Pa's Tale

There has been a lot of chat in the prints recently about how it is getting harder for people to "move up" class-wise. Such a high proportion of professional and media people these days are children of better-off parents, and very many went to fee-paying schools.

It was different in my day (as my generation tends to find ourselves saying). Most of the score of blokes in my golf set are from working class backgrounds - hardly any of their parents owned a house or even a car (my parents didn't) - but the 50s and 60s were liberating. We all own our homes, and so do our kids. I am the only one who went to university, but I was lucky. The others have become comfortably off (though not rich) mostly through a combination of hard work and good luck. And, of course, an era open to all the talents, when those elements were all you needed. Plus a bit of talent.

No more sociology. The buffet lunch that Bob had worked so hard on was very fine (though my potato salad is much better than his, yah boo), and there was an alarming quantity of grog. Just as well that my chauffeur was sober. The 286 bus dropped me off just a short stagger from my front door.

I had to see Nursie yesterday to get my three-monthly needle in the tum to implant the hormone stuff. While I was out, I went shopping, and found this amazing shop where everything costs a pound. I got a big bag of goodies for £6, then I went to BHS and noticed a shirt for £5, then I visited Primark - two polo shirts for less than a fiver. So I'm fixed up for the foreseeable future.

I was pleased to see that the swimming federation has banned the new swimsuits that let people go faster than ever. It's a shame that the golf bodies (USGA and the R&A) didn't have the courage to do the same when equipment started to enable players to hit the ball for ridiculous distances, thereby demeaning the great old golf courses. And tennis too. The rackets are so powerful that nobody has time to get to the net anymore, so the subtleties of the game have been swept away by the mighty hitters.

There will be some cricket tomorrow. An England side with Bopara batting at three and Bell at four is frighteningly fragile, even against the less than scary Aussie attack. I do, of course, expect to be proved wrong.

The old lady next door, who is under heavy sedation for her dementia, appeared this morning and asked me why I wasn't playing golf. I said I had laundry and housework to do, and she asked me whether I had thought of getting married again. Jack White's song came to mind, so I offered her the punchline - "I'm lonely but I ain't that lonely yet".

Much pruning to be done, so I will have a snip after lunch. Snip, not kip.

I know that they are the band du jour after about twenty years of trying, so I thought I would have a listen. My first, possibly over-hasty, thought was "pretentious codswallop". I knew they have chamber music thoughts, then I watched their act at Glastonbury - there is a whole string section playing along.

There are strong notes of Fleet Foxes in some of the songs, and an unfortunate resemblance to Coldplay in some of the dirges. I still don't have a strong opinion either way. Not that anyone gives a stuff.

More Tour. Cavendish hasn't lost a sprint finish, though his main rival hasn't had anything like the team support. Cav is young, articulate, and has been taking advice about arrogance, so he puts on a good show.

It is instructive to follow the Tour on the Michelin atlas. They mostly use minor roads, and it is instructive to see what good condition they are in. The French have really looked after their infrastructure over the past thirty years.

We drove up Mont Ventoux lots of years ago. The commentators were forecasting gloom and doom, what with the heat and the wind, but the riders seemed to get up it OK. It is hard to resist the notion that they have little helpers - can anyone be so fit? - but the testing is so rigorous that they can't risk it. There is an oil sketch I did of the mountain while we were camping in a cherry orchard at Malaucène. I was tempted to post a photo of it but then I had a closer look and decided that it is pretty poor stuff.

One of our golf crowd has invited us all to his house for a buffet lunch today. I spoke to him on Thursday and he had already started the shopping and cooking. Whatever turns you on! I have discovered a bus service from close to here that goes close to them, so there will be a little extra snifter to go with the grub.

And I have paid for my next trip. Golf with Solo's as usual, in Spain near the border with Portugal. That's in mid-September. As my generation often says, you can't take it with you.

There has been much flu hysteria, as usual whipped up by the media, and not helped by our incompetent politicians and civil servants. The only beneficiaries are the drug companies. And from today it seems that you can call a help line, staffed by hastily "trained" people, in order to get Tamiflu without even seeing a doctor.

I have read that the side-effects of said drug are worse than actually getting the flu and getting over it. The temptation to call a help line in order to get a day or two off work will be felt by a lot of people. Take an aspirin, folks!

I stayed in on Tuesday. A long conversation with my French bank to activate on-line access to my account was satisfactory, firstly because it worked, and secondly because my long-forgotten French turned out to be quite competent. As some say about another function, use it or lose it.

And the postman brought my new gadget, which required installing lots of programs to make it work, plus lots of guessing about how to use it. It's like a hobby really. Gives your remaining braincells a prod. It turns out that I don't actually need the gadget, but it is a very nice bit of engineering.

Then on Wednesday morning I didn't feel like getting up, so I stayed in bed. A bit like lots of people with imaginary flu. The rest of the day passed quietly. Though the Tour was ferocious. I know the area of the day's climbs, and they are sadistic. But the riders these days are incredibly fit, even without the little chemical helpers of previous times (we suppose). After the Col de Colombière the race descended past Ian C's ski apartment in Chinaillon to Le Grand Bornand. Time trial today at Annecy.

I read that Justin Langer has become the all-time Australian 1st Class run maker. He has got past Don Bradman's 28,000 total, though it took him 18 years and 615 innings. Bradman only needed 338 innings. Perhaps the bowling is better these days.

When I birdied the 1st today, I thought "'ere we go", but it was not to be. Never mind, I was out there.

I am going to indulge in a Full English Breakfast for supper. The minestrone that I developed from a chicken carcass is very tasty, but as usual I overdosed the veg and pasta so it is rather dense. I might make a pie out of it. And why not. Roll out some puff pastry, lump in the filling, cover, glaze, and bake. And eat it with chips? And ketchup? Yup.

But that's a title for later.

A spiffing weekend's sport. The golf has been enough discussed in the media, but it was the best Open I can remember. Any one of half a dozen could have won. Just one missed chip, just one three-putt. And perhaps it would have been just a little bit odd if Tom Watson had won at the age of 59, though nobody would have begrudged him. I felt sympathy for Cink, the eventual winner, who knew that nobody watching wanted him to win. And what a glorious golf course!

While this was going on I had to keep going over to the Tour, because I wanted to see the climb up to Verbier. It's a road that I have driven up many times, always in winter. It is all steep hairpins, scarier to drive down than up in the snow and ice. And Contador made his move. Today they have to ride over the Grand St Bernard. There is a road tunnel well below the top to make it easier for motors, so it will be stiff for the bikes.

And at the same time I was trying to pay attention to the cricket. But duty called, so I was able to cut the grass during some of the boring bits. Then when the Aussies started to look a bit menacing on Sunday, I remembered some urgent rose pruning.

There was the odd moment when I felt a bit guilty about the dismissals which weren't, but then I remembered the old remark about "All's fair...". There's a lot of both love and war in the Ashes. And a fine old rule in golf about "the rub of the green", where it might be a lucky break, or even a bad break, but you just have to accept it. Doncha, you Aussies!

So this morning England beat Australia at Lord's for the first time since my mother was pregnant with me. Which is rather a long time ago.

And to round off the sports commentary, there were only five of us out this morning (most of the blokes have gone off to the Weald of Kent for a day and night away, which I didn't much fancy), so I was able to pick up another useful few quid.

Helen is back from her epic solo trip to Cotignac in the whizzy little Mazda. She says that Frank (6'6" or so) folded himself into it, had a drive and thought it was fun, like a go-cart. And it's her birthday on Thursday. She would like a Lotus Elan as a present, but I haven't won the lottery recently. Sorry, Helen!

I might have another day off tomorrow, to catch up on the garden and the housework. And the back office. Or not. Depends how I feel.

A couple of days with nothing much happening, then it gets lively. I had a brilliant start (I choose the adjectives round here) to my golf on Tuesday, then the rain came and we wandered off after 13 holes.

Kate and Sami arrived on Wednesday, so that was it for the peace and quiet (and, I must admit, a bit of boredom) of my daily routine. He is a lovely child, open and responsive, with a good sense of humour.

The Downes thing was impressive. She a terminal cancer case, he 84 and losing sight and hearing, after 54 years together choosing the Dignitas exit. The gruesome self-appointed do-gooders who oppose the process should mind their own business, or at least recognise that in the absence of the process, people are making their way to Beachy Head or a train line, to go by leaving a mess for other people to clear up.

I was pleased to see that the BBC is getting embarrassed by its salary stucture, and will not be paying bonuses. The notion that a big wheel in the Beeb will try harder in order to qualify for a bonus is false. Or if it true, such big wheel should be fired for not giving of his best all the time.

So à nos moutons. There is the Lord's Test, the Open and the Tour all on at once, and I only have one telly. The prelude was my fine golf win yesterday morning (adjective as ever is mine), which set up the England openers to make the biggest opening partnership against Australia at Lord's since 1926 (or something). Of course the England middle order batting blew it, apart from an entertaining last-wicket cameo. But now it's raining in London, which gives me a window in which to do this and catch up on the golf and the Tour. I used to miss all this stuff when I had to go to work.

Tom had intended to join us for supper last night, but cried off on account of not feeling too well. There is gloomy news about the flu epidemic, so you have to keep the faith. He missed an excellent supper. I had got some incredibly expensive lamb chops from Mr Sparks the organic butcher, who almost tells you the lamb's name and what it had for breakfast. I contrived to cook them just right on the (very hot) griddle pan, and served them with one of Nigel's tried and tested spud recipes (stove-top dauphinoise with pancetta and rocket, since you ask). Yum.

A couple of quiet days in prospect, though the garden is crying out for attention. Do you know, I might get a man in. Or would that be an admission of advancing feebleness? I'll find out.

Right. Back to the telly.

... in the Sofia Gardens tonight. Not "Ten to make and the last man in" but close. After decades of being pissed on, with more happening, I felt entitled to watch the cycling and the golf. It was only when they had finished that I came back to the cricket. Oh yes, I hear you say, Oh! ye of little faith. But I was there for the last hour or so. What fun it was to watch Mitchell Johnson bowling 93mph wides. And to watch our non-batters holding out at the end (against, may I say, non-bowlers).

One of the advantages we have over the Americans is that we can understand the notion of an exciting draw. When I say "we", I mean, of course, cricket people. And I must say that I have never before in my life seen Welshmen supporting England.

I would expect my Chief Australia Correspondent to emerge any time now from his quiet place in the SCG Members enclosure, to give us the benefit of his cricketing wisdom. But I must say that he doesn't do triumphalism, so he's OK. Lord's next week, where I am told that England have never, ever, beaten Australia in the last thousand years. Might be worth watching.

But by avoiding the cricket I was able to see the Col d'Aspin and the Tourmalet. We seem to have driven there a number of years ago, and we camped near (going to make supper now) Luz le St Sauveur, with its lovely fortified church. I have looked around, and I can't put a date on it. Tant pis as we used to say. But I remember the drive over Tourmalet and the lovely Col d'Aspin. We must have done lots of miles just to get there and back. But what the hell, no kids, no dogs, very nice.

Of course, we didn't need the Pyrénées, cos we lived an hour from the Alps.

I'm in a rather crap food mode at the moment. Chips and that. But Kate is coming during the week, so Tom has announced that he will attend on Thursday for D.B.B. He suggests a BBQ. I may order a takeaway.

A fight for love and glory/ A case of do or die. We were having a nice Test match. The England tail had wagged vigourously, providing much entertainment, then bloody Ponting has to go and spoil it. It wasn't possible for me to watch the afternoon stuff - after all, there was the Tour de France and the golf to watch.

This morning we were on the golf course without a radio, so missed a slight response by England. It now seems that if Australia get another 250 or so, we will be struggling. Fortunately it did what it does in Wales - it rained.

The women are playing their "Ashes" Test at the moment. The Aussies chose to bat, and were reduced to 28-5. Then the next wicket fell at 257. Oh well.

There is a rider in the Tour called Zabriskie, and the name triggered a little cruise down what is becoming my favourite back street, Memory Lane. I dug up a pic of Zabriskie Point, taken when we were camping in Death Valley in about 1991. And on youTube I found the closing sequence from Antonioni's incomprehensible movie of the same name, which consists of about a dozen shots of a house exploding, with slo-mo pics of stuff floating through the air. OK. But I spared you the pic.

I have just learned that 47 BBC employees get paid more than the Prime Minister. A self-perpetuating oligarchy, funded by a poll tax on the population, has licence to pay its favourites large amounts of money for no apparent reason. Iraq used to be run on similar lines.

Another squared-eyed weekend in prospect. Suits me.

Eurosport coverage of the Tour de France, with the pictures, always elicits memories. The Tour passed near Saintes Maries de la Mer in the Camargue, which was our first long range trip after arriving in France. We stayed there in a cheap hotel, where we ate baked beans in our room because we couldn't afford to dine in the restaurant. Next morning we went down to breakfast, to be greeted with cheers by the local French blokes because we had beaten les Boches in the World Cup final.

I have no idea why we took that trip; it probably seemed quite adventurous at the time. Well, it was.

Then the Tour has been via the old, real Provence (in the Ancient Roman sense) to Montpellier. We passed through the town in about 1974 on our way to Spain, and next morning the old Peugeot's engine gave up. I drove slowly to Béziers with the big-end clattering, and there we found a garage with the same model of car for sale. It had to be the same model for the roof-rack to fit. So I bought it, and we went for lunch while our camping gear wes transferred.

Then off we went to Playo de Aro in Spain. I found a pic from that trip

It must be Kate in the pushchair; it is certainly Helen on the horse.

On the way home we took a circuitous route via the limestone uplands, visiting the Cirque de Navacelles and the Grotte des Demoiselles (probably because they had Michelin "must visit" stars). And I remember a lovely hotel off the beaten track near Avignon on the way home. It makes me tired just to think about it. And there were four kids in the car, a Peugeot 404 Familiale with fold-down seats in the rear. But at least we didn't take the dog - that came later when we had the VW Minibus.

Back to the Tour. I am enjoying watching the Columbia team and their skill in getting Cavendish into position for his great sprint finishes.

Since you may like to know, my golf has been OK recently. Billy Wilson held his 70th birthday bash on Monday, and I came second. Not too bad again today either, so I will have to play in tomorrow's competition, if only to see how long it will last.

The thunderstorms this afternoon have cut off both Sky and broadband. I was (inevitably) reminded of life in semi-rural France forty years ago, when the first peal of thunder used to put the lights out. We had candles in the bathroom just in case.

I blame the Tour for dragging me back down Memory Lane. There will be more, I'm sure.

I hear more thunder so I'll save this before I get cut off.

Well, that's what I do. Watch it on TV, I mean. And play a bit of golf - quite decently this week, so perhaps the Wheel of Form is turning upwards.

The England women's cricket team are world champions at all forms of the game and have just won three matches in a row against the Aussie women. If only our men can do the same.

I saw a bit of Brett Lee bowling high speed swinging yorkers - scary!

It's odd how quickly tennis has changed. Not long ago, Wimbledon was worth watching because of the variety, drop shots and lobs and volleys at the net. Now it's all baseline walloping, except that Roddick did play some drop shots and completely bemused Murray with them.

It's like golf, in that technological "improvements" are tending to spoil the game at the highest level. Make 'em play with Dunlop Maxply wooden rackets, then we'll see how good they are.

And the Lions whacked the Saffers, as they almost did in the previous matches. Violence as a way of softening up the opposition seems to be the Boks' method.

And the Tour has started. There will surely be less doping this year because of the testing. Armstrong has done a crazy thing, coming back as he has done. Mont Ventoux will find them out.

The BBC filmed much of Glastonbury and let us watch some of the acts until today. Names I have seen mentioned were there. Florence is shouty. Lady GaGa is a daft music hall act. Kasabian sounds like old-fashioned rock. Call me reactionary, but I did enjoy the Boss's show the best.

And while on music, I came across a rather good Carmen on Sky Arts. One of my little projects has always been to work on a translation of Mérimée's book. Years ago, when our flight was delayed in Grenoble (or somewhere near there), I bought a copy of the book and a notebook and passed the waiting time very nicely.

The 40th anniversary of the moon landing reminded me that we took little Tom to the IOS club to watch television coverage of it. He was too young to know what was going on, but at least he saw it.

Helen is dropping in for lunch in an hour so I had better rustle up a salad. She is going to Cotignac next weekend and offered me a seat in her car. The idea was to cruise the Route Napoléon with the top down, but I have stuff arranged. Nice idea though.

The Dog Days are upon us. I recall with horror that I used to have to go to work in this stuff. It wasn't too bad in France, but here it's the sweaty masses in the overcrowded tubes and trains that make it horrible.

I seem to manage to get round the golf course though. Yesterday I played in the High Elms GC veterans' Stableford, and was equal best visitor (came second on countback), so things may be picking up. The course is very dry and even a mishit balls runs along nicely, as I kept checking. But it has a wonderful collection of trees. It is said that the previous owner of the land (his family, the Lubbocks, later gave the land to Bromley Council for the recreation of the inhabitants) used to walk with Charles Darwin, who lived nearby in Downe, and they planted trees together. True or not, it makes a nice story.

A very pleasant day, and I even won a bottle in the raffle.

I have the awning down and the back doors open all day, but the result is that the inside and outside temperatures are equal - 27º in the shade. There's no hiding place.

Terry Plumber came this morning to fix my drip. It didn't take long, but the bill will reflect the fact that he turned out. A bit like the dentist really, who starts his meter running the moment you sit in the chair. Fair enough. If you can't (or are disinclined) to do it yourself, you pay. I asked about replacing my 25 year-old heating boiler, a dream question for most heating engineers, but he says that it could see me out (he didn't put it quite like that, but I knew what he meant). He reckons he could fit a replacement oven and gas hob, so I will start looking around - not for a "bargain" but for one that will be the right one. After all, when your oven is as old and filthy as mine it has to be changed.

A brief pruning session just now has persuaded me to stay indoors out of the sun. Not hard to do, because this is where the beer fridge is. I have just been looking at the family tree of a man whose ancestor married the widow of my great-great-great grandfather Henry Wood, who died in 1804 at the age of 25. We're all related in the last analysis, and it's Adam and Eve's fault.

There will be screeching and grunting tennis ladies on the box, so I won't bother. I saw a few minutes of one of them who even screeched when her opponent hit the ball. Gag 'em is what I say.

Golf in the morning, then a weekend off for a change.