If we’re sitting comfortably let’s begin by wandering back a few years, courtesy of my diary –
10 Jan 2013
Got a great email from Bob today:
Heya!
I think you should invest a lot of money in hydrogen fuel cell thing. Its going to power all the electricity of cars and houses and everything so hey!
Luv ya
Xxx
It transpired that, pretty much the only time it happened in ten years at school, a teacher had managed to inspired Bob who came out of a physics class adamant that hydrogen power was going to be the answer to the world’s energy crisis. Such a unique event it was that I mentioned it in a Bodhi Tree and a friend referred me to a company called ITM Power, haemorrhaging cash, but, trading at 29p, it was substantially below its high of 75p. So, given the level of conviction Bob had expressed I invested a third of his building society account into the company. 1,500 shares if you must know. Within weeks the share price had almost doubled and I was itching to pull the trigger and sell, but he was having none of it. He told me he was in for the long term. That was a mistake. The company came very close to bankruptcy only surviving thanks to a cash injection from Lord Bamford ( the JCB man ). The share price continued to languish touching a low of 11p last year and even just a few months ago it was more than 40% below our entry price. But this last month it has rocketed and Bob’s back in the money. As I write, only just. This is what’s known as a bumpy ride. Such fun.
Talking of nostalgia, and I am quite prone to the occasional bout I must admit, the other day, reminiscing over supper with Bob and his friend Tom on their journey through South America, I decided to trawl them through a scrap-book I had created in 1982 after I spent my GAP year working my way round the world on a chemical tanker. The collection of chop-sticks, match boxes, a programme from a performance of Joseph and his Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat and “I love San Francisco” postcards didn’t hold the boys particularly spell bound and they quickly adjourned to the pub in the neighbouring village. Sophie was out on a girls dinner so I wallowed on until I came across an annotated photo of a group of Filipino able-seamen and the Norwegian captain’s 14 year old son, Per Morten Noven, sitting round a table of San Miguels, smoking roll-ups. At a loss for anything better to do I had the slightly eccentric idea of searching on Facebook for them. Alas the Filipino’s elude me, but lo and behold I found Per Morten. Now bearded and looking all of his 49 years, living in a village on the west coast of Norway just south of Bergen and seemingly happily married he was just about recognisable as the fresh faced blond boy in the photograph. I had spent only two months with him, 35 years ago, but I couldn’t stop myself. I sent him a Facebook message with the photograph and one of me playing the recorder, which had been my wont of an evening as we made our way across the Pacific, accompanying one of the crew strumming a guitar and knocking out Beatle songs. OK OK….here you are. The photo is attached. What I find remarkable looking at it is, although the trousers have the slight hint of flares to them, I wear the same colour combinations, shirt and jersey to this day. Could I have been more uncool?!
Anyway, I added a convivial note of explanation, a comment about how small Facebook had made the world and waited, hoping I had got the right guy and eagerly anticipating his response. One duly arrived a couple of days later.
“Hi. How are you.”
That was that! Men of few words these Vikings. 35 years on. Some cracking photos and a bit of banter from me and all I get in return is “Hi. How are you.”
“Oh not so bad. Bit of a cough and sore throat last week, but getting over it thanks. Hope to see you soon.”
Actually I could have gone into a bit more detail myself come to think of it. I was quite under the weather as it happens, but largely self-inflicted. I went up to the National Championships last weekend with Lottie. I don’t know what it is about me and camping at these horse events, but I find it impossible to rein in my drinking the evening before the big event. Nerves I suppose. So her dressage test slightly passed me by which is a pity because she did quite well actually and then I was despatched to drive the horse home whilst Lottie stayed for prize-giving ( see how I cleverly slipped that in?! ). Four and a half hours later, and just ten minutes from home, one of the tyres on the trailer blew leaving me stranded in a lay-by on the A14 for two hours, with lorries thundering past and a horse neighing nervously. Needless to say by the time I got home my hangover had assumed monstrous proportions. I decided I could spare Per Morten at least the details, but you dear readers I spoil don’t I.
As we are in nostalgic mode this weekend I might copy a story I wrote the last time I had a tyre blow out, also on the A14 as it happens:
18th November, 2005
Last week's attempts both at investment insight and then in a subsequent message, humour, were treated with derision and contempt. "Stick to human observation" commented one caustic respondent. Well, I observed the human condition at close quarters last Saturday evening. I was on my way back from Rugby having taken Hen out for an early dinner. It had to be early because, despite the fact that my 8 year old son and I were going considerably out of our way to see her, she was insistent that she needed an hour and a half to prepare herself for a party that evening. Now why wasn't that a suprise?
Enchilladas and tortillas at a Mexican restaurant having been rapidly devoured Bob and I left Rugby and had just got onto the A14 when the rear left tyre of my environmentally unfriendly vehicle spectacularly blew out. Sheer, raw driving talent kept the car on a line Schumaker would have been proud of, but with no tyre all I could do was grind to halt, infuriatingly short of a lay-by. Half of my rather wide car was on a narrow grass verge, with traffic belting past on the dual carriage way missing us by just a couple of feet. Not wishing to be melodramatic about things, this was not a happy situation. We walked the 1/4 of a mile to the lay-by where there was an emergency phone and rang the police to explain our predicament, arranging also for the RAC to collect us on a low loader. Having been told by them that someone would be with us within 30 - 45 minutes, one hour later we were still crouched in a dark and freezing cold ditch surrounded by Coke cans, crisp packets and discarded number plates, only to be told that it would be at least another hour before their man would be with us. At this point I decided to defy the accident text book and risking both our lives and the car's rear axle, got back into the Toyota and scraped my way precariously up the road to the safety of the lay-by. Happily, once there, by the light of the passing vehicles, I was able to investigate the damage and concluded that it might be possible to change the tyre. So it was that two hours after the tyre blew out, the remains of which were strewn on the road beside my prostrate body as I inspected the underneath of the car, someone pulled off the road and drove up to a halt 5 yards behind us. Quel relief. The police and the RAC had failed us, but here was my good Samaritan. Bob and Den, my dog, peered amiably at our saviours from their position inside the car, whilst I was immediately grateful for the light their headlights shed on the proceedings. But my happiness was short-lived. The driver stayed in his or her seat which I thought was a bit odd and switched off the lights. Meantime, from the passenger side, someone got out and proceeded to vomit energetically onto the pavement before returning to the car which then drove off into the night without so much as a by your leave. Human observation....? Life isn't always about bottles of malt whisky and pretty girls.
Anyway, this weekend we’re off and about once again. Away up to Scotland for the Big Stick, an intensely competitive family golf match established 20 years ago by my father and played on the Old Course. For the first time this year it will not feature all three of his sons. This is a shame, though I don’t think it is unduly harsh to say that any of the spectators that usually gather round the 1sttee for the start of this event will greatly miss Jamie’s agricultural swing! Nor are our chances of winning greatly enhanced by his absence. ( Oh I’ll pay for writing this! ).
And there’s another first this time too. The R&A opened its doors to female members a couple of years back, so moving with the times ourselves, we’ve invited Sophie, my sister in law and my mother to join us in the Clubhouse on Monday for lunch after the match. I’ve had various brushes with the authorities at the R&A in the past on occasions I’ve taken guests there. Normally it has involved illicit use of mobile phones and illegal photography sessions and I have generally been able to smooth things over. But when this lot of ladies get their grip on the wine list at lunch there is the potential that things could get very messy in the rarified, and still predominantly male, atmosphere of the R&A dining room. You’ve not met my mother? Whisper it ever so quietly, but her rowdy behaviour got us boys thrown out of a karaoke bar in Lan Kwai Fung back in 1993. Just saying.
I know I’m rambling on a bit today, but if you’ll indulge me a little longer, my nephew reminded me of a Whatsapp conversation I previously shared with you at the end of May when the GCSE exam season kicked in. I’d sent Lottie a saintly good luck message ahead of her first exam, religious studies of course.
““Aced it” indeed “ I wrote, somewhat sceptically if I recall, when I recounted this to you. I’m Bob’s Dad too remember. However, I am delighted to say Little Miss PerseUpperSelf only went and did it. Religious Studies A*. How about that eh?! The phrase “Get thee to a Nunnery”, comes to mind, but she’s at Reading Festival instead and I dread to think what’s happening down there. Who’d be a father?
