THERE’S A LIGHTHOUSE ON MY FRONT VERANDAH

OK, so it’s not really a lighthouse and the verandah is more of a semi enclosed storm shelter that you go through before entering the house – but you get my drift.
On the 10th of December I went to the annual get together of my old mariner friends that live in the Brisbane area. I am supposed to use a wheelchair for this sort of thing – but that was never going to happen, I went on my own two feet and didn’t even use a cane as my daughter took me there and brought me home again, so it was just a matter of walking to the bar and then to the tables.

Again this year the ranks had thinned a bit but not by too many this time, but brother, all hair is now either very grey or nonexistent, we resembled either the Alps or bowling balls in a shop window and as for waist lines, well, these have (as with the stories told) become very inflated. Funny, these guys were once the scourge of Asia and the South Pacific, their ships flew under whatever flag suited them at the time and their business and/or cargo were never discussed. We passed on many occasion and often were in flyblown ports together. Needless to say this usually resulted in too much food, booze and female company and often ended only on the arrival of the local constabulary after a magnificent brawl had erupted like a firework display to end the celebrations.

Little Arthur who was master of the ‘Trojan’ reminded me of the time we were racing each other for the only berth at our port of destination. Whoever came second would have to anchor off and tender stuff ashore. Naturally (knowing the other was listening in) we kept lying about our position on the radio to the port. Both of us gave our position as being 40 odd nautical miles further away from where we really were, hoping that the other would think they had the race won and slow down.

Anyway this all ended when we saw each other’s lights, engines went to full ahead with all the additional stops (like safeties) either shut down or pulled out. It was a bit of a foul night with high wind and 4 metre seas. I was actually keeping tabs on Arthur by the white slash as his bows broke through the oncoming waves and I bet he was watching us in the same manner. The small light beacon that marked the port entrance was well in sight and I even think we had the edge on the old Trojan, when suddenly we shuddered and started to slow down. Cursing like a fishwife I called down to Stoker to find out what was broken this time, only to be told that nothing was broken but by the feel of things we had run onto a shoal of either sand or an on and off again mud bank. Looking over I saw Arthur was in the same state, we both had come to a halt well clear of the entrance. There was nothing to worry about, it was lowish tide and as it rose we would float off, unless we broached in the heavy sea – luckily that didn’t happen. Still the indignity wasn’t quite over. As we sat there fuming and cursing each other over the radio, a rusty, decrepit, old banger of a cargo ship slipped round us, entered the port and took the berth. Naturally we screamed at the Harbour Master accusing him of having his beacon (which was one part of a major lead) in the wrong place … it wasn’t but it made us feel better to think that it was.

After the gathering, on getting home I did something I have never done before. I got an old Christmas tree and some lights from storage and dressed up the storm shelter. Nothing much, tree with lights and a few baubles, and a row of green and red lights around the inside walls. You see we are having a remarkable storm season this year and low dark clouds are sweeping in around 4 in the afternoon turning day to night. Then there is the wind and rain cutting across everything and forcing cars to either stop or slow right down, some even mount the pavement the vision is so bad.
Well, now all the locals know exactly where they are – nobody puts up outside christmas lights anymore, so mine are a small beacon letting people know that others are close by and as they sit in their cars, no doubt feeling a bit stressed, they know they are not alone.
Oh well, it’s my little gift to the season and who's to say that a small, tattered Christmas Tree can’t be a big important lighthouse ….

Reflections

It’s been a while since I wrote anything here; the last few months have been ... troublesome. However, something is looming on the horizon and it got the old brain into reflection mode. On the 10 of December I will be attending a bash with about 30 other old time mariners and associates. These were, at the time, not close associates, just people that we tripped over from time to time around the South Pacific and Asia. A description would be difficult, let’s just say that they were ‘fringe’ people, not exactly villains but also not the good guys. Although we didn't know it at the time, I guess you could also say that we were the last of the 'individuals', before the world finally became very bland and formalised. Most of the guys (and a couple of gals) attending will represent around 9 ships that steamed the region at the same time as we did. Most were single ship owner captains with crews that stuck with them over the so very many years, only being replaced when somebody made their exit. The ships were poorly maintained (money was always in short supply) and cargoes carried were a mixture of the legit, that showed on the manifest and the 'other stuff' that officially wasn't there. I can state that none of these ships ever transported drugs, we all had a pact about that. BUT there was liquor, tobacco and at times, arms.
Some of the attendees are older than me and a few a bit younger, this motly lot really covered the years from the 50s to 90s, the Ducks turned up in the 70s and were very much the new kids on the block. We do try and get together once a year but the ranks are thinning, time and past lifestyle are certainly rapidly starting to take their toll.
The point is that at our last gathering it struck me how very peaceful most had become. There was a lot of illness and injuries that now plagued the cast of this little epic but somehow there was almost a aura of serenity about them. Hard cases had suddenly become doting grandfathers and (almost) pillars of society. Certainly the stories still flew around but only those that ended with a good laugh at ourselves, however, more and more stories seemed to revolve around those that are no longer with us, I guess it's the crews way of giving them a form of immortality. Some of the catering staff serving us were a bit 'disrespectful' with that, so often these days encountered, don't care attitude. I had to chuckle, if they only knew ... in the past these oldies they scorned and giggled at behind their backs, would have mashed them to a pulp and left them for the hospitals to put back together - and that would have been the lucky ones, you didn't mess with these guys.
Looking around I saw Limey Pete showing photgraphs of grandkids to any that would look - I remember Pete as the best brawler in Asia, everynight ended in a barfight but the next day he always came back and paid for the damages. His ship 'Lady Faye' was held together with string glue and a lot of luck; what a delight it was to see the old girl loom over the horizon, you just knew something interesting was going to happen.
U Boat Carl, was just that, an ex WW11 U Boat commander, his ship was fitted to carry anything that was liquid and volatile, the strange thing is I have forgotten the name of his ship, it's nickname was 'The Brothel' and it was always a floating knocking shop. Now Carl must be close to 90, during our last meeting he kept wandering back to his Uboat days, alzheimers disease was starting to set in. Perhaps, for Carl, it's better if he goes and lives in the past, there he was somebody.
Then there was 'Lofty Hill', poor old Lofty, he only stood about five feet 3 inches and spent his whole life proving (with his fists) that he was actually six feet tall. His ship 'Dana Carter' ran like clockwork and was well maintained. The old girl did well as a floating casino (and a few other things) and I was saddened to hear of her loss (lost engines in a big blow, broached and capsized). Lofty is still proving how tall he really is, but now it's done with smile.
I could go on for pages about the players that will (I hope) be there, but to outsiders it would all be a bit mundane. As to me, well, I have made a vow that I will attend on my feet (no wheel chair) and that will happen, I haven't yet sat in the blasted thing, maybe in twenty years or so.
As to the 'party' well it will always be a success, people will fade away but all the time those that are left keep the stories flowing they will still steam the oceans of this little planet and that, to us, is important. Plus I think the peace and serenity thing only goes so deep, given a prod the young hellions would soon re-surface ... magic stuff.

Summer Saturday about 51 years ago

I was trying to catch up with the world news, or what the television offers as world news, and an advertisement came on for some toy store. Now, nothing wrong with that per say except that the wording was along the lines of ‘give your kids many interesting things to do – fill in their day with … etc

Has it really got to the stage where kids have to be entertained and guided every minute of the day? That’s plain stupid. OK – wait for it – you are now going to get one of those dreadful “when I was a kid” stories, sorry but it has to be said. So how did we spend a, say Saturday, in summer?

With the long hours of daylight we would be up by 6am – by 7am we would have had breakfast and be ready to face the day and on the way to our favourite meeting place – this changed over the years but all knew the current one so we didn’t need half an hour on a mobile phone, to discuss the location. You never knew just who would turn up or even when, you just knew it would happen. In your rucksack you had a lunch packed by either parents or housekeeper. This would usually be a sandwich or two, a couple of hard boiled eggs and a slice of cake – baked at home and not from a packet. You would also have a stone jar of some sort of drink, usually homemade lemonade or ginger beer, if you were very lucky you might even have a shilling in your pocket to purchase some Tizer to drink and if the ration had reached the shops, a small bar of chocolate.

Once 2 or 3– maybe even 4 or 5 other s had turned up, you would be off. This Saturday was to start with a wander. Crossing the fields to the railway line we would get beside the track and head south. From time to time other lines would join the one you were on and you would divert to see where it came from, passing trains thundered past but being steam trains you heard them coming a mile away and would get to the side of the track in plenty of time. By 10am we would be about 5 miles from home (we didn’t walk fast) there was no reason to and we had to stop and investigate ‘things’ along the way. Still by this time we would be thirsty, so a short break was in order to have a little of the dink we all carried in our rucksacks.

The line walking ended when we saw something of interest. It could be a small gathering of buildings denoting a small village, or a river with ducks swimming or fishermen on the banks, or might be an one of the many un cleared bombed out buildings that still littered the countryside. Today it was a single deserted airstrip that caught our attention. It was quite a small place with something that had once been a crude runway, a small observation tower and a couple of collapsed tin huts. It had probably been one of the many RAF fighter bases for Spitfires or Hurricanes, or, at one time or another perhaps both. These little strips were scattered around so that the German bombers couldn’t get many planes at any one time. The rest of the morning was spent crawling around in the huts and observation tower, small items of found ‘stuff’ would become treasures to be taken home in the ever trusty rucksack. Lunch was dragged out and enjoyed sitting on a grassy back beside the airstrip, I bet, in the past many a fighter pilot had also enjoyed the sun and a sandwich when sitting in the same spot. I guess for them there would have been a constant knot of fear that made any food difficult to swallow. Many were between 18 and 21 years old, only 8 or so years older than we were at the time … that’s pretty scary.

From the little observation platform at the top of the small tower we had spotted a road and at about noon or a little after we headed off across the fields to find it. Time was tricky as none of us had a wristwatch but Denis Waters did carry an old alarm clock in his rucksack, that, from time to time, we dragged out to get a bearing on time.
Reaching the road we soon found a crossroads and that meant a signpost. These were mainly new as all signs had been removed during the war just in case the Germans got there. Some bright spark in the Ministry of Roads or whatever must have been under the illusion that Germans couldn’t read maps and that by removing the road signs whole Panzer Regiments would get lost, give up and go home.
Anyway the sign told us that Oxted was 6 miles away and off we went. Actually we didn’t have to walk all the way as one of the local farm hands came along on a tractor that was pulling a hay wagon, so, we got a lift to just outside of the village – bit smelly as the cart had recently held manure but a ride is a ride.
Seeing as it was ten minutes to 2pm there was time to make the matinee at the cinema. The seats were 9 pence for a matinee and we just had enough money. I have no idea what the film was on the day in question, it would have either been a western or very ‘B’ SciFi. Actually, today (51 years later) I collect these old scifis and have over a hundred of them with more being added weekly. I think the cinema was glad to see us go as the manure smell was becoming evident even to ourselves and as the film ended all the exit doors were thrown wide open.

After the cinema we pooled the money we still had and bought a couple of bottles of tizer and three sticky buns to be dived up between us. It was now just after 4pm but still bright daylight, being summer it wouldn’t get dark until around 9.30/10.00pm but there would be a long twilight. Still, parents got a bit grumpy if you were late for dinner (usually around 7.00pm) so we started to wander back to base camp, which, at this time, was a tunnel dug in the woods not far from my house. As tunnels go this was quite a good one. It had lino on the floor, a small stove with pipe chimney, cushions and a small wooden cupboard with munchies, usually nuts we had found but at times with packets of potato crisps although these were scarce and treated like gold. On vary rare occasions there might even be a packet of biscuits, these had to be seriously rationed.
Safely tucked away in our underground fortress we lit the fire, I don’t know why as it wasn’t cold, it was just that you couldn’t have a good camp without it, and planned the next weekend which was to be a campout in the grounds of my house. These were always fun and it meant that we could sneak away into the woods after midnight without parents getting ratty. During the week we would collect as much food as possible, ready for the cookout. There still wasn’t a lot around but we could get local produce so things like eggs, sausages and bacon were available in small quantities and there would be plenty of potatoes to roast in the fire and then eat with heaps of butter melted on them.
We broke up at about 6.30pm giving us time to get home before dinner (following getting thrown into the bath – it must have been good manure).

So, that was a typical Saturday, nothing to speak of really happened and we didn’t try and set the world on fire. No video games, no music earphones to cut off the outside world, no mobile phones, no bikes or skateboards, just a very big and interesting world that really did need us to explore it.

PIRATES – THE PROBLEM CAN BE CONTROLLED BUT NOT BY THE UN.

So, we are back to media madness about modern pirates, all I can say is that it makes me sick to the stomach – not the pirates, although they do, but rather the media, politicians and a host of others all trying to cash in on this terrible industry. In some areas of the world, from the 60s, pirates have been as active as they are today; it’s just that nobody cared and, except for a bit of short time excitement, nobody really cares today.

Let’s be clear on a couple of issues; over the years pirates have mutated into something different from 4 decades ago. They are still, to a degree, people trying to get money for their own use (usually poverty stricken fishermen) but now they have been joined by the ranks of religious fanatics. These are the people that are expanding the industry. The money they make, and there’s a lot of it, goes to help fund terrorist activities around the world. So, be aware, we are not just fighting simple pirates; we are also fighting large, cash healthy, terrorist organizations.

The question begs to be asked “Why do we fail in endeavors to wipe out pirates”? The answer is quite simple; the western culture legal Industry and general apathy get in the way. It’s the same reason that the Iraq conflict is failing. Western troops are soft (yes even the supposed bad boys) when compared to the enemy. Our troops have thousands of dollars worth of equipment, the best weapons and organised support. On the other side we have guys and gals who may only have an antiquated firearm, a pocket containing something akin to week old bread and some root vegetable and another pocket with some ammunition, but they also have something that our troops don’t and that’s a steely resolve to kill the enemy at any cost, there is a burning hatred that can only be extinguished by death. They do not need, comfort, they do not need food and they harbour no thoughts of home. If ordered, they will sit and wait in a ditch for days/weeks impervious to weather and personal comfort, their only thought is to carry out their assigned task.
Our troops, when compared to the opposition, have a background of home life, food, shelter, movies and general pleasant living. They want to get back to the good life, theirs just don’t care, and they have no dreams of ‘other things’ only killing the enemy.

I have worries about the UN and others getting involved, that will really stuff things up big time because that will bring the baggage of ‘political correctness’ and that’s a very bad idea. If you want to eradicate pirates, you start by showing strength not weakness, and to the eyes or the terrorist any and all forms of negotiation and attempts in ‘understanding’ are recognized as a weakness to be exploited and in that area they are masters. The UN or even simple multi nation action will involve so many ‘rules of engagement’ that it is doomed from the start. As in the past, the actual aim of the operation gets diluted and eventually lost, in the stream of rules and regulations imposed to carry it out. The enemy has no such hindrance and thus, again, wins the day.

Next we have to look with un-blinkered eyes at which governments may be surreptitiously supporting the pirate trade. I have got into trouble in the past by naming certain countries, so this time I will simply say that a careful watch should be kept on governments of countries lining the Malacca Straits and South China Sea. I won’t even dain to mention Somalia, their government couldn’t lie straight in bed and Nigeria needs to put on the suspect list.

Moslem factions in many countries now use pirates as a cash producing industry, their tentacles stretch across the globe and I would assume, although I have no proof, that they will be planning to extend these operations, all that is holding them back is the need to judge just what reaction the western world will make to the present level of operation.

So, how to defeat them and ‘yes’ it can be done – but not by present rules.

To test the water I would have two vessels in the water. The first is, your main attack vessel and the second, a support vessel but also capable of taking care of itself in a standalone operation. These vessels should steam no closer than one complete horizon between them (say 15/20 nautical miles). The purpose it to draw the enemy out to you and then dispose of them, I should say they I have been engaged in such operations and they are very successful but one rule must be recognised before you start ‘No Survivors’, you just can’t afford that luxury.

Standard procedure is for the pirate mother ship to get close and then launch fast inflatable rafts with boarding crews. Once the rafts are committed they are vulnerable but there is a strict order of events that must be observed.

Your crew must be armed with nothing less than modern gatlings, something akin to the M134D would be most acceptable. The rafts are actually the least of your worries; these can be easily disposed of. The main worry is the mother ship getting off any form of radio signal (THIS JUST MUSTN’T HAPPEN).
So, at least three gatling type guns or (if the range is long) one very smart sea to sea short range missile must take out the enemy wheelhouse and any radio masts etc.
At the same time the rafts must be totally destroyed, along with all occupants, that then just leaves one other item of business, but the one that can get tricky.
As the rafts are being destroyed you must already be steaming towards the mother ship - if it is still afloat. This must be boarded and any evidence gathered. Also, and this is where our western weakness gets in the way, any survivors must be eliminated. Then the vessel must either be sunk, or steamed to a hidden spot for disguise before returning her to a neutral and safe harbour.

It must appear to the pirate clan that the ship has just vanished, this starts to create valuable doubt. Once a few vessels and crews fail to return the trade will begin to become less attractive and once that little acorn of uncertainty is sown you can build on it. You will never be able to end the operation as the water will be constantly tested but the oceans will become a safer place.

The greatest problem in running this as a government or governments operation is that they are simply no good at keeping any secrets and the need for such extreme measures will have the legal types screaming their heads off. Plus the operation would need to be kept secret from certain governments with whom, on paper, we enjoy cordial relations, no matter how much we distrust them.

I am now getting on in years and I am sure that superior military techniques have evolved since my days of ‘point and pull the trigger’. However, one thing is still the same – we are losing because our western charter does not allow us to go the last (very messy) yards and unless someone is prepared to stand up and tell things as they are and take the necessary unpalatable action, the seas will get less safe and terrorists richer by the year.

I’m not holding my breath, as this is another area where we have lost the plot. In my day there were actually two groups actively opposing pirates. Indeed both were paid mercenaries but they did get the job done. As to what happened to them? Well, our own governments and culture made them outcasts. They were condemned because they tried to make the sea a safer place when governments couldn’t or wouldn’t – just like now.

Harry Drake

Ludlow Tower Has Fallen

Last night I received a phone call from an old schoolmate still in England, she rang to tell me that my old school friend Dickie Warner had died. It was cancer, Dickie was always a heavy smoker even when only 14 years old. Some of you will remember Dickie from some of my short stories, he was always around and I often thought about him and his later girlfriend, then wife, Barbara Hatman.

Dickie was a ‘quietly patriotic’ sort of chap and ended up in the army. He saw service all over the globe in defense of the realm including the Falkland Isles. It always rather surprised me as Dickie was a quiet sort; you know the kind of chap, solid, reliable, honest, and always the faithful friend.
So, another chapter of the book has closed, I just wished that I had managed to get back to see him before the end but hindsight has never been served by mortal man.

I remember one year, we were, I think, about 10 years old. It was around the 4th of November and every kid had sufficient fireworks stuffed under their beds to make Guy Fawkes seem very tame, ready for Bonfire Night (Nov 5). Dickie and I had, apart from the other stuff, 10 thruppeny (say 3c today) rockets and we had been making great plans for their use.
Merle Common school had its playground dived into a boys side and a girls side, in those days girls were treated like fragile flowers (yeah right, they were more vicious than a tiger with a toothache – but they looked so sweet) and had to be protected.
Now Dickie and I thought this was not only unfair but the girls had more playground space than we did and that wasn’t right, after all their activities usually only entailed sitting in a circle or skipping on the spot, what did they need room for?
Now these el cheapo rockets didn’t go far and we worked out that from the playing field across the road we could (properly aimed) shoot the said rockets into the girl’s playground. We didn’t know just how this might improve the situation; it just seemed, at the time, a good thing to do.
During the long lunch period we slipped across the road and set up ten milk bottles on an angle. In each of these we stuffed a rocked, aimed to clear the trees and land in the girl’s playground.
Then when we came out for afternoon break (15mins) we slipped across the road and got ready to set them off. Now we weren’t that stupid as to light the blue touch papers and let them rip, that would have exposed us as being the culprits. What we did was tie a small length of cotton twine to each fuse and lit the twine. You blow out the flame and it continues smoldering until it reaches the end, or in this case the rocket fuses. We had cut the twine so that it would smolder for about 4 minutes, that meant that by the time they started to fall on the girl’s playground we could be innocently loitering in plain view on the boy’s side of the iron curtain.

We were gleefully awaiting the screams when we saw something to make the blood turn to ice ‘teachers’ and even worse, teachers showing unknown adults (they turned out to be school inspectors) around. There was nothing to be done, the result was inevitable.
Nobody heard the first ones arrive and they fell quite harmlessly between people – but they naturally got much noticed. Then the second wave of about 5 rained down, one hit the headmaster, one hit Miss Coldbreath (maths) and one hit some chap wearing a bowler hat – I must say the hit rate was very good. There was a lot of screaming and running around, Dickie and I, although things had gone a bit wrong, were on the ground helpless with laughter, this was better than a Saturday cartoon at the cinema.

I’m not sure how many rockets actually landed in the playground but the ones that did sure created a big stir and Dickie and I both knew that dark clouds loomed on the horizon. These got even darker when the janitor found one rocked which hadn’t gone off, the blasted string had gone out leaving the evidence for all to see. So along with everybody else, we had no alibi.
For some reason everybody suspected us but nothing could be proved, however, there was no children’s rights in those days and on suspicion alone we got the ruler across the hand and playground sweeping for the rest of the term – but we did become heroes and enjoyed many free sweets from admiring classmates.
These days such antics would have had a thousand people screaming at the press about hoodlums and child crime – back then it was nothing more than a rather good prank. OK not the brightest but it was a hoot of the best kind.

I wonder if this had anything to do with Dickie ending up as CO of an artillery regiment or whatever they’re called these days – good old Dickie, he certainly knew how to aim a truepenny rocket – Good times old son, good times.

This is for you Dickie; it sums you up very well.

LEAVE your home behind, lad,
And reach your friends your hand,
And go, and luck go with you
While Ludlow tower shall stand.

Oh, come you home of Sunday
When Ludlow streets are still
And Ludlow bells are calling
To farm and lane and mill,

Or come you home of Monday
When Ludlow market hums
And Ludlow chimes are playing
‘The conquering hero comes,’

Come you home a hero,
Or come not home at all,
The lads you leave will mind you
Till Ludlow tower shall fall.

And you will list the bugle
That blows in lands of morn,
And make the foes of England
Be sorry you were born.

And you till trump of doomsday
On lands of morn may lie,
And make the hearts of comrades
Be heavy where you die.

Leave your home behind you,
Your friends by field and town:
Oh, town and field will mind you
Till Ludlow tower is down.

A. E. Housman (1859–1936). A Shropshire Lad. 1896.


From your old friend in crime
Harry

I've Worked it Out

OK – I think I have finally worked out why I really hate things these days, it’s actually quite simple, everything has become ‘tat’.
Take a look around, once we had lives that we lived because it was a quite happy thing to do. Now we simply exist to feed an insidious treadmill of financial institutions, the legal industry, and power and control hungry governments of all levels and their inquisition ‘The Taxation Department’ .
As youth we went into shops and spoke to the people working there because we probably either knew them, or it was simply the polite thing to do. Now shops have gone and been replaced with mega this and mega that, churning out endless inventory supported by over loud and over coloured advertising geared to dull your brain and rot your senses until you comply. They weren’t open 24 hours a day 7 days a week, why, because there was no reason for it.
Now, so that we can all own all the pretty trash that’s on offer, both parents work and the family tries to get by on reduced caring and, again, overpriced, underloving child care centres.
As a youth in my village/town I could look down any street and see nothing but the shop fronts and perhaps a zebra crossing. Now the eye is gouged by countless signs, don’t do this, don’t do that. Cross here, don’t cross here, double yellow lines, double red lines, slow down, speed up, it’s an offence to …., don’t loiter, please don’t die here there is a bin supplied round the back, on and on and on.
Once we got a wage in cash which could be stuffed into your pocket. Then we got cheques which we could either bank or get cashed and the company’s bank. Now it has to be paid into a bank account and that’s where the rot sets in. First you are forced to open a bank account, which means you are going to lose a lot of your hard earned money in bank fees, dozens of fees that serve no purpose except to steal your money and make it theirs.
Reserve Banks that only the gods understand keep forcing up interest rates, hundreds of thousands are losing their homes because the repayments keep going up and up – the politician will express regret on camera and then go and have a few whiskies in the pollies bar before hopping into their Rolls Royce and returning to their 3 million dollar home … understand one important thing ‘Nobody Cares’.
Company CEOs run trillion dollar companies into the ground, ruin thousands of small investors and get paid off with 25/30 million dollars to go away. ‘Nobody Cares’.
We have to fill out forms to do anything, a constant stream appear in your letterbox, god knows who thought them up but when you study them they are all geared for one simple purpose ‘To Have you like an open book in big brother’s computers. They have you by the short and curlies and there is no escape … apart from death and even then somebody has to fill out forms for you to prove you have curled up your toes.
Justice is served only to the wealthy, whether they deserve it or not - no money and you don’t stand a chance. And, as for getting sick, forget it, if you don’t have insurance you will never get the proper treatment; you either get better or die … ‘Nobody Cares’.
What it comes down to is that we are no longer a person or individual people, we are now nothing more that tags and numbers in countless computers that sit there ticking over waiting for us to either do something wrong or depart the mortal coil – and guess what? – Nobody Cares’.

I guess this is why, in my recent writing, I like to wander back to a long forgotten time. I don’t like it here, I want to be there, with all its faults, you see – ‘People Cared’.

A very tired
Harry Drake

TIME GENTLEMEN PLEASE

I have recently been tasked regarding the vow I made never to return to my home village. With my present fuzzy brain I’m not sure if it came from a friend or via an email from a reader of the book.

This far into the future it’s tricky to explain the emotion of those long ago days, plus it wasn’t so much a single event that led to the vow, rather it was a series of them, like some bitter layer cake, one rancid slice on top of another, on top of another … Also, I believe I was almost as much disillusioned with the whole country as with my little corner of it.

Let’s go back - I was (I think) 18 years old and had been serving in the Navy for over a year and as I was between ships, thought I would pay a visit to the old stamping ground. My parents were dead, the old house had gone and brothers and sister had scattered; they didn’t like me very much, so letters, cards and phone calls just never happened.
Midshipmen aren’t exactly overpaid (2 pound 10 shillings a week – of which you had to save 10 shilling) so I took the train down to Oxted (2nd class) where Dickie Warner would pick me up in his derelict banger of a car.
It was a cold, damp December afternoon when I disembarked onto the platform, strange, this was the same platform from which, under the magical sunshine of youth, I had spent untold hours as a train spotter and by the time I was 11, was sometimes allowed to drive the old ‘2 – 4 – 2’ steamer between Oxted and Hurst Green Halt.
Now the engine was a diesel, no hissing steam, no smell of coal dust and oil, no old man ‘Steptoe’ leaning out of the cab with a coal dust sprinkled cheese sandwich in his hand and blackened face split by that huge grin of his. Now there was just a quiet click of closing doors, a quarter second toot of the electric horn and the train slid away … Where was the fanfare, where was the excitement, where was the panache… ?

Dickie was still the same, a ready humour hiding behind a quiet disposition. He had joined his father in their little handyman service company ‘Warner & Warner’ Plumbers, Carpenters, Electricians, Gardeners. The fact that they had not even one qualification between them didn’t seem to disturb them, or their many customers, in the slightest … but they were on borrowed time.
The thing that I really remember about that day was the silence between us, few words were spoken it was enough that the old twosome were back together again.
Dickie first drove me to where the old house had stood. God it was awful. The socialist driven council had grabbed the land and turned it into one of those drab, grey, soulless council housing estates – cheap rentals for people that deserved them (yes I am being a snob). Where the orchard had stood and where I had found Rodney the Fox, was a sort of cemented square with blocks of housing units around it, one and two bedroom boxes that would form the slums of tomorrow. The residents of these boxes would never know that on the spot where they now existed (I won’t say lived as that implies more than they were), once a succession of grand houses had stood. From these houses, great plans had been hatched, armies had gathered to journey to far off battles from Darkest Africa and the Far East to the Americas - and The Families had presided over the land and brought order to chaos.
There was a glaringly lit cement block of a corner store occupying one corner of the square and although only a few years old the windows had already been sufficiently neglected to become less than clean with grime showing in every corner, still the grime matched the faces of those people hanging around, seemingly without purpose, eyes without interest, hiding personas with no will to learn, no dreams to stir them on to larger things … I was pleased to get back into the car, I didn’t belong here.

We drove back to Oxted; the heavy grey sky was now sprinkling the land with a few large snowflakes but as yet, not sufficient to put a covering over the brittle grass and frozen soil. I was interested to see how the memorial park was faring now that my family had gone. This small park was attached to the village green and although not large, had, a hundred and ninety years earlier, been well designed to give shade in summer and some rain protection in winter. A small path wound its way between a combination of trees and shrubs, interspersed by small areas of flowers, allowed to grow wild. In the centre were a small pond and a memorial to all these ‘Of The Village’, that had fallen in, mostly long forgotten, wars. This land had been a gift, from my family, to the village and they had paid to have it developed and for the memorial, it was a ‘grand’ little place that oozed a sense of peace and tranquility.
When we got there I understood why Dickie had been so quiet, the park was gone and in its place was a revolting ugly, new Council Offices block. To make matters worse this disgrace to the eye even had a sign naming it after the present Mayor, a seedy, skinny, spivvy type who made his money in selling kitchen appliances, such as they were back then, this income he supplemented by being a collector for the Prudential Insurance Company. He often had a cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth and the skills required to properly wear a tie seemed quite beyond him.
A small plaque had shown that the park was named after the family that had donated and built it, that plaque had gone but Dickie showed me where it was, sitting on a pile of rubble ready to be hauled off to the tip.

In the evening (although it’s pitch dark by 4.00pm) we drove to the ‘Old Bell’ pub for dinner. Even here the day didn’t see any joy. A local man spotted me and started making comments (loud enough for me to hear) about how good it was that the old ‘poncy’ families had all gone “And good riddance too”. Finally I had, had enough and getting up politely asked him to take back what he said and apologize. This, he refused to do, having obtained courage from a few beers and a couple of mates at his back: so, I just had to break his nose, there was really no alternative. I think the thing that really irked me was that there were quite a few of the older villagers about and none could meet my eye. I think it was in that second of time that I realised that all that had been … was now gone.
We left that pub and drove to another ‘The Diamond’ here the old landlord greeted us with open arms and the more ‘farm type folk’ gave a friendly nod and a wink. At ten minutes to ten of the clock the call ‘Time Gentle Please’ rang out, announcing that it was time to close up for the night.

Next morning, after a huge breakfast cooked by Dickie’s mother, we drove up to our old look-out place high on the side of the downs. I hate to think how many hours as kids we had wasted sitting up here looking out over the countryside. From here you could see a world just big enough for children, Darkmere Wood, with its haunted centre. Stafford’s Wood which still hid away our old railway station and from where, on that special day ,I had come with Carole and the others, to this spot, before our last night of that last wonderful summer holiday. The Chalk Quarry itself where we had tunneled to the centre of the world and fought monsters that only lived at the world’s core. Oaks Corner where we had gather bonfire wood for the 5th of November celebrations. Gallows Crossroads, so haunted that we never (except once) went after dark, what a night that was.
Overnight, snow had softened all the ridges and contours, I wished it could have been a summer’s day for my departure, but there again, perhaps, the chill was more fitting, for me sunshine had gone from this place.
In my mind I could hear the words from the previous night ‘Time gentlemen please’. Yes, it was time to shut up shop, there was nothing left to buy in this place.

Dickie drove me to the station but didn’t wait to see me off, I think we both knew that this was our last parting and stretching it out was pointless. However, there was one last surprise. Sitting on the bench outside of the waiting room was an old man that I recognised. It was Mr Cooper the old, now retired, Station Master. Sitting down I said Hello and turning to me he said. “Well master Frank, I guess you be a goin’ now and that’s probably a good thing, nowt left around here for the likes of us”. As the train slithered into platform and squeaked to halt I shook his hand and boarded. The ingratitude and sheer bloody meanness of the place had overwhelmed me and I resolved never to come back … and I never did.
Three days later Dickie phoned me to say that Mr. Cooper had died, it was almost as if he had been waiting to say goodbye to someone from … back when.
I learned over the years that there would always be a voice waiting in the shadows of ‘time’ to again whisper that same dreadful announcement … ‘Time gentlemen please’.

The price of getting noticed

Well, a small sail/cruise ship has been attacked by modern pirates and the news lines are running hot – OK, so what about the other (ave) 400 ships that get attacked every year – Oh yes, that’s right, now I remember, these are only cargo ships manned by hard working but seldom over educated seaman, so nobody gives a dam.
For a start, what were the idiots doing there without some form of protection in the first place? This is one of the pirate hot spots; nobody in their right mind would sail into it, especially in such an enticing prize, without an escort or advanced training. Perhaps the answer to this will soon be made clear …

As with other conflicts, the good guys will lose the battle against piracy and the reason is very simple.
In Jim’s post he mentions: -

References 1. National Strategy on Maritime Security, Home Land Security, Sept 20, 2005 2. IAGS Energy Security: Maritime Terrorism, January 24, 2005 3. ICT International Institute for Counter-Terrorism, Al-Qaedas Maritime threat April 15, 2007

We don’t need any more talks/studies/think tanks/academic meddling/political correctness. What we do need is for all the above to be chucked into the garbage bin and somebody to stand up and say.
“This is wrong, these people are killers and are destroying lives, our life style and security – we will hunt them down and destroy them”. Then carry out the plan.
With modern equipment these people can be tracked, bases and organizations can be located, it is within our power to wipe them off the face of the earth – but we won’t be able to be squeamish about how it’s done and I wouldn’t expect any prisoners to be taken.
All actions must be swift brutal and have a definite conclusion, find, track, destroy, there is no other choice if you want this insidious trade terminated.

Naturally this isn’t going to happen because the ultra correct minority will block any such actions in the name of human rights, OK, let them get captured by pirates and see how much value the bad guys place on your ‘rights’. A further problem is that some governments, whilst, perhaps’ not actively supporting the pirate trade, turn a blind eye to situation, with perhaps, some religious and/or monetary considerations given.
Nobody was listening 35 years ago, nobody is listening now. Like most of today’s global conflicts they have been caused by the reluctance of the majority in elected government positions to have the guts to do what has to be done and unless some minor voices can get heard, this isn’t going to change.

I spent 25 years mixed up in preventing this and other forms of crime at sea – the joke is that, because of the weakness of global governments and the pandering of said governments to ‘political correctness’, I and my crew often had to step outside of the law to do it; this sure is one mixed up world. Let’s be clear on one vital point – although some piracy is simply carried out by gangs of thugs, these days the majority are attached to fanatical groups and monies from piracy goes into the funding of terrorist activities.

So, who is to blame – well, you are – every adult man and woman on this planet that reads this and other articles on the subject and doesn’t do anything, even if that is only lifting the phone or writing to your government representative, is guilty of negligence by omission. This is how this terrible industry has been allowed to flourish for so long, they know that Mr and Ms Citizen don’t give a dam and won’t make waves. So enjoy your self-centered little lives while you can, evil is out there and just waiting for the right moment; I know because I have seen it and nine of my friends that are no longer here to enjoy their lives, paid the ultimate price in trying to stop it.

So, why Mary Hopkins?

From Barry I got a copy of an email sent to my usual address, it was from a old associate (not really a friend) but someone who did log into the blog.
She wanted to know why I chose the Mary Hopkins song ‘Those Were the Days ‘well, it’s quite simple.
You see, many years ago we had two places in Sydney that we used above all others, one was Mike’s and the other was a tavern/wine bar by the name of ‘La Chiffley’. Mike’s was a very usual sort of place, with a clientele that was mainly comprised from the local offices. The ‘Chiffley’ was a more dark and broody sort of place, which, although set in the centre of the CBD, you would be unlikely to find unless you know it was there. Set at the end of an arcade, stuffed between a newsagent and a Greek owned takeaway was a glass paned door with a simple sign above it that read ‘La Chiffley Tavern’.
Once through the door it opened up into two smallish rooms, the first being dominated by a bar residing in perpetual dim artificial light, no daylight intruded into this domain, it wasn’t meant for that.

Both rooms were furnished with polished wooden tables served by wooden trestle seats, not a padded chair to be seen – and presiding over his little kingdom was a Frenchman called ‘Fred’, it was really Frederick or similar but he was always simply ‘Fred’. Behind the bar was his wife Maria and she was supported by a countless stream of pretty assistants none, (bar one), who stayed very long … youth needs the sun. The license did not really allow for the sale of beer as it was a wine bar license but this never seemed to stop the stuff from freely flowing, however, at the Chiffley you mainly drank wine. Served in big carafes and rough enough to strip paint. There were bottles of the ‘good stuff’ but these we rarely touched. You also ate great food, from genuine croissant and hard boiled eggs for breakfast, to late night red wine beef bourgeon – I can still taste those wonderful meals – the food was needed, it worked as an antidote for the terrible wine.

The Chiffley was always drowned in music, not loud and not harsh, but it was always there. Naturally included was all the usual French stuff, with the strange tones of Edith Piaf hovering over us – but there was also The Mamas and the Papas, ABBA, The Beachboys, Neil Diamond, Roy Orbison, Simon and Garfunkel and many, many more – I think that, like most of us, Fred was, under it all, a frustrated hippy.

I can’t remember how we found the Chiffley but the only thing that counts is that we did. Between 1975 and (I think) 1988 we were favoured patrons. Often, when it was time to close, the front bar area would shut down and the blinds drawn – but in the back room we continued on, often until our watches told us the sun was rising on a new day.

Oh! the plans that were made and the futures envisaged at those tables; wine, music and conversation the trio of elements that build … everything. We often even danced in a strange sort of way, weaving between the tables and falling down ‘a lot’. It was also a place to go and lick wounds when things had gone a tad wrong. Sitting together, Fred playing nursemaid and keeping us supplied, often the backroom was closed off for our exclusive use – good old Fred he did seem to understand our moods and needs.

Soon after Red left us in 1988 I did go back, alone, and see Fred and his wife, they were decimated by the news, she had been a favourite of theirs. I did also see a few familiar faces around but somehow the place seemed so empty and I didn’t stay too long.
The years past and the ‘Chiffley’ faded into memory, for some reason it was a place that was simply too uncomfortable to remember.
Then in 1997 after I had left the Ducks and flew back to Oz I took a stroll around town, it had been a while and things were changing fast, Sydney was losing its small city appeal and becoming another bland concrete hive. I wandered from pub to pub and saw a few people from the past, but the ranks were becoming thin.
Then I wandered up the hill to Catlereagh St and the arcade that led to ‘La Chiffley’ and I guess that’s when I really knew that it was all over – it was gone. A different door to a different place that was now a commercial real estate agents, no, Fred, no Maria, no music, no wine to dull the pains, just a peroxide blond girl looking out from behind a cheap veneer desk, with eyes already dead to dreams.

However, I did (rather the worse for a drink or two) walk past the place again that night on my way back to my hotel and looking in I could almost see the old door and behind it, in that comfortable dim light, shadowy figures talking and laughing whilst drinking bad wine from overly large glasses – I could even hear the music and see faces so familiar, still young, still with belief in their faces and faith in the future that awaited them.
Then it was simply a door again ... and for the last time, I walked away

Blurred is sometimes good

Last night I was listening to some of my music on an old DVD, well a newish DVD just very old music (the 60s). One of the nurses said she couldn’t understand how I could watch such poor quality video, blurred and out of sync.
How could I explain to a youngster like her that sometimes that’s exactly the way past images should be, it’s better to have them out of focus and black and grey, to sharpen then up would take away that special something. It’s the words behind the images that count, your own brain should be all that’s required to bring old blurred memories to life again.
Anyway for those that could be old enough, do you remember this – I was in a T class submarine in the Atlantic at the time (1968)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2KODZtjOIPg

I think all the family are turning up today – I guess they think it’s the thing to do but really I am quite happy as I am, things to do and all that.
Plus, the trainee nurse that scampers around like a frightened rabbit has (you guessed it) RED hair. If i take my glasses off and pretent to be 40 years younger she could almost be ... but best not to go there

I have worked out how to enter the computer room when it appears locked, so that might be handy when things get dull of a night. Now, next job it to locate the biscuit (cookie) cabinet, I know it must be around this area somewhere as they are always turning up with tea/coffee and biscuits - might need another key or a stiff bit of cardboard/plastic. After cogarettes, any type of food is almost currency in a place like this.

First day in happy Valley

Not much to say at the moment. I have been here just over the 24 hours and still finding my feet.

It appears we each have a room to ourselves – TV (cable) – stereo etc. I brought my own DVD player and about 250 movies so am set for a while. Food is what you would expect (politically correct food for god’s sake) and small portions to boot.

Routine seems pretty standard. Wake about 0700 (officially), breakfast or something that they pretend is breakfast (bloody rabbit food).
Then it’s down to the other stuff – tests – BP, scans, bloodtests (they love taking blood for some reason) echo, which is evidently different to a scan. By this time you are completely fed up and ready to hurt somebody – this seems to get across as they take you back to the room and vanish until after when is laughingly called lunch.
After lunch today I was supposed to just rest but needed information if the stay here is to be suitable. Now I have learned that it’s no good trying to get info from nurses (who won’t say) or doctors as they usually don’t know much.
However, I have always found wardies, (or whatever they are called in your country - they do a lot of the manual stuff the others don’t want to do), great fonts of knowledge and ready to pass on news and general information.
Over the next day or so I will find out:
Where the visitor’s cafeteria is located
A general layout of the whole place
Where is the nearest pub and how to get to it
Security for the place, times of lockdowns etc
Entrances – lifts – staff passageways.
Shift times for the staff - medical and admin.

Once all this is gathered it will be time to gather a few cohorts and start getting some decent food and drink. That’s if there are any around with sufficient spirit left to take a few chances. In all probability after the first run they will plug the gaps, it’s more the planning and doing than getting the food and stuff, it simply makes a change from the routine and shouts that you are an independent person not a bed number.
Now I am going back to my room, put my feet up and watch the old 50s version of ‘The Thing’ by then I expect somebody will have arrived with dinner, god knows what that will be. Still it’s good that they encourage blogs and stuff, I think it’s all part of the treatment – for once they are thinking – letting people keep the old brain active – lousy PCs though, slow and limited – I tried to log into a porn site but the old ‘Restricted Website Content’ barrier came down – still give me a day or so and I think I can break the script causing the lockout – you never know I might be able to make a few a few bucks renting ‘R’ rated websites to the chaps. As this is a cardiac wing I’m sure it would make a few depart with a smile on their faces …

Brisbane Passenger Terminal

It is just on 22 years since I was asked to comment on the feasibility of putting a new cruise terminal down at Hamilton where the old liners used to go. Naturally I told them it was a bad idea and as ships were getting larger. Soon, because of river restrictions, passenger ships would not be able to get down that far. Evidently it wasn’t the answer the State Government wanted to hear as they ignored it. By that time I had probably made matters worse by telling them that the place to build it was not in Brisbane at all, but further south on the Gold Coast. I even got some professionals to design the means by which it could be done.

Anyway they finally went ahead at Hamilton, built a mediocre terminal with about as much imagination as a sleeping house brick and some small passenger ships have been there.
However, today the new Queen Victoria is in Brisbane, well not quite ‘in’ but about a safari away at the mouth of the river where passenger ships berthed 30 years ago, seems she is too big to get to the bright new terminal, what a surprise. She is at the same container terminal, which got the port such a bad name during the times of the (old) Oriana, Canberra etc. Cruise lines hated berthing there and still do.

I have no idea what vastly intelligent person or persons decided that all professional advice was wrong and that their little pen pusher views correct. In most private companies you would probably get fired for being so off the mark, this mob probably got promoted.

Oh well it is still summer so passengers waiting for their coaches to bring them into the city can experience the joy of getting bitten by the sand widges that love it out there next to the mangroves.
Ah yes, Brisbane, gateway to The Great Barrier Reef, Capital of Queensland the Sunshine State, home to the biggest fools on the planet.
Roll on noon so that I can have a drink (and I don’t mean water).

Passing of another friend

Haven’t updated for a while, things have been hectic.
You can tell the passing of the years when old friends and associates start to curl up their toes on a regular basis. Another of my friends has now passed away, another mariner gone to that big harbor pub in the sky.
His name was Tony Topalinski and believe it or not, he was English. When I knew Tony back in the late 70s to early 90s he was master of a clapped out old tramp running whatever needed to be moved between Honk Kong, Mainland China, Malaysia, Japan, Indonesia etc. As an owner/skipper he was never going to get rich but that was always unimportant. His ship which had the nickname of ‘Superbitch’ was held together by string, glue and a lot of prayers to the sea gods. Of his three other officers, one was Greek, one was South African and one was Scottish. The crew was mainly Malays with a mixture of Nippon and China thrown in, how they survived without killing each other will always be a wonder.

I can remember some great times ashore with Tone and in particular one marvelous pub brawl in Singapore. Fists and bar stools flying around, teeth knocked out or embedded in knuckles, stuff going everywhere. We ended up beating a hasty retreat over the roof after the police turned up in droves batons swinging. Most idiots tried to escape via side and back doors but years of experience had taught us the folly of this, police love to bushwack you at these, yet roofs, for some reason always remain clear. These brawls are now mainly a thing of the past, everything is more tightly controlled and so very ‘boring’.

Well, another chapter of the big book has closed, Tone would have only been about 66 but what a great life he led, his tally in women alone must be some sort of world record and whisky companies are richer today because of his ongoing consumption.

So old son I will make a toast to you this evening with a bottle of ‘The Very Good Stuff’ just as we used to do at the passing of friends, long ago, in a vastly different and more colourful world.

OUT OF STEP

Perhaps I am out of step about things, but I find the average citizen (or whatever you want to call them) incredibly stupid.
Take the example of the idea of everybody having an ID card similar to the American Social Security card. Quite rightly the people vetoed the idea as they should. However they then allow the Government to introduce a tax file number that follows you wherever you go, You need it to get a loan, open a bank account, start a business, in fact you can’t do anything without it. Yes, Mr and Mrs Moron just sat back and let themselves be put further under the microscope.
Still, they deserve what they get. Every day they are demanding better roads, more welfare, more hospitals, schools and trees in the street, yet they think it can all be accomplished without the need to up taxes – Struth don’t they even realise that the countries that are actually enjoying a true, rather than, apparent, wealth growth as the ones with bad roads and not a tree planter to be seen.

The division between wealthy and poor grows ever wider, such a dangerous situation because once it gets to a certain point you have big trouble, pitchforks and flaming torches storming the castle are nothing compared to what the poor could do these days. Most of the blame must rest with the financial and legal institutions; they are the ones bleeding the working population dry, banks upping fees and charges while announcing record profits. The legal system that only really serves a person according to their wealth. Every sector of our lives is under the control of some financial/legal power, forget governments as such, they are only the fall guy for those hiding in the wings..
All this may seem rather dramatic but unless something happens in the very near future I see very dark and troubled waters ahead.

The quality of life is rapidly being eroded by the need to service these insidious , faceless powers; buy, buy, buy and then pay back over time with crippling interest that sucks any prolonged joy out of life and turns it into nothing more than ‘existence’. The amazing part is that people don’t even realise that they have been manipulated into being simply slaves to the system.

I’m rather glad my years are drawing to close, I would hate to be around when the crunch comes and just trying to live in our present society is far too much for this ancient mariner.

News from the front

Last night I heard from a very old friend who is still driving ships in the Malacca, South China Sea region. He told me about two new incidents relating to modern pirates, yet when I check official reports, again, nothing about then is shown. By my estimation less than 10% of incidents get reported, I guess it has always been so. The Malacca region is getting worse again, this is to be expected as certain governments in the area are, in return for some brown bag payments, very prone to turn a blind eye to what is going on. Even in my time the corruption was compounded by regional governments, some things never change; they just alter their surface decoration.
Today is also the anniversary of the sinking of ‘The Far Roamer’, what a night that was and my first true introduction to the working of the Ducks. Good heavens, that was 33 years ago, how the time does get away from you when you’re not paying attention.
Actually that was the brink of what was to become the main core of my life until things fell apart in 1997. Anna Minet (Red) was about to enter my life and that certainly put a new face on things. The Ducks had been ‘blooded’ and we now thought we were up to the challenge, how naïve we were.

Serving a Purpose

I believe, but am often wrong about most things, that one of the main goals in life is to be able to say that, even for a definitive time, you served a purpose; well I guess we did that. However, when the time comes when you no longer serve a purpose and after a lifetime of being with people who can only be described as ‘characters’ all sorts of problems arise – how the hell do you go from a huge life to living in the suburbs next to people who think a big adventure is going on a two week holiday. Being a Master Mariner and having command of ships is a stupendous life but it doesn’t exact you train you for living in a bland, rather mindless and sheep like society once that time is over.

It would have been easier if my old crew (and friends) was still around but alas, due to the nature of our work, a heavy toll was taken and there are only 2, out of 14, of us left. You see, we were not always exactly, to the strict letter of the law, the good guys. The organization known as ‘The Sea Eagles’ but better known as ‘The Mucky Ducks’ was founded for the purpose of protecting the maritime industry. This included battling marine piracy, insurance fraud, plus drug and arms smuggling, we were kept well hidden from public and official eyes, clients came to us via many methods, we asked no questions and took all work that was to the betterment of life for those that work at sea – in other words we were really not much more than mercenaries.

I guess history will decide if we wore white or black hats, perhaps they were simply grey. In any case the time is now past and others must take up the challenge. I will continue with my writing as a second book about the Ducks has been requested by my publisher, the trouble is I’m not sure if the incentive to write another is there, the first was a labour of love, a second would not have the same purpose.

Oh well, that’s the way of things, one day at a time.

Harry Drake