July 2009 Archives

Over the last few weeks I have been sending out the following letter in my exalted capacity as President of the Fowey Cricket Club:

"This is just to let you know that we are planning two charity cricket matches here this summer.

The first is set for Wednesday July 29^th and will be the President of Fowey's XI v the Cornish Choughs. This one will be in aid of the Cornish Association for the Blind.

The second is to take place on Sunday August 16^th and will be the President of Fowey's XI v the Cornish Crusaders. This will be in aid of  Marie Curie Cancer Care. This is at the very beginning of Regatta Week.

We'd love to see you at either or both of these games. Admission this year is free. We hope to open around noon and start play at 2pm continuing till we have a result which we hope will be about 7pm. We're hoping to have a BBQ, drinks and music before play and a really interesting raffle during the (cream!) tea break. Last year, incidentally, we managed to raise over £1100 for Marie Curie without a ball being bowled. (I have a ghastly vision of managing a game this year but raising less money).

That's it really. There should be more, regular info on various web-sites, in the press and so on. I'd love to see you but if you can't make it a cheque to either or each charity would be great."

It's raining as I look out across the river and I am filled with dread that our games will be rained on. On TV I have just been watching a singularly unconvincing schools minister saying that all school leavers who want to will be able to attend university and the experience will be affordable and meaningful. Now a reporter is talking about BT's new scheme to lay off workers on a temporary basis on massively reduced wages. I think of last week when I rang a BT line and spent several minutes answering auomatically generated questions (recorded queries which are apparently not the fault of an identifiable person).  At the end of a series of absurd games involving multiple choice - "If you require X press one; if you require Y press two..." and so on, I was given a new phone number to call. I eventually got a human being who spent an age asking me to unplug everything and take it to bits. In the end I gave up and fled to a meeting for which I was now running late.

So yes I seem to have become quintessentially grumpy and I feel I am assailed at almost every turn by incompetence masquerading as new, high, cutting-edge technology. Meanwhile I am sending out old fashioned letters about old-fashioned cricket matches. Rather fun actually. The idea of raising money for worthwhile causes while doing something enjoyable seems excellent.

Mind you, it doesn't just happen. This morning I had a session with Charles Whitehead, a keen cricket man, and the treasurer of the Blind. He had had some eye-catching posters printed and I said I would try to distribute them round town; I think and hope Matty will do the drink and Daniel the BBQ; Charles' wife and friends will do tea with help from Penny; the raffle looks in good shape; do we have a public address system? And so on. I rather enjoy it all but I suppose I should be working on books and/ or reviews- or even, heaven forfend, putting my feet up. I must email Mark Bennetts, the secretary of the club; we need a scorer and two umpires; and balls. As, I say, it doesn't just happen, but it's very rewarding to help MAKE it happen.We think we have covered all the bases but, alas, God can easily get in the way: rain, sprained ankles are obvious unpredictables but there are others. I don't know what they are but I'm pretty sure I will find out.

Last week I was at the Malt House visiting my aged Mama. On Monday we drove over to Wells Cathedral to see the place my brother loved so much and to have a brief word with his friend, the Precentor Patrick Woodhouse. It was a hot day and my Ma found it physically gruelling as well as mentally traumatic. She is, as she reminds me, from time to time, very old (88) and still living on her own in her own house. This is made possible by squads of well-disposed paid and unpaid helpers but there are as many unpredictables as there are in organizing charity cricket matches. I was reminded of this when she asked if I could get some Brillopads when I went shopping. The terrific village shop in Ludwell was able to provide a pack of these things which strike me as dated in the same way as Brylcreem or Grapenuts. I associate the, wrongly obviously, with the fifties.For the uninitiated they are wire-wool briquettes impregnated with some kind of soap. I paid cash while also buying some food for our lunch but I didn't ask for a receipt. I was suddenly reminded of the furore over MP's expenses and the fuss over moat-cleaning, duck-house purchase and so on. "MP claims for Brillopads", I fantasized, "No receipts provided." I know this is silly but I can't help feeling that much of this long-running story is also fantastically silly and possibly wholly unfair. There but for the grace of God go me and my Mum's Brillopads.

I also saw the accountant on my visit East of the Tamar. This was, as always, personally agreeable but professionally chastening. We didn't get down to as much detail as Brillopads though I did have to explain some expenses from the Scottish cricket association as well as what exactly I was doing in some foreign part on a now distant and half-forgotten day. More worryingly I was told how much I had earned in the past year and despite feeling that I had been working harder than ever I discovered, as I had feared, that my income was significantly lower than it had been in earlier years. I'm afraid this is a not uncommon experience in these difficult times. It was still salutary though and none the less for being, I suspect, quite widespread. Interesting. If you are going to hell in a handcart does it make any difference if the handcart is packed with other people?  Is it hell that one dreads - or loneliness? Discuss.

Enough of such maudlin thoughts. I got a letter from the Biographical Centre in whichever Carolina does these things and the welcome news is that I have been awarded a Gold Medal for Wales. I don't really understand this. Gold Medals, well, why not? But Wales? I have no Welsh blood despite my mother's maiden name (Vaughan). Some of my best friends are Welsh but even so.

And cricket. Not just the charity stuff which is likely to prove nerve-wracking, but an Ashes Test Match at Lord's. Bliss. I am still a member of MCC and I will go every day. I shall take Penny on the first day and the Saturday. I shall take my two sons on the Sunday and my friend Geoff on the final day. Oh frabjous days! Maybe we'll even win. Do I care? Not as much as perhaps I should. England's best player is a South African which diminishes any pleasure I might get from an "English" victory though it might improve the occasion and particularly the play. My daughters are coming over from the USA and New Zealand. A son is getting married at the end of the month. In circumstances such as these how can one be concerned about Brillopads?

Meanwhile I intend to go to the International Crime Writers Conference in Oklahoma next June; and before that I have been asked to speak in such elusive but alluring sounding places as Savannah and Chatanooga. This prospect reduces the spectre of Brillopads even more. There is a lot to be glum about but even more reason for congratulating oneself on one's luck.