Last March we heard rumblings from those folks who get their livelihoods from telling us, that without thousands more wind turbines Britain’s weather is going to be fit only for growing grapes and olive trees. They also recommended that we share baths, put a brick in the cistern and clean our teeth in a thimble so as to survive the inevitable drought of 2012.
Such doom-mongering is not however confined to the Corporal Jones’s of climate change; readers may remember that December 21st 2012 was also the day when the ancient Mayan calendar ended leading some to prepare for the end of the world. This lot however, were not the same lot who had prepared for the end of the world on October 12th a couple of months earlier. They, if you recall, were followers of Pastor Harold Campion who had forecast Armageddon the previous April, but who had then recalculated his dates when it didn’t materialise.
If we had listened to any of the folks above we would have wasted a deal of our precious lives worrying about things over which we had no control, and probably ignored the things over which we have. For example, it is a good job farmers didn’t rush out to buy camels, and plant date palms and peanuts. As it was, we were fortunate to finish up with a harvest at all given the amount of rain we had. This year’s harvest too will be affected due to the difficulties of getting on the land.
Predictions of doom are not however new. The Old Testament is full of them, and so thank heavens for the New Testament with its central message of hope not despair.
Talking of hope however, reminds me that February is the month when Ancient Romans made purification sacrifices. (februo) hoping that the gods would be kind to them. The ever hopeful Anglo Saxons called it Sprout-Kale, but for me it is the month when I consider Christmas to be as much a memory as my wife’s birthday, which falls in January.
Despite my generally hopeful nature, Christmas and birthdays are two occasions in the year when I feel utterly at a loss. I don’t want readers to think that my mind loses its grip; it is just that I simply don’t know what to buy the wife that will be useful, or will hint at those things that men ought to tell their wives from time to time.
We have been married fifty years in March and have pretty well exhausted the range of ‘normal’ gifts. In recent years therefore, I have bought her electric fencing, a Stihl strimmer and a wheelbarrow. This Christmas also proved difficult and so, having trawled Ledbury in previous years, this time I went to Ross.
Labels was the first stop, and I aimlessly wandered the clothing aisles with that glazed expression found only on the face of a man seeking inspiration. Eventually my eyes fixed on an outfit I thought might excite. Any doubt I had was instantly allayed by an attractive sales assistant who immediately set about finding matching items. She could not however find one essential item, a size ten lightweight black polo neck jumper. Nonetheless, she assured me I was certain to find one in town. I left Labels confident that the wife would be pleased with my choices.
Ross on a rainy day can be very dull, but full of hope I commenced my search for a black jumper. Starting at the top of town I tried four ladies dress shops to no avail, and so called in Boots perfumery for an old favourite followed by the Cook shop for a surprise gift. But with a sinking heart I started back to the car. Peacocks was the last resort where a smiling lady seized my arm and said, “Let me help? I told her that I needed a long sleeve, polo neck sweater in black. She then queried, “What does it have to go with?”
With the parcel from the Cook shop still in my arms I wearily replied: “A frying pan.”
“Ah, men.” she sighed.
View from the Pew 