Englnd xpx :)

Everyone knows of Admiral Nelson's signal before Trafalgar, 'England expects that every man will do his duty'. Less well known is the reaction of Admiral Collingwood, who was a more experienced sailor and would also prove to be a hero of the day. On seeing the signal, he remarked, 'I do wish Nelson would stop signalling. We all know perfectly well what is required of us.'

Sympathy for Collingwood increases when one learns that Nelson's signal required thirty-one flags in twelve three-flag hoists. To display it in one go, it would have had to be hoisted sequentially from the tops of the main, fore and mizzen masts and the gaff, and then down the starboard and port sides of each of the three masts.

In the event Nelson's signal was displayed in a rapid succession of eleven separate hoists to the mizzen masthead (in order to be most visible to the fleet astern). Each hoist had to be kept flying until all the ships had hoisted acknowledgements. Frigates were stationed along the line to windward to relay signals to ships further away, and then relay back their acknowledgements.

When one further learns that the the Fleet's code books had been revised just before the battle as it was believed the ciphers had been compromised, the potential for confusion was considerable. It is remarkable that the signal was read and acknowledged by the fleet within four minutes. I doubt it could be texted quicker.

Brevity makes Royal Naval signals something of an art form. Amongst my favourites is an exchange between the carriers HMS Formidable and HMS Indomitable. After being attacked by a Japanese kamikaze aircraft, Formidable signalled, 'Little yellow bastard'. Indomitable, carrying the flag of Admiral Vian, replied, 'Are you referring to me?'

Brown Job

I can scarcely bring myself to think about Bruin's plot to relax planning controls, and what that will mean for further emasculation of local democracy, for undermining sustainability and for generally screwing up the environment at every level - from what happens to the countryside in general to what happens in your neighbour's garden. 'Let's be like the French', the government cries. 'They get things done without any inconvenient public debate.' How very New Labour.

Holding up France as an exemplar for planning policy is like citing Attila the Hun as a trauma counsellor. France has a population density of around 110 persons per square kilometre. They have more land to lay waste, and fewer people to object to it. In England population density is three times greater, at around 377 per sq km in 2001 (and rising by about 7% per decade). The South East is nearly four times more crowded, with 420 persons per sq km. Kent, Essex and Hampshire are the most populated non-metropolitan counties in the country. Whatever the faults of our planning system, it has helped to manage relentless growth whilst maintaining the distinction between town and country, and it has struck a balance between the often conflicting interests of economic growth and the environment.

Now, it seems, the soon-to-be-former chancellor (who is about as English as cloutie dumpling) plans to shift the balance in favour of fiscal growth and centralised decision-making. This is the environmental equivalent of stop-start economic policy without a clutch, and I predict that an awful lot of damage is going to be done in a very short space of time. And that, by the time we wake up to it, the irreversible harm that has been done to the environment which we hold in trust for future generations will be a cause for everlasting regret.

With Apologies to A A Milne

Don't tell my father I breakfast on gin,
He'd really go over the top.
But it's perfect for dipping my soldiers in,
And it don't half make rice crispies go pop.

I think he suspects someone's been at his scotch;
He's marking the bottle, you see.
But it gives sago pudding that 'Je ne sais quoi',
So I top up the bottle with tea.

Daddy's ever so proud, every night before seven,
When I meekly retire with a book.
He thinks I think Christopher Robin is heaven (he's not),
But I have this 'arrangement' with Cook...

Mummy and Nanny think that I'm frail,
And at breakfast I usually am.
But by bedtime I'm rip-roaring hearty and hale
...And at 50 I'm nearly a man.

Freedom of Information

I mentioned a few days ago that MPs were going to vote on exempting themselves from the Freedom of Information Act. Now they've done it. Labour's 1997 manifesto said;

'Unnecessary secrecy in government leads to arrogance in government and defective policy decisions....We are pledged to a Freedom of Information Act, leading to more open government...'

The private member's bill to exempt MPs has only progressed with the tacit support of the government. In the third reading the bill was backed by 78 labour MPs, 18 Tories (including that voice of tolerance, Ann Widdecombe, naturally), and no Lib Dems. Bliar declined to comment; Bruin declined to block it.

Those who have supported the bill should hang their heads in shame. So should the many who did not vote against.

Omphaloskepsis

Some people say there is no such thing as a platonic friend - at least of the appropriate age and sex. My first platonic girl friend was probably only platonic because she was (a) going out with a friend of mine, and (b) out of my league by a country mile. From her point of view I was presumably an easy companion, free of tiresome complications. It was a rôle I was all too happy to take on - I effortlessly got to spend time with an exceptionally graceful and beautiful girl, without having to posture, puff out my chest or worry about any of the other things post adolescent males might worry about in such circumstances.

One lazy, June day we went sunbathing together on the beach at Alnmouth, in Northumberland. She had her eyes closed and I was chastely admiring her body, when it hit me that she had no trace of a navel. The effect was rather magical; no scar, no dimple, just a smooth, flat belly with a golden tan. Like Heva in Ulysses; "Heva, naked Eve. She had no navel. Gaze. Belly without blemish."

When I asked her she explained that, when her mother was in labour, the hospital staff had been having some sort of party (it must have been Christmas, although I forget that bit). No one heard her ring the bell, and when the staff finally came running the birth was already under way. In the ensuing mêlée the umbilical cord got torn, and her absent navel was the result.

That's what she told me, anyway. But I think maybe she was truly wafted here from Paradise....

Ghost Story

On 4 August 1982 my mother and father sailed out of Loch Eynort in South Uist, and set a course south for North Bay, Barra. By late morning they were off the south-eastern tip of South Uist, with Hartamul Isle, Eriskay, coming up abeam.

My father went below to do some navigating at the chart table (this was before the days of sat nav), leaving my mother alone at the wheel. It was misty seawards, so she was keeping an eye open for fishing boats.

Suddenly, she saw the loom of something to the east. For a moment she thought it might be a glimpse of a hill on Rhum - but Rhum was over 30 miles away, and visibility was less than six miles. She reached for the binoculars, focussed, and saw a ship bearing down on them fast, with foam creaming from the bows.

Panicking a bit, she called down to my father that there was a boat steaming straight at them. He came scrambling up from below, and they looked....and saw nothing. Nothing but the misty Sea of the Hebrides. They stared, unable to understand how, with visibility at five to six miles, a ship so close could have disappeared completely.

Later my father thought of the SS Politician - the 8,000 ton 'Whisky Galore' ship that had run at speed onto the rocks of Hartamul Isle off Eriskay on 5 February 1941. When my mother saw the ship, they must have just about been crossing the fatal track she came in on forty-one years before.

Kook Met 'n Aksent

Once, when we were preparing a meal, our South African friend asked if we had any paper. 'What sort of paper?' we enquired.

'Black paper', she replied.

It seemed an odd request at an odd moment, but she was a creative type. After an exhaustive search, my sister unearthed a sheet of black cartridge paper in an attic and triumphantly presented it.

'No', she said, looking at us as if we were disturbed. 'Black paper. You know - paper and salt. For seasoning.'