1984 or 2008

1984? 2008? what the hell happened in between, that's wot I'd like to know! It is deffo true what wrinklies say about stuff: policemen getting younger (with me it's vets); time's winged chariot giving it some welly (Donne, Jezza); life flashbacking before one everytime one bends (u-bends?) to tie your shoe lace.

“Boy” Leatherbarrow’s Diary

“Sport, sport, masculine sport, it’s an odd boy who doesn’t like sport…”
(Bonzo’s)

Dear Diary & Posterity,
Played a gripping innings at Poonaagggh, on the eve of the monsoon. Natives for wickets, myself, and the eleven (well, ten with me) from the Bombay Dragoons against the, newly arrived, crème de la crème of the Rutland Buffs. I was squaring up at around noon, the fourth batsman, and cutting a dash (not to say splash) in my whiter than whites and borrowed (courtesy of Mrs Colonel Napalm- Eccles) box & pads (she assured me that his well documented case of ‘jock-itch’ had completely cleared by 1919). So it was with some confidence that I strode onto the pitch, rubbing my lucky horripilation. Something old & something new etc, I mused… a talisman that’s seen me through many a near run game from prep school and beyond!
At five past the hour I hit a terrific six across the boundary and into the swelling river Pontoon. A turbaned Mahout (in the pay of the retiring commanding officer), resplendent (in an indigenous kind of way) upon a garlanded pachyderm, encouraged completion of the Over by instructing the creature in his charge to bolster the defenders with its persuasive proboscis. In the interim, two fielders (a Subaltern & a Private) were drowned in their attempt to retrieve this gloriously smashed ball - which was last seen skimming the surface of the waters of the sacred river taking out, to my certain knowledge, two Ganges ducks, one wading stork and a washerwoman whose beating-stone formed an unfortunate stop for the missile. Apparently, the ball recoiled on the surface just as she was slapping her doodads against the rocks. The merciless sphere then, gaining some spin from the application of suds, whacked into the writhing wet material she was womanhandling, and this combined movement of tangled washing & cricket ball had the effect of coshing the startled laundress on the back of her indigo-veiled head, before spinning orf again across the riverbanks. According to Lady ffrancon-Smythe’s Ayah – it disappeared down stream, still skimming the oily waterway & startling the swimming vipers & amphibians in its path..

Within the following wickets, several natives fainted in response to the intense heat of the hour and, I daresay, the drama of the moment. General Chivverley-Crumpet requested an interval at half past the hour, but play continued as I doggedly refused to stand down - simply stopping for one minute & thirty seconds to pack my box with extra ice at two strategic repositioning intermissions. I went on to glean 299 Not Out, while bearers carried the occasional occidental and native unconscious from the field and Red Cross nurses sprayed the more stalwart players with dilute gin and lime in order to cool them orf.
Apart from the drowning, just a few cases of fatal-ish heat-stroke, and several near-death experiences and, oh yes… one suicide… But, on balance, a worthy victory for the regiment, which was, I believe, deemed a just sacrifice in our start to the season. Used the Commanding Officer’s telephone to give Posterity (currently spending the Monsoon in the king’s palace in Nepal with a party of Officer’s wives and some Llamas) a blow by blow account of the day… she seemed suitably impressed… if a little over-tired. I kept hearing a noise, which sounded like yawning – which Posterity assured me was the palace minor-bird making its evening repertoire.

vvvvvvvvvooooooooovvvvvvvvvvvvvooooooooooooovvvvvvvvvvooooooooooo

To feel anxiety is to be blessed by the full wash of life in its ripest chancre—everything else is wax museums. (David Byrne)

Dear Diary & Posterity,
Thursday afternoon – having a muse while my batman prepares my attire etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. To my great consternation Charlemagne Bottomley- Rimmer, an old adversary from my school-days, has arrived at Poonaagggh Fort – posted on from Bangalore following some scandal involving a Mogul Infanta and some part of an elephant (according to my batman, one Corporal Jack Berrington).

At school and, worse still, later at college the swinish Bottomley- Rimmer insisted on calling me Hilarity Leatherbollocks and, no doubt, will continue in this fashion when our paths cross, which is a most exasperatin’ state of affairs, don’cha know. Must find a way to stop him in his tracks – if only I could think of a suitable dirty dig. But hang it all, what can one do with a mouthful like Charlemagne Bottomley- Rimmer? This will take some deep thinking, which I will attempt while wallowing in my chestnut-scented bath which my batman is drawing, as I write.

Later, same evening.
Seems that I got the wrong end of the story about Bottomley- Rimmer! Corporal Berrington (a charming but incomprehensible cockney) was in fact referring to the state of intoxication, which he described as ‘elephant’s trunk’!
Rather obviously, due to the propinquity of the species Proboscidean (which seems to have an unnecessarily high profile in this neck of the global woods) I jumped to that understandable conclusion that we were talking about a live elephant & not that specific analogous peculiarity of Cockney slang – which in my humble opinion adds nothing but verbal complexity and thus confusion. Can’t think why the corporal would assume that my command of the English language would include such vernacular. Anyway, it seems that the swine in question was clearly the worse for drink during a tour of duty guarding the Mogul’s family party on a tiger hunt, and engaged in over-familiarity with the Mogul’s daughters. In this part of the world that might mean anything from playing unchaperoned tiddlywinks with them - to imprudently proposing marriage. I doubt it was any attempt at physical dalliance, or I would not be plagued by his all too solid and in-tact bodily presence. Not that the unsavoury brute has any sense of chivalry, but he has an understanding of the paternal drive to protect daughters, involving non-voluntary castration with a rusty scimitar.

During my toilet and dressing I had the perfect opportunity to discuss my reservations about Bottomley- Rimmer and obtain some homespun second opinion. Corporal Berrington suggested several ways of ‘kickin’ the bounder orf his Polo pony’ and by such colourful means! It quite took my breath away! It is amazing what these common or garden Tommys, fellows brought up in gutters and educated in stables, can come up with while scrubbing ones back, decanting ones claret and pressing a dickey.

Firstly there is the name calling – which Corporal Jack (I call him Jack, when I’m out of uniform, as I was - being in my bath) described as a gift. He suggests that I say something like: “Hmmm… if the name Chalmondley is pronounced Chumley then shouldn’t Bottomley be pronounced Bumley?” And then add casually, “I think I’ll call you: Charlotte-Male Bumlay-Rammer…” I like this…what the American novellas might term… wise-guy style; it might well work, especially as Bumlay-Rammer wont be expecting such an uncharacteristic response! There! I’ve started practising my new manner already! Have been trying it out on Jack, but only when not in uniform, of course. Berrington is without doubt the most inventive and accommodating batman ever to have the honour of serving me.

Telephoned Posterity again this evening following dinner, I think I may have got somewhat carried away with my new character!
She was just telling me about her audience with the Head Lama, when I cut in with: “Surprised to find a gel like you with such an interest in hairy beasts-of-burden; hope you kept your distance old thing, they spit don’cha know.”
A decidedly prickly silence ensued and, in a fit of nervous agitation, I found myself saying: “Well old girl, can’t stand here all night chewing the rancid yaks’ butter, I have to cut-a-rug with the General’s Fanny.”

I dare say Posterity was wondering why Fanny Chivverley-Crumpet (the youngest child of General & Mrs General Spartacus Chivverley-Crumpet) was available for rug-cutting at Poonaagggh - and not completing her spring term at Cheltenham. Truth be told, my daring mood led me to declare some but not all of the latest news from the Fort. On the premise: Treat ‘em mean etcetera. Can’t think what got in to me – I think I need more practice before unleashing the new persona on friends & family.

Note:
1. Hmmm, hope my temerity does not lead to some unforeseen backfiring from Posterity’s direction. Such superb cannon – couldn’t resist lighting her cordite – but now… O! slight fear & trepidation…the thought occurs - she may blow me out… damme!
2. I really must screw my courage to the sticking post or I’ll never carry it orf when I confront CBR.















Oh rapacious day, kaloo kalay! Or words to that effect … Posterity has sent word that she is accompanying her friend Lettice Montenegro back to the Fort, Lettice has been bitten in the ‘Cush by a small snake which managed to crawl under her mossie-nets as she slept and attempted to pass the night with her. Luckily her mrs ffrancon-smythe’s Ayah was near by and heard the screams …such a resourceful woman for a native-type…anyway she knew how to
“!Oh Boy!” breathed Poserity…
I grinned sheepishly –
“That wasn’t a feminine squeal of admiration,” announced Posterity, rather churlishly I thought, “ It was an aside!”
Whatever could she have meant? Must be another of these Cocknese expressions that seem to be in vogue with young people these days, I took the notepad from the back pocket of my jodhpurs and my fountain pen from the top pocket of my pristine second best khaki jacket and scribbled the words: ‘aside’ - ask batman about it!

“Boy” Leatherbarrow’s Diary
( Major Hilary Leatherbarrow’s exploits in the Hindu Cush - 1931)

Nobody knows what the hell...is going on...!!!

Why am I surrounded by people with 'issues' and 'personality anomalies' and 'personality disorders'? Where have these people come from? Is it that they were always around but nobody bothered to label them before, is 'personality disorder' the new 'difficult people' reappriasal? Why are all these people out there waiting to inflict themselves and their weird ideas on me? Have I got one as well? Is that why I'm attracting the boggers?

'Erges' adventures of Richmal

Well I have eventually arrived at Kathmandu, or as we locals refer to it: the city of temples...
I said I’d do it – and I did – tho’ must admit to being extremely fatigued and have had to give instructions to minions to keep an eye on me and see that I actually do get up tomorrow. Shouting, shaking, slapping and finally – if all else fails - the bucket of cold water...
It was very exciting flying into the Kathmandu valley – with the backdrop of the Himalaya on one side. The airport is pretty basic and getting out of it was a bit of a nightmare. Touts throng the entrance and in the guise of being helpful (whether one wants help or not) try and get ones’ attention and patronage for transport, hotels,... or whatever one has come to Kathmandu for.
As to be expected - Nepalese and Middle Eastern officials in the airports being equally obsessed with security - one kept getting frisked, having to remove shoes and have them x-rayed while wandering in socks, luckily I had put my trekking socks on ready, so was relatively comfortable in cool-max!. But it all adds up to make one feel like you’re constantly swimming against a tide of travel officials, customs, immigration; then - beggars, touts, street traders and con artists of various sizes (starting at aged 5 and over !).
I have experienced another situation of loss, I’m sorry to say. While being transported from the airport to our first stop-over at the Malla Hotel, Bunny managed to take off on her own! It must have been all too much for her, she was born in Thailand – and I assume that she just decided to go home! So – I was totally alone from that point. I can’t remember alot of detail about the arrival – but I know I was knocked out by the sheer volume of interesting scenes as we ploughed thru the Kathmandu traffic. So much to see that I have never seen before... people shaving customers outdoors on a patch of rough ground, women washing their hair in bowls in the streets of the city’s housing and shops, or at washing places dotted around the city – the same method of carrying out laundry duties and personal bathing that has been carried on over the many centuries. The citizens don’t seem to have washing machines! - I expect very few homes have running water. Doubtless it is cheaper to give your washing to a woman to beat against rocks than to sent it for mechanical attentions. Water for washing and cooking must be obtained from a pump. Women are also to be seen drying clothes near the river banks where they have been doing the family washing. God knows how they manage to get anything clean in this environ. Washing can be seen drying on unexpected clothes horses – on barbed wire stretched across a plot of land, or spread out over hedges or sparce stretches of green which may be some sort of grass, or what substitutes for grass. .
Everything is different here, it’s very grubby and primitive but also wonderful and exotic and vibrant and full of life.
The hotel where I spent the first two nights had most of the usual comforts - with the exception of an electrical system that can be tapped into via adapters, and the provision of ice for drinks – well, it’s God’s way of keeping me off the gin & tonic with a slice of lime (though which particular God in this pantheistic landscape ...).

Temperature
It’s not ‘too hot’ at this time of the year, roughly Spring, and the evenings can be quite cool – still, it was warm enough to wear summer clothing, for us Europeans, though many of the Nepalese don thick trad clothes, jumpers or coats as the afternoons mature. The weather was very pleasant during these first days and although we did witness several showers and at least two thunder storms , some days were really very hot and I managed to get sunburned quickly, my nose glowed for the first week and still looks a little red now.

Back at the airport the next day – for a small-plane flight around the summit of Everest, and along the ridge of the Himalaya. Read somewhere that it takes forever to get places by plane because of delays, and that would seem to be the status quo.

Later, in the city, a visit today to some ghats (stone steps) at one of the many rivers – which, because it’s the dry season, are mostly sandy banks with a lazy trickle of water, occasionally flowing into deeper stretches. The ghats are common accessories to many Nepalese and Indian rivers. The term describes a series of steps down alongide the riverbank, allowing convenient access to the waters. Many of these sites are used for ritual and in this case, cremation of the dead. I found the words of Alun Lewis’ poem – the Mahratta Ghats coming into my mind.

Kathmandu - City of affable dogs (and few, if any, cats), my first genuine greeting at the station had been from a cheerful mongrel pup around 10 months old, a smiley busy sort of off white and brown mixed mutt. Wagging a sturdy scimitar shaped tail all the while; he sniffed at my luggage hoping, no doubt, to identify something edible about my person. But was pleased enough to receive a friendly human voice and surreptitious pat (I knew I shouldn’t be doing this...but...) I wished I had some titbit to offer him, but this was hardly the time – I needed to find out where my contact was and my transport to the right lodgings before I got distracted or misled in the chaos of this arrivals free-for-all.

It seemed intrusive, crossing the bridge and standing at the banks of the river overlooking the burial rites. On one side of the bridge men were preparing funeral pyres while, upon a prepared couch of timber and kindling a saffron cloaked body was undergoing a religious ceremony attended by bearers carrying out the observations reverentially, one whom I took to be the deceased’s eldest son taking the lead, fulfilling his duties with devotion. There was something familiar about this ritual, despite the proximity to the reality of cremation, somehow there was nothing that made one feel – this is strange or not usual... I felt a common bond with the mourners who were surely distant strangers, but seemed part of me, of my species. The whole area of the ghats was thronged with spectators, like some lazy village event politely attended by scatterings of temporarily idle villagers. We moved across the bridge where there were different stages of ritual being enacted. Bodies were laid carefully on stone shelves beside the ghats, one sloping shelf supporting the body conveniently near the river’s edge - a complex ceremonial ritual was underway.

I was intrigued by the young teenage boys - like mudlarks - continually pitching something, like a fishing line, into the waters of the river and running along the marginal platforms of stone or the sandbags that mark the course of the river. I was uncertain as to what they were doing, occasionally skirting the stones or even wading in the murky waters with their mysterious lines. I looked through the camera's lenses - zooming in on the 'mudlarks' - yes, they were mudlarks! Trawling the dark shallows with what I assumed to be magnets - picking up , metal - coins, or, I mused darkly, even gold tooth fillings?

My interest in the mudlarks lead me to press the shutter, and as I did so - I realised that my shot had inadvertently included the image of two of the funerals of the deceased at that side of the bridge, loving attended by their families and friends. Somehow, I felt part of that ritual, reverently observed, while life in all its diversity continued, as ever, around these most auspicious of events.

I am mindful of the themes that have occupied my thoughts for some months: the briefness of human life, mortality, the passing of lifetimes that have made up my existence, my own mortality, my knowledge and awareness of my world, losses, echoes of loss, grief and its process, my life of separateness, making sense of it all...

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day ...
To the last syllable of recorded time, And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death.

Out, out, brief candle ! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more;
it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.