The Daily Novel

It was a misty day. Lundy was invisible and even the locas coastline was quite indistinct. We turned off the main road at Fremington, attracted by a signpost to the Quay, which we had never visited. It was a long road ending in a sort of causeway along the side of the River Taw, empty of water at this point on the tide.

We eventually reached the main estuary where there was a rusty old dredger tied up by the Quay. Facing it was a very smart railway station, which was apparently opened in 1848, when Fremington Quay was the busiest port between Bristol and Land’s End. It exported clay and supported a local pottery.

Now it is enjoying a new life as a heritage centre. The station itself, bearded gent told us, was a fake, a replica of the one the Victorians had built at the height of the railway boom.

Today it was crowded with cyclists following the Tarka Trail, and stopping to enjoy the current station’s chief product; Devon cream teas. Best scones we have tasted this trip.

Worth a visit. But you won’t see any trains. The last one ran in 1969.

Janet, my wife, and her cousin Jane have been drowning in nostalgia. Which is quite understandable because they have been revisiting the scenes of several long holidays together in their childhood and teenage years. By all accounts they were extremely happy holidays and with ample opportunity for the growing girls to escape the adults and have all manner of fun. Those holidays revolved around the village of Instow, which is on an inlet of the Taw estuary in North Devon not far from Bideford. It is a most beautiful spot. I sat on the hotel terrace listening, to their conversation, and gazing out across the water to the church at Appledore, nestling on the hill crowded with white painted houses. A few boats moved languidly over the water, clearly concerned not to disturb my tranquillity. No speed boats or red arrows. Not even any screaming children because the season is not yet upon us.For Jane it is the main home she remembers because she was there for most of the year when her father was in Nigeria with the Colonial Service, and she went to school there. Janet holidayed often with Jane’s family there in those years and when our own children were growing up holidayed often in Instow and nearby places like Bucks Mills and Clovelly.

We were fried in the car on the long journey to North Devon, although we are still in March. Late start because Jane’s flight was late and so were British Gas. At least we are here so that I can watch the evening sun over the estuary at Instow, and await the return of my tranquillity.

Buying and selling houses hasbeen taking so much of my time that I have scarcely had time to discover what Gordon Brown’s budget means for me, let alone the political and economic consequences. Trying to absorb it all this afternoon I think it is a devilishly clever budget. It has many things to please middle England, the Daily Mail and the Murdoch press. Like dropping the standard rate of income tax by 2 per cent to 20 per cent, which was John Major’s objective, and cutting 2 per cent off corporation tax, which pleases the business community.

Abolishing the 10 per cent income tax rate will hit a few poorish people, but not the poorest, who will not be paying any income tax at all. And it is a move in the direction of simplicity, which is a good thing in itself.

His introduction of specially generous personal allowances for people over 65 will be a significant help for those who need it. And his ingenious scheme to take back that allowance progressively as the pensioners annual income rises towards £20,000, strikes me as a move in the direction of social justice. After all many pensioners are quite comfortably off and some are very rich indeed.

One of the things I learnt when I was looking into theories like Jung’s sychronicity is that co-incidence often happens. The statisticians have proved it with massive computer models based on large sample studies. But when they happen to you it is still pretty mind-boggling. Even the sceptical begin to wonder whether there is an Unseen Hand which is controlling our lives, or a President of the Immortals who is having his sport with vulnerable human beings like Thomas Hardy’s Tess of the Durbervilles.

Last night we went out to dinner to a neighbour up the street. It was by way of a celebration of her engagement to a jovial Spaniard. The only other guest was a woman called Jane, who, as it happens is teaching little Dulcie in the nursery over on the Holloway Road. Jane is also tying the knot next weekend (marriage must be back in fashion). She is marrying a bloke called Michael in Lichfield, which was the seat of the bishopric of my youth, which included Wolverhampton. It was the Bishop of Lichfield who confirmed me about sixty years ago, when my aunt hoped that I would enter the church and channel my talkativeness into weekly sermons.

They are getting married in Lichfield because Michael is a Wolverhampton lad. He came from the Claregate area where Billy Wright, perhaps the best player ever in the long history of Wolverhampton Wanderers, lived in my youth. I used to go round reguarly on a Sunday afternoon, ostensibly to see an aunt who lived there but really in the hope of getting a glimpse of my blonde god, whose head bobbed above all the other heads, although he was not a tall man. Michael had no idea that Billy Wright had once lived there. By the time Michael grew up Billy Wright had moved south to manage Arsenal and marry one of the Beverley sisters. He was the David Beckham of his day.

Michael did not go to the Wolverhampton Municipal Grammar School like me, because by the time he grew up it had been abolished. He went to a school that had not even been invented in my youth. Jane then discovered that my wife, like her, had been brought up in Watford, and that they had gone to the same school. Watford Grammar School for girls has been going for just over 400 years and shows no sign of being closed down, or even forced to take boys as well as girls. Incredibly,  given the age gap, they had been taught by several of the same teachers. But then teachers tend to stay around a long time at Watford Grammar rather than moving every few years to up their salaries.

Since both Wolvehampton and Watford a quite big towns it is statistically probable that there are other Wolverhampton boys who have married Watford girls. And so the fact that two such couples met in Gospel Oak on Saturday night is probably just co-incidence. But next weekend when I am down in Dorset I shall be gazing up at the stormy clouds over Egdon Heath and wondering whether there is a chance that the statisticians  have got it wrong. Perhaps there is someone up there who is organising such encounters and listening to the conversations they provoke around  Saturday night dinner tables.

Up the road to South End Green for the ninth Humphrey Lyttelton concert organised by the Friends of the Royal Free Hospital. It proved the perfect antidote to all the form-filling and anxieties of buying and selling houses. After a wake-up start with A Good Bounce, Humph himself sang I like to go back in the evening. Where he actualy goes back to in the evening is Barnet, a few miles north of Gospel Oak, but the song was thick with nostalgia, which proved the dominant tone of the evening. By the time he did his second song, Sad sweet song, in perfect harmony with Ted Beament on the piano, my tranquility had reached the top of the scale.

For me the highlight of the evening was the clarinet solo by Wally Fawkes, Lyttelton’s old friend, who just happened to be passing and came up on stage to show, they still have enough breath around eighty to excel. Trog’s Blues transcended sadness and depression into something profoundly joyful and life affirming.

As always with this occasion there was plenty of variety. Fawkes was followed by the hugely exuberant Wicker Woman, written by Karen Sharp, one of the two young female tenor saxophonists who played it. And the audience was whipped into frenzy of clapping in the finale, the usual Frankie and Johnny.

Lyttelton first met Fawkes in 1947 when they were both students at the Camberwell Arts and Crafts. The following year Fawkes became a founding member of the first band Lyttelton formed. Fawkes had just secured himself a job with the Daily Mail producing a new strip cartoon, Flook by Trog, which was to run for several decades. Fawkes introduced Lyttelton to the features editor, who barely looked at the few drawings he had brought in and told him, ‘You start tomorrow.’ This story is in Lyttelton’s book, It Just Occurred to Me… (Anova Books, 2006). It led to one of Chairman Humph’s utterances, ‘Whatever assignment you are offered, say ‘yes’ first and learn about it afterwards. It kept Lyttelton on the Daily Mail payroll for eight years and is still good advice for young journalists.

Writing late at night entirely from memory I think I have read of some research studies which have found that moving house is even higher on the stress scale than anything except divorce, and others which say that it is even more stressful than divorce.

My present impending house move is infinitely more stressful than the other two I have made, one in 1968 and one in 1976. This is partly because I am selling one house and moving into two smaller properties, so have three balls in the air I must juggle with. It is also because I have been in this house for 31 years and even remembering what I did to it when is not easy. And finding the documentary evidence to prove what I have done is an absolute nightmare. And thirdly it is because my present house was built in 1878, which is before most of the building regulations and planning restrictions we all have to satisfy today were even invented.

But paradoxically these Victorian houses are extremely popular. Because it was a golden era for British engineering and houses then (and bridges, etc,) were built to last). I sit surrounded by many of the bricks which were made in 1878. And they are still in astonishing good shape. And will last for many years after I get carted off to the crem. As long as they are tended by an owner who is prepared to take prompt remedial action when any problems arise. To own such a house you need to have a commitment to Care for the Aged Houses. Not for any do-gooding motives but because these aged houses offer advantages in decent living space which most modern houses do not. Like high ceilings on the bottom two floors, for instance.

I have been extremely happy in my 31 years as a Carer of an Aged House. But I am delighted now to retire from it and devote most of my energy to writing The Daily Novel in a 1960s bungalow (with a sea view).

To switch back to the ‘Divorce or Moving House, which is worst?’, question. I have many friends who have been divorced. For a few it has been relatively stress free and the children have acutally benefited from having four parents, all of whom were friendly with each. For most of my divorced friends, however, divorce has been a far worse experience than anything I am now experiencing in moving house. It has taken them years to recover from it.

I will conclude with a totally different thought that has occurred to me while I am writing this. Moving house is a stressful experience for ‘normals’ as all the reseach agrees. I have not read any research which says whether it is more or less stressful for those like myself who have a manic depressive temperament.

But as I write now it seems to me that the manic energy I have found in doing at great speed the many things I have had to do in the last few weeks, and will have to do in the next few weeks, has been a great help.

But making decisions in a manic mood is highly dangerous, so the manic, even more than the normal, needs to listen to the advice given by cool professionals, including solicitors, financial advisers and estate agents. And to continually discuss things with valued close friends and relatiions, including in my case, my wife, who as it happens is also the co-owner of this house.

This is an interim report on my house move. If all goes according to present plans I shall be writing my first blog from the Dorset bungalow on 22 May. Someone, either Harold Wilson or Harold Macmillan, said ‘a week is a long time in politics’. In house moving two months seems fifty thousand times longer than a week in politics.

Preferably someone living in Gospel Oak who is able to spend several hours a week for about a month starting now. Task is to establish a sensible filing system to replace my present chaotic one. And to help me get the right stuff into the right files. Throw out a lot of rubbish. And, most importantly, find some vital documents which are currently in the wrong files.

Today I found one important document I need to sell my house in my motor cycle file,  which is quite fat because it contains the details of much loved motor bikes which I sold years ago. It is entirely possible that other vital documents I need in relation to the house are in the Manic Depressive Diary file or in my History of Journalism file or in my Telewest file,  etc, etc.

The last time I had a secretary was when I was at The Times in the late 1960s and the early 1970s. Julie Harrison you are sorely missed! I have had to manage throughout my thirty-two years in higher education without a secretary to keep my files in order.  And I have wasted hours and hours and hours trying to find things I want and trying to find a satisfactory way of establishing some kind of order from chaos.

Not sure how long it will take. But it might be nearer two months than one.

Professional secretarial qualifications are un-necessary. What matters is that the person must be good at establishing sensible filing systems and be of an equable disposition. The job might suit a retired person who wants to supplement their pension. Or it might suit someone a lot younger who needs a bit of extra lolly. I am an equal opportunities employer. But must stress that a good command of English is essential.

The sooner I get things sorted the sooner I shall be able to get back to the things I like doing, such as writing The Daily Novel.

Anyone interested email me at bob@thedailynovel.com.

In between all the running around looking at flats and houses I have found time to study the full results of the first election for all the posts in the University and College Union, formed by the merger of the Association of University Teachers and NATFHE. The results augur well for the future of the new union. Although only a minority bothered to vote, those who did vote appear to have made their choices based on intelligent reflection rather than tribalism.

Although ex-NATFHE members have most of the votes, they have not voted tribally. Not only did they elect the highly experienced AUT leader, Sally Hunt, as General Secretary, they elected many AUT candidates to positions on the national executive. It is particularly pleasing to see so many representatives on the National Executive from the old metropolitan universities, including two from my alma mater, the University of Birmingham.

This is not, I hope, a tribal comment. The old metropolitan universities, like London, Manchester, Liverpool, Glasgow, Edinburgh, Leeds, etc, stand in between the academic elitism of Oxford and the pragmatic vocational thrust of the former polytechnics. They have a strong commitment to research and to teaching traditional subjects. They have ensured since the end of the nineteenth century that bright working class entrants have the opportunity to have as good an academic education as that provided by Oxbridge.

It is also pleasing that the Open University has a voice on the Executive via Alan Carr, who has been elected as Treasurer. The Open University, which Harold Wilson regarded as one of his most important achievments as Prime Minister, makes it possible for late developers to study either vocational subjects or intellectually challenging ones. The mother of one of my wife’s oldest friends is working on her second Open University degree aged 91. And she is not the oldest student.

Assuming my move goes smoothly I shall be riding over from Charmouth on my scooter to report on the first UCU Council in Bournmouth at the end of May.

The sun was brigthening my kitchen in Gospel Oak this morning and there is a splash of colour in the garden because the forsythia is now in full bloom. It is late this year. It was in full bloom when we first saw the house in February 1976. So before global warming arrives we must be experiencing a year of global cooling. Here’s how it looks.

It gave me a few pangs of regret about leaving this house. But at least I am taking the bird table with me. In Charmouth it will be crowded with robins, chaffinches, all manner of tits and seagulls. Can’t wait to see them.