A feeling in my GUT-What's in a name?

Where are you from? To give the answer 'Kent' promotes a sort of respect that you have done okay. To reply 'Gravesend' induces a flicker of sympathy hidden only in the faces of the Gemma Artertons of this world. (Brilliant actor is the implication as she hails from these parts).

According to Press reports a Whatshisname from the Tory B Council is proposing a name change to Gravesend Upon Thames (GUT). You don't think the record temperatures are getting to him do you? The town like the Royal family it seems needs a fillip, historically having been full of 'loathsome people' commensurate with being referred to as the 'armpit of Kent'.

Voting figures do much to counter such suggestions as with Gravesham being part of the blue blue grass of Kent in Parliamentary terms. 'Pelham' has been for me a sort of sanctuary with the ward continuing to be held by Labour and with moi and my future wife living in the road in our early days in Gravesend. The house (She was upstairs, I was downstairs but not in an Upstairs Downstairs sort of way) is now an old folks home which if you like things going full circle is where we could end up.

I'm not sure what the fees are. Not on a par I hope to those being charged to the family of a ninety year old neighbour who has been daft enough to save rather than go on lots of cruises and own his own house. He couldn't stay put as he couldn't get up the stairs to go to the loo.

Over £1100 a week it costs. Yes-a week. No exclamation mark needed. I used to give him a lift to the polling station coincidentally negating my vote. Did either of us vote for the position he is in now? Sir Richard Acland would turn in his Grave.

I am no stranger to such town and county prejudice coming from Camborne in Cornwall. Although having a hill that you can go both up and down it was always looked down upon by many Illogan (post Demelza) residents. At least I can stare with pride at my 'I love Camborne' car sticker gazumped by Cameron & Osborne once again thanks to Brexit as I fill up with pricier petrol.

I have been over on the ferry to Tilbury on 5 occasions since this time last year. Once to go on the 'Cruise to Nowhere' aboard the Marco Polo. Three times to take on board what was on offer during Estuary16 and once to suss out The Worlds End as a possible venue to meet my Essex cousins saving them and us the Dartford Crossing experience.

A clear view of Gravesend was there for all to see, except of course for those with second tunnel vision. If you were not part of any of these epic occasions download Countryfile from Sunday the 9th October and your eyes will be opened.

We couldn't return from 'The Cruise to Nowhere' on the ferry as it was undergoing essential maintenance. Instead of a freebie thanks to the bus pass ( A satisfying sigh of relief can be heard from Sir Richard) we had to pay £60 for a taxi. There were six of us so it was bearable. If we sound like skinflints you could be right as we booked through Groupon. Be careful though as we Theresa May be people who are just about making do.

The taxi driver from Essex was befuddled. He thought those who lived across the river were snobs. The conversations during the journey must have put him right on this. The fact that he didn't get a tip could like the ferry be taken either way. It couldn't have been his Estuary English as with my Cornish accent who am I to talk?

A relative of Gemma Arterton took us around the Port of London Authority as part of Estuary16. The two couples who accompanied us on the 'Cruise to Nowhere' each have a family member working for the PLA. If you've watched that Countryfile episode you'll know and appreciate what they do and the extent to which they do it.

Look carefully at the photograph. See where the pilot boat is? See the flag above at half mast? Well just have a think about that if you are into name calling or name dropping. RIP.

Precious moments for John Smith, a Silversmith and a Shoesmith

Having not dug up any gems from the garden before, early potatoes excepted, I came across this silver ring (pictured) where I thought Pocahontas was buried (See 5 posts ago). No detectorist me-just an onlooker on the lookout for finds. Most previous dugouts ended up in the dustbin of historical mediocrity known as the leaning compost heap. (Pictured)

You know the sort of bits and pieces I mean - clay pipes, 1980s Starwars figures, old crocs, toy alligators etc. Like the compost bin itself the list is growing as are my runner beans (pictured). Maybe It'll get to pieces of eight.

Now I reckon, having carried out basic research in the three days traditionally allowed in archaeology, that this slightly pitted unhallmarked object is from the Viking era. I would have photographed it next to a pound coin except I keep giving those to the shoe fairy (Replacing the Milk Tooth fairy snatched in the early seventies) who puts them into my granddaughter's size 2 shoes. Thankfully she shows no signs of being an Imelda Marcos or a Loads of Money entrepreneur so I did find a spare 20p coin in my pocket for getting it, like I do, in proportion.

As a footnote there is hard evidence. (Pictured) It was discovered by my daughter when she was six. She was foraging amongst the raspberry canes (Descendants pictured) which are adjacent to the potato patch. She came across an impression of a sole short long left left footprint. A modern child's size five and a half.

Allowing for coastal erosion, Thames clay shrinkage and hardening times, Dalton's Weekly Law of Partial Pressures and inflation as measured by The Footsie one hundred, the ring is more likely to have been dropped by a young damsel fleeing the viking fleet. It is possible that she had nicked the ring back from their Danegeld.

The ring therefore is in all probability a spillage from the pillage of the village people rather than having been a hand me down from Princess Pocahontas while she was having a final farewell smoke in one of those clay pipes with the last of her baccy before she cast off more than her mortal coil somewhere between Gravesend and Northfleet. In either case it is not Treasure Trove, Your Majesty.

If you have arrived at this point and have not given up the will to live then I would suggest you download 'French and Spanish Cricket for Beginners' from Amazon as there lie a few more gems for you to find, me ansome. It may not be Pokemon but it will take you to places you'd rather not be and my book to the top of the Cricket Book Ratings.

Vamoose en Vacances

‘Going down the dump, Mike?’ ‘ No I’m packing for our holiday .’ Where you off?’ ‘France .’ ‘ Tres bon. Have a good time. How long you going for?’ ‘Deux ans . ’ ‘I’ll keep an eye on the garden for you.’ ‘Thanks. Help yourself to the tomatoes. Just like the Labour Party they should be turning red soon.’ ‘I can’t eat tomatoes, they repeat on me.’ ‘What was that you said?’ ‘I said I can’t eat tomatoes, they repeat on me.’ ‘I’ll grow Jerusalem Artichokes next time. They’ll blow you away.’ ‘ Well I hope you don’t get blown away as they said ce matin on the shipping forecast while I was listening to the cricket that gales were due for Monday. ‘ ‘ That’s Lundy Joe. We aren’t going there.’ ‘ Shame Mike. It’s beautiful this time of year

Boris to Boggis

Since the Beeb have put paid to the Met the weather in the South East has definitely deteriorated, possibly a conspiracy brought on by the Remainians of which I am one. Am I in Denial? No I am in the blue blue grass of Kent.

As ever thoughts arise sitting on the garden swing during a freak spot of sunshine keeping an eye on my granddaughter playing with her toys. Will there be a coup de grace for Boris or shall I cut the grass when time for her morning snooze arrives?' Can you give me three minutes to boil you an egg ?' shouts the wife. I say 'Go' as a plane flies overhead en route to City Airport. I say 'Three minutes is up' as the next plane traverses the greying Gravesham skies. 'Are up' says my granddaughter.

The planes will be lower, louder and more frequent after Boris reverts to Boggis and casts his sights from Europe to Tory leader. The deafening clamour will increase tenfold if The Battle for Britain and our allies is lost and he builds his island not in the sun but in the Thames, drowning out the plaintive cries against the second crossing which is the third runway of these parts.

Kent Being a sort of car park already for Operation Stack, a further storey for Ebbsfleet & Paramount won't make a lot of difference will be the underlying strategy.

'Underground, overground, frack it for free, so incredibly, utterly devious are we. Let's muddy the waters so that we can be clear, we peddle in despondency, distrust and despair.'

Like Fantastic Mr Fox (Pictured) I tell one and all that it'll be fine even though I'm not so sure myself.

Loquation loquation loquation -a moving cover story.

From Prunus (pictured) to Eucalyptus (Same picture) the magpies (Specks in same picture) are leaving the nest before laying. Unusually no jokes are uttered about you not having gone to Specsavers as the joyous couple are only visible to those cognitive in black and white to paraphrase a bit of green baize memorabilia .

There lies the plot above the lower raised bed giving me an opportunity for Verity, gravity and sincerity - as near as makes no matter, dark or otherwise. Am I round the corner of the picture yet? Almost.
Perambulating attached to the granddaughter's pram opens up a new world if you are brave enough to take it on. Kerbs and way over the edge parking are more noticeable. Maybe like the prams the cars are bigger and owners think that there will be less chance of a scratch as a result of pavement rage than from the more mobile engaged mirror image thoughtless drivers speeding in residential areas.

Even parked cars, in newly built off-the-road driveways because of curbs on parking, seem to jut out more than they used to. I'm not just talking about the big-assed Renaults they used to make. Without a word of a lie one not quite sensibly parked van owner on my usual route had pre-laid a carpet out to cut it out on the pavement ahead (It is the relatively dry South East).

Perhaps he was advertising his wares to the people across the road who are either waiting for the Council to take away their 3-piece suite or for the temperature to rise before making themselves comfortable. Perhaps he chose to not notice us or maybe he didn't notice us. I checked for oncoming vehicles. To avoid a pile-up I had to perform a two wheel wheelie (honestly!) I couldn't bring myself to say ('really!') to get past.

Despite being on the wagon I proceeded carefully just in case he was using his carpet grippers as a Stinger device to deter pushy parents. I chose my words carefully. 'If that were a red carpet I would of course have gone straight over it.' I said. 'I wish I had a pound for every time I heard that one' was his reply. 'Not that I could tell as I'm colour blind.' He added. He was too young and his carpet was too small for me to offer him half a crown so he could clean it.

With 1001 things to do I wasn't in a position to continue with further unappreciated aisle rolling jocularity. I returned to four wheel stability hoping that the small static charges generated by his carpet would increase exponentially with the Cruella De Vil lookalike traffic warden dressed in magpie black and white edging ever closer in his direction.

Okay the point got moved but it was still well made.

Pastwords

There's safety in numbers so I've included them in my passwords to ensure they become as safe as houses making them difficult to break into. The age old problem is that at my age I have difficulty in remembering them. I have been told not to be singular but to use Variations i.e. a safe combination that I can lock on to. There's an Enigma going on here somewhere. But

As the recent Brit Aboard Rocket Launch found, locking is not always straight forward without the manual. Luckily the assembled seed sower bench mark wheelie thingy, item HLT164 (pictured) had one to follow. Or was it HLT264? Sitting in the dock are some Irish Brown Envelope seeds. Nothing Untoward, it was the daughter's Christmas Past Present. All Organic which will please the mother figure and includes favourites such as Bowland's Beauty Broad Bean (BBBB), Winter Squash Blue Kuri (WSBK) & French Unfolding Curly Kale (*^"!).

Harder to spot is the camouflaged sachet giving item HJT964 its lifetime wood treatment hue which may like my old Auntie Whatsername develop a more olive brown and velvety silver colour over time. She too had no worries of fading or peeling no matter what the weather pattern. She never became an item, but she remains to this day my most memorable name.

I'm Late with my Earlies but “Short summers lightly have a forward spring.”

I'm talking of course about a potato plant not a Plantagenet, though hardly a Duke of York (pictured, the slimier Prince) with low resistance to late blight on foliage and tubers not to mention common scab and potato leafroll virus. My GM selected variety bought from some bloke under a car park were Richard the Thirds. (That's why the Princes are legging it in the picture)

The Former despite the taunt of being labelled scabs were tempting because of their high iron content and electromagnetic properties feared by copper hating slugs. They were summarily dismissed on a seasonal basis because of their tendency of climbing up to the top of the trench mid-March and coming back down to earth up again. For the uninitiated, planting potatoes in shallow trenches will ensure that the potatoes, shielded from bright sunlight, will be tender, sweet and white, just like the non-Shakespearean Richard.

For the initiated, no need to relay my Richard the Thirds unlike my second earlies as being blemish free within my soil as the trench was topped with the previous year's organic sunny and cherlocked compost used only for my record breaking eggs Benedict cucumber batch, rhubarb crowns and gooseberry April fool.

If you wish to view my In-laws' film of hot potato growing techniques go to MeTube 'The Out-law Jersey Royals'. I say this of course at an election approaching time of big talk worth much less than 'diddlysquat laced with feather moss and mustard root', which we have learned to take with a pinch of salt or 10lb of beef jerky.

For the inebriated reading this content on a need to forget basis in the wake of the lost March hour I need to reiterate that the only reason that I have not as yet owned up to my recent discovery in my Gravesend garden is that I had to wait until Richard III was safely reinterred with a fitting, dignified and memorable ceremony before I could announce, as they say at election time that I have found Princess Pocahontas.

Pocahontas then will be next in line to the right royal succession of copycat finds anticipated. One hundred years behind Richard III in real time, will the two years of deathly hallows time be enough for the great British public to cope with another BBC repeat of graves not really ending?

It was bad enough for their reporter we heard doing a Jeremy Clarkson without the physical to his producer on the phone when he was stuck in the Three Daws public house having not eaten only to be rescued by the dying whale, ironically a Bottlenose not a Humpback, who gave up the ghost at Gravesend to put him in the limelight in 2006.

Pocahontas reappeared adjacent to the plot, now a raised bed where I have exhumed my legumes over the years. Like the Old Dartfordians who kept their eyes peeled for subsequent sightings of Whale pods I expected her, being from Virginia, to emerge from the potato patch. But of course like The Princess and the Pea she too had not lain undisturbed in the raised bed.

I have a qualification in Science and lots of plasticine left over from when the kids were small. Using the average contents of a box of matches it was easy to reconstruct her face. It was like two peas in a pod. The face was staring me in the face. Like one of the matches it was striking. It was uncanny - it didn't look like what it said on the tin.

The memories came flooding back. Sort of. I could see it now from the set of cigarette cards I once owned viz. ' Famous Beauties of 1937'. I didn't buy them, I found them on a bus. There she was in blue, purple and grey transfixed in my two mucky hands. I stuck a magpie feather in the back of her head. It was her, definitely - an exact match - Pocahontas!

Or was it Helen of Troy, The Queen of Sheba, Cleopatra, Messalina, Queen Guinevere, Dantes Beatrice, Joan of Arc, Lucrezia Borgia, Anne Boleyn, Mary Queen of Scots, Isabella de Bourbon, Lady Castlemaine, Louise de la Valliere, Nell Gwyn, Diana Vernon, Madame la Marquise de Pompadour, Catherine the Great, Madame du Barry, Marie Antoinette, Mrs Fitzherbert or Georgina Duchess of Devonshire?