue run is getting quite familiar and it was much easier than I remembered in February. I was skiing down fairly happily and reasonably quickly, so fast that I almost didn't notice the taped-off area where someone was being treated for a serious injury and the medical helicopter parked at the side of the piste! That’s Renard for you!

It was a good day, my stamina has improved and so has my technique, although I still need to work on the speed of the turn. It's OK down most blues, but when the slope is steeper, I have to make longer traverses to keep the speed down and that often means I'm ploughing through banks of snow kicked up by those taking a more direct route. Quicker turns would mean a straighter descent and more control.

We skied a shorter day on Thursday, but the weather was glorious again. Highlight of the day was Lucy sitting down in the snow to have her lunch, but slipping and then sliding backwards downhill out of the picnic area, over a bank and onto the piste below. It was a real comedy slow-motion sequence (worth £500 on You've Been Framed) and once we knew she was all right, we enjoyed a laugh at her expense. The only thing that would have made it better was if she'd had a cheese sandwich in her hand.

I felt that I was skiing well enough to be a little more ambitious, so on Friday, Sam and I went across to La Plagne. My old work friend Chris Perera is skiing there in April and I said I'd ski across and meet him. This was a bit of a recce and to see how long it would take us to get across there.

On board the Vanoise Express.

Getting to La Plagne from Arc 1600 means a few lifts and a fairly long traverse across the mountain down to the Vanoise Express. This is a massive cable car that links Les Arcs/La Plagne. The cars are double-deckers and can carry over 100 people and it gets you across pretty quickly. The cables stretch 1,800 metres and it rides 400 metres above the valley floor. I'm not one to be concerned about such things, but there are quite a few people who prefer not to look down. Actually looking out of the thing is quite hard because, for the lift's 10th anniversary, they painted pixelated graphics onto the side of the cars, so you peer out through a spotty haze. It rather spoils the view.

Getting across the valley is one thing; getting to the resort is another. It involves three lifts and from the top of one lift, you have to ski down to the start of another. One of the blue runs was incredibly steep. I’d already fallen once – quite painfully – on the way down to Vallandry and I had three more falls during the day, including one where a 10-year-old French girl skied into the back of me! Some of the runs were quite rutted and it was still a French holiday week, so the slopes were quite busy in places.

Anyway, we managed to get up the lifts, down the slopes and skied down into the bowl of La Plagne. It seems a more compact resort complex than Les Arcs, where there are four centres and a couple of bowls. There's also a magic carpet, so I approve of that. We sat in the hot sun and had a beer and a Kit-Kat. I wasn't sure how long it would take to get back, so we didn't do Le Tunnel (the well-known blue in la Plagne, where you ski down and through a tunnel). Instead, there's a large lift from the bottom of the bowl (one of those six-seaters) where you can quickly get up to the edge of the bowl. For us, it was then a long, long blue called Mont Blanc all the way down to the Vanoise cable car. You can tell how long it was by the fact the piste post numbering started up around 150. Actually, it was quite a nice run and - apart from being tail-ended by a 10-year-old - I rather enjoyed it.

From there, it was a case of being back on familiar territory. I wanted to go on the top deck of the Vanoise on the way back, then it was up one lift and back on my old friend Foret, along Maitez and we were back in Arc 1800. I was pretty weary by this stage and so Sam took pity on me and allowed me to go up Chantelle and back along Golet.

This was my longest day skiing and the most distance I've ever covered. I really enjoyed it; it felt as if I'd been skiing with a purpose (to get somewhere, rather than just pootling about up and down different runs). However, I was pretty weary (a real weary, weary-woo) and very glad of a second beer and a cheese and ham galette in 1600.

Sam and Lucy were getting ready for the coming week, when Laura Bell (her good friend and bridesmaid at her wedding) was coming to stay. In fact, on the Saturday while I was killing time waiting for my train, Laura would have been on the long drive down from Calais. She was coming with one of her friends, whom Lucy had met before, and her friend's brother. There was a new skier (Laura), someone who had skied a couple of times (the friend) and a snowboarder (the brother), so a real mixed bunch.

On Saturday, we went down into Bourg where it was market day, with a collection of stalls top and bottom of the main street. I bought some farmhouse reblochon for a tartiflette treat back in Blighty and a Christmas tree ornament. I was going to buy some cheese from the farm next-door to Sam's chalet (they have a stall in the market on Saturdays) but it was very busy, there was a long queue and I didn't bother.

I did buy some sweets from a charity stall that was rescuing unwanted farm animals. They needed money for vets' fees and had a couple of little pigs in some straw on top of their stall. Margaret would rather like a pig and this pair seemed very cute, although rather intent on finding some lettuce hidden among the straw of their pen. It's unexpected to find the French trying to help (rather than eat) animals, so this was worth supporting.

Sam with the cute pigs on Bourg market.

I was a little worried about the 10.15pm snow train. When I've got Eurostar back from Brussels there were huge queues at the Midi station and once I almost missed the train. The Eurostar booking site said that I had one of the last eight seats on the train, so I thought it would be really busy.

In actual fact it couldn't have been much easier. There was a tiny queue, but we were through passport and baggage in 15 minutes and on the train. The biggest problem was than my carriage was right at the front and these trains are really long. There were only about eight people in my carriage and I was thinking that Eurostar was trying to make me panic buy a seat when we pulled into Moutiers ...

I had expected to go straight through to St Pancras, But at Moutiers, hundreds of people piled on board and the carriage was full. I was hoping that I could have stretched out across two seats, but now I was locked into position. The seats are quite comfortable and I did get some sleep, but there were two or three really loud snorers on the train, who disturbed the peace somewhat.

At Albertville, the train pulled into the station, waited for about 10 minutes and then set off in the opposite direction. It meant I was travelling forwards rather than backwards. You couldn't see much out of the window except darkness and the odd light flashing past. We stopped in one station for about 30 minutes (I think it must have been near Paris) and then I dozed off again and woke as we were entering the Channel Tunnel. In Kent, it was light and there was something to look at; we stopped at Ashford and then St Pancras.

It was just after 7am (GMT) and bang on time. It's an impressive service, if not the most comfortable journey. I guess the daytime train would be more pleasant because you would be able to stretch your legs without disturbing others (who were asleep) and there would be something to look at.

I had to queue for passport control at St Pancras, which is always annoying having done it at Bourg Saint Maurice, but I had lots of time and was even prepared for some light banter with the over-cheerful chap at border control. There was time for breakfast at King's Cross and a nice journey (via the Hertford loop) back to Peterborough, where Margaret and Holly were waiting for me outside the station. I got back to Peterborough about 10.15am, making it 12 hours in the clock and 13 hours with the switch from CET to GMT.

Sam and Lucy at the picnic area in Les Arcs - that's Mont Blanc just to the side of Sam's ear.

Children on the move

Max in his new kitchen

I have spent the weekend helping Max and Inna move from their flat in Balham to Penge.

I think this is the 10th London move I've done and there have been some interesting days. I remember the spiteful, predatory traffic wardens when we moved Sam into halls at King's; the wreck of a van Sam hired for £15 to move from Lancaster Road to Blackstock Road, self-store warehouses in Leighton ...

There was also the famous time I was to move Tom and Hannah to Bow. I arrived at their flat in Peterborough just after 9am to find them both asleep (Tom had been out drinking until 3am at the Met Lounge and was quite clearly still rat-arsed) and nothing packed.

This move was much better planned. Max and Inna had been packing and preparing for a little while and much was already boxed when I arrived on Friday.

The plan was that I'd get down about the same time as Max got home from school; we'd load the BMW, wait until the traffic died down and then take the first load across to the house to make a bit of a start.

Let me say straight away that I don't like driving in south London (who does?). Cross Kew Bridge or pass under the Blackwall Tunnel - the two points where London's inner-ring road crosses the Thames - and it's like driving from the first world into the third world. The two or three lanes of the North Circular Road become the South Circular - a single-track road with passing places and a bus lane. There are better roads on the Isle of Mull!

A couple of weekends past, Margaret and I had visited Max for Sunday lunch and we'd gone via Kew Bridge. It turned out to be a nightmare journey even on a Sunday morning, with the last 10 miles taking as long as the previous 100. This time, I decided I'd go via the M11 and Blackwall tunnel and it was better - marginally. I made good time until I hit the tunnel approaches. Just the thought of driving south of the river seemed to have frozen drivers in terror.

The route took me all the way along the South Circular, past Dulwich College (I could have picked Max up) and into Balham by the Bedford. I was waiting for Max when he got home from school and we soon got the car loaded up.

The drive across to Penge takes us through Streatham, Crystal Palace, Anerley and turn left for Penge. I was keen to see the new place, but first we had get there - easier said than done. The first, and most formidable obstacle, is the junction of the A214 and A23 above Streatham. Instead of bulldozing a couple of historic churches and a row of houses to build a decent junction, the south London road planners have constructed a one-way triangle comprising Ambleside Avenue, Streatham High Road and Tooting Bec Gardens, controlled by a set of traffic lights which allows you 15 seconds on green every half an hour.

To make matters worse, getting in the correct (middle) lane for Streatham means that you're the victim of every aggressive or stupid car driver in the area. Everyone (including buses) takes the lane of least resistance until they get to the junction and then just push across to where they want to go. It's not unusual to see a double-decker go all the way from right to left, without a hint of shame. On Friday evening, it was gridlocked, in comparison Streatham seemed to flash past.

South London isn't short of hills and this is an up-and-down journey. The next summit on the ridge is Crystal Palace which is reached after another frustrating traffic jam, testing my hill-start skills and tiring my aching clutch leg (why didn’t I buy an automatic car?). There are some great views from the higher points, especially as you approach the Crystal Palace triangle and then it’s downhill all the way to Penge. Anerley Hill is something of a renowned challenge for London cyclists and Max was planning to have it as part of his morning commute – I’m not sure how long that will last.

Penge doesn’t look quite as nice or have as many facilities as Balham, but it’s perfectly OK. The house was nice (an interesting lay-out): it’s semi detached, but the entrance is at the side, so the side of the house is the front. There are two rooms downstairs, plus a kitchen and bathroom; and two bedrooms upstairs.  There’s a large garden at the front (side) and a drive with a garage. Not many plants in the garden, but when I’m able to I’ll help stock that up.

We dropped off the boxes and headed pretty much straight back, parked in Sainsbury’s, Balham to get a few bits for the next day and then popped into an Indian take-away to order supper (and then the Bedford for a quick pint). One of Max’s old colleague from St Joseph’s was in the Bedford; he was waiting for some friends, he was drinking water (cheap round) and he was very pleased to see Max.

When we got back, we realised that Max and I had packed all the plates and sealed the boxes, so we had nothing to eat the curry from. We ended up eating it from three pans – that worked all right.

Next morning, Max and I went by train to Battersea to pick up the hire van, drove it back to Balham and set about loading. A couple of Inna’s friends had come along to help, so there were plenty of hands. It’s odd how your possessions build up in each move. Max and Inna still don’t own big furniture like beds, settees and fridges, but they will do next time round. Everything was packed in the van pretty easily and was going to go in one trip, with the remaining boxes packed pretty tightly into the BMW. As we had some time to spare, Max and I walked down some bags to the charity store, popped into the hardware store and I grabbed coffee and cake for everyone from Starbucks. I’d felt too full for breakfast after the massive curry the night before, but was now a little peckish. Starbucks coffee is really strong; it has a real kick, so just the thing to keep you moving.

We were across in Penge around noon and Damien, Max’s chemistry teacher chum, was sitting on the wall waiting for us. Everything was piled into the house and we left Inna and her friends to unpack while we took the van back. Damien came along for the ride and I agreed to drive the car to Battersea and then drive back to Balham, where we had to let in some cleaners. Max and Damien had set off before me, so I just set the sat-nav for Battersea and let it take me there. The one thing I can say in favour of the South Circular is that there are one or two good views across London. I got to the car hire place (after getting a little lost) and found no sign of Max or Damien.

I’d got into the car without my rucksack, which contained my phone and wallet, so I had a couple of quid in change and no comms. That wouldn’t have worried me at all once upon a time, but these days, panic sets in if you can’t make a phone call. After what seemed like an age, probably 20 minutes, they turned up, handed in the van and we all headed back to Balham.

The cleaners – two east European girls – were sitting on the lawn when we got there and soon got to work, with a host of powerful-smelling chemicals. They needed Max’s vacuum cleaner, so we had to go back when they’d expect to finish at about 7pm.

So, it was back to Balham via the Anerley Arms for a quick pint and I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to make Max’s garage theft-proof. The doors were shaved to make them close properly, the Yale lock repositioned and a new internal padlock fitted. I’m not sure what his bike is worth, but it’s unlikely anyone is going to get in there now!

After dark, it was back to Balham for one last time. The cleaners had done a really good job, so we picked up the last few bits (including the vacuum cleaner) and locked up Balham. New people are moving in on the Tuesday, so it would be empty for just two days. Max and Inna had asked to get out of their contract a few months early and so were hoping it could be re-let. Such is the demand for rental property in London that it went within a couple of weeks and the landlord had also upped the rent by a couple of hundred pounds per month. Rent would be £1,500 per month for a two-bed flat in Balham – I don’t know how anyone affords to live in London.

Back in Penge for one last time, I left Max and Inna to it. They were going to head out to check the local pubs and I headed for the South Circular, following my less-than-trusty sat-nav. Actually, it wasn’t too bad a journey, traffic was fairly light and the sat-nav was taking me towards the Blackwall Tunnel. There was a queue to get into the tunnel and a slow crawl through, but as soon as I hit north London and the A12, it was three and four-lane heaven. In no time, I was on the M11 and the cruise control set at 70mph.

I think it will be easier to visit Max and Inna in future, Penge is closer to the Blackwall Tunnel and there will be less South Circular to navigate. We hope to go in a few weeks, so I’ll test it out then.

A strange night out

Listening to a depressive person talk about their condition might not be everybody's idea of a great night out, but this is what passes for entertainment in Peterborough.

We went to the Key Theatre last night to listen to Ruby Wax, the comedienne and writer, who now seems to have become the poster girl for depressive illness. What with her and Stephen Fry (the funny side of bipolar disorder) celebrities seem to be rushing to tell us about their mental anguish - and sell us their books.

Ruby Wax's is called Sane New World: Taming the Mind. Margaret and I were probably the only people in the audience who hadn't read it; that and her previous book, the autobiographical How Do You Want Me, which described her difficult childhood, disturbed adolescence and her mental breakdown.

She has since given up being on TV (or TV gave up on her) and has done a course (a Masters at Oxford) on mindfulness and cognitive behavioural therapy. Apparently, she's now qualified as a therapist.

We knew the evening wasn't going to be a comedy show; we'd read a little about her tour and thought it would be amusing and interesting in the sense a good chat-show interview is - a little pain, description of desperation and plenty of witty and amusing anecdotes. This was her first show in the tour, so I think she was still getting into the swing and familiarity of the dialogue. That probably made it more enlightening.

She did have plenty of touches of comedy, but also a therapist's air, which gave the evening a semi-medical authority, which was misplaced. We were there to be entertained, challenged, but not cured.

Margaret and I had realised this was going to be an interesting night when we were having a couple of drinks in the bar beforehand. As the bar filled up, it was clear that the audience was 90 per cent female and that they were females of a certain type - middle class, according to Margaret, who had been handbag spotting. Don’t poor people suffer from depression?

The first half of the night was Ruby's talk. She was clearly engaging her audience; I found I couldn't relate to her mental state, although the talk was interesting and I do like her slightly self-deprecating humour.

She talked about how we all were full of doubts, how we considered ourselves too stupid, too ugly, too dull ... I rarely have doubts about myself and I consider myself to be a pretty wonderful person, but clearly I was in a very small minority in that audience.

After the interval, there was to be a question-and-answer session and I was a little worried about how that would go. I couldn't think of a single, sensible question that I could ask.

I needn't have worried, there were plenty of people very keen to ask questions, confess their own mental health problems (talking about mental illness still has sufficient stigma to sound like a confession) and complain about funding/lack of resource.

There were more questions than time allowed for and at the end of the session, Ruby got a standing ovation. I could tell that she'd really connected with people in the audience, but I was surprised at their enthusiasm and appreciation. I guess that anyone suffering from mental illness is delighted when a high-profile person "comes out" or talks openly about their condition. I tend to agree, so although surprised by the strength of feeling, I can empathise with it.

Definitely worth seeing the show and I'd be interested to read her books; although I suspect she has a slightly American view towards therapy, which is a little un-English.

Footnote: since the evening, Ruby's PR machine has clearly been at work. I've seen lots of interviews and Q&As with her in newspapers and also numerous references to mindfulness as a therapy for depression or as a tool for people to manage the perceived difficulties of a modern life. There were even stories that it may be taught to schoolchildren. I guess this proves that clinical depression and mental illness is a rich seam for celebrities to mine. It makes me uncomfortable and suspicious about Ruby Wax’s motives. Sure, she has to earn a living and she isn't saying that buying her book or listening to her talk will cure anyone; however ...

The oldest boats in England

Yesterday evening, we went to Flag Fen to hear a talk about the discovery and preservation of eight Bronze Age boats which were discovered in the edge of a brick quarry at Must Farm, Whittlesey.

The boats are 3,500 years old and are a unique find, incredibly well preserved - nothing else quite like this has been found anywhere else in Europe.

When the boats were in use, the area to the east of Fengate in Peterborough would have been a freshwater lagoon between the higher land to the west and Northey Island where modern Whittlesey now stands.

The whole site is incredibly rich in archaeology. The lagoon (modern Flag Fen) contains a man-made island about 80 metres long, constructed of timber piles and this was linked to dry land at Fengate and Northey Island by a causeway of wooden piles with decking between. It's thought the structure had some ceremonial significance; because around this time (1,500 years BCE) the stone henges which are so well known - Avebury, Stonehenge, etc - were falling out of use, so there was a new religion/beliefs coming to the fore.

It's possible that this structure just outside modern Peterborough's industrial eastern side was linked to that. Perhaps water played some part in their beliefs and this may have been some kind of transitional pathway, signifying the passage into death. Evidence for it having a religious or ceremonial purpose comes from numerous artifacts - jewellery, swords, tools and other items - which had been thrown into the water off the causeway, but at one side only.

Must Farm - at the Whittlesey side of the lagoon - contained a bronze age village which was excavated a little while ago. This was on the edge of a large brick quarry, owned by Hanson. As the quarry is expanded to dig out more clay, Hanson has to undertake (and pay for) archaeological surveys and digs. The company has actually been extremely supportive of archaeology and has worked with different teams, including those from Cambridge University who dug out the boats.

The boats were found in the silt of what would have been part of an old course of the River Nene. The quarry now cuts across this, but, of course, the river now runs north of Whittlesey leaving the bronze age river bed high and dry at the edge of a quarry.

The boats were a remarkable find. To discover one would be incredible, but to find eight was unbelievable and has created a massive conservation challenge. The boats were removed intact by digging under them and constructing a scaffold platform on which to lift them. They are eight to 10 metres long, so we're not talking about little canoes. The boats are in an amazingly good condition, the wet conditions have preserved them, but they are fragile. It seems they have the consistency of my famous Cornish Pasty pastry.

If they dry out they will crumble to dust.

The man in charge of conservation is Ian Panter from York University and it was his lecture we'd gone to listen to. The conservation project is now under way and it comprises spraying the boats with a water and wax solution which keeps them wet and allows the wood to absorb wax which strengthens the timber.

The boats look remarkably solid and intact, but they are rotten to the core. Six are oak, one alder and one willow. Preservation of this type of ancient wood is in its infancy - some Viking timbers have been preserved in York, but they are 'only' a thousand years old; the most famous timber preservation project has been the Mary Rose (the Tudor galleon) and that is just 500 years old.

To conserve the boats a special building has been constructed at Flag Fen and we'll be able to see them in situ this spring, when the site re-opens. It's great that the boats will be preserved close to where they were used 3,500 years ago, but what will happen to them once the conservation process if complete, we don't know.

It's incredible to think of people 3,500 years ago living and working where we live and work today. We think we're so advanced and clever, but these folk knew a lot. At Must Farm, they has discovered eel traps woven from willow which are more or less identical to ones still used by fishermen (not many of them) today.

If you want to read more about the boats, there are two links below. If you want to know about the wider Flag Fen site, there's a book called Flag Fen by Francis Prior. It's short, but very interesting and it's available for Kindle. There’s a fascinating piece on how Neolithic people would have split tree logs into planks, also a report about dove-tail joints being found in Bronze Age wheels. Bearing in mind that the saw hadn’t been invented and the joint would have to be made by bronze chisel, anyone who has made a dove-tail joint will know how clever this was.

http://www.mustfarm.com/more/

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One of the boats in situ (above): You can see how large it is. Below: a recreated dug-out boat being tested.

 

Burlesque at the Key Theatre

Ever since I met my good friend and former work colleague Davina Page (aka Miss Amarettease) she has been saying that I must go to see a Burlesque show.

Well, on Saturday night, I took the plunge - Margaret and I went to a night of Burlesque at the Key Theatre.

Margaret wasn't keen, she thought it would be full of dirty old men in raincoats, but that was far from the case. The audience was mainly women (including a hen night), lots of people were dressed up with feather boas and the like, and the men that were there were all with partners.

Burlesque, or this show at least, was more like music hall than a strip club.

It was a fairly low-budget show, there was no band (all the music was recorded), no scenery and only a few acts, but the acts that were there were good quality and they worked hard with most doing a couple of slots.

The night was hosted by a comedienne/singer called Sarah Louise Young. She was very good, engaging the audience immediately, she was a bit cheeky to us and quickly found a couple of people who would play along with her. She identified the hen night crowd, discovered that the 'hen' was pregnant and managed not to be too judgmental. She kept a comedy commentary going, interspersed with songs, including some by Tom Lehrer and some original material. She had a really good French character she had created - a woman singer who was friends with Edith Piaf, but Piaf had done the dirty on her, so she had come to England. It was quite a good act and gave her the chance to sing a couple more songs.

The burlesque side of the show was done by two performers - Betty Blue Eyes and Luna Rosa. Davina said that Luna Rosa was one of the top burlesque dancers in the UK. Betty Blue Eyes started the show by doing a reverse strip, where she started off almost naked and then got dressed. It was a neat act with some clever costume design. In one move she put on a dressing down and when she took it off she was wearing a dress. She also did a routine where she paid tribute to Liberace, which included a very small piano.

Betty Blue Eyes was cheeky comedy, Luna Rosa was full on exotic dancer. Her first routine saw her festooned with pheasant feathers and the second was a sort of Egyptian, Cleopatra-inspired number. Luna has an amazing figure, but is covered with tattoos. Davina says that's very common.

The variety/cabaret acts were two magicians called Morgan & West, a mouth juggler called Rod Laver and a novelty act with electricity called The Great Voltini and Nurse Electra.

The mouth juggler spat and caught ping-pong balls and he was very good - Margaret thought he was hilarious and there's a video which gives a flavour of his act here.

The Great Voltini was something else (as they say). His act was out of the Victorian circus sideshow and involved high-voltage electricity, which would jump across electrodes. He used his body and his assistant's (his wife) as electrodes. They could illuminate fluorescent tubes just by holding them and ignite fuel soaked rags from a spark. The person acting as the electrode stood on a plastic platform so they were insulated.

It started to get a bit weird when Nurse Electra whipped out her left breast, which was pierced with a nipple ring, and used that to create a spark to light a flaming torch; it got really weird when Voltini shoved an electrode up his bum so you could see the spark jumping across. You have been warned, but you can see their act on video here.

We'd go to burlesque again - it was good fun. Perhaps the audience needed to be a little more responsive (a few more oohs! when clothes were removed) but everyone had a good time and the Key was packed.