Timelines

Or how to miss boats, trains and planes consistently for years

Photo by Feng Shan on Unsplash

It’s never been my strong point. (Cue family nodding vigorously). The 24-hour clock baffles me, 12 hour clocks are a muddle of AM and PM for me. There should be a name for it, like there is for dyslexia or dyspraxia, reading clocks wrongly – what would it be called, apart from idiocy? I offer you variations on a theme of ‘Dishorilogia’. Your definitions on a postcard please.

Years ago, coming back from Brittany to Liverpool via St Malo after a week’s camping holiday with our friends, Ellen and Brian, and our tetchy 10 month-old, I had primed our party to catch the boat at 11pm. Congratulating ourselves on the smooth drive, we arrived at a very new terminal at St Malo on a clear, still night, in good time for the sailing to find it firmly shut and in darkness. The caretaker was just locking up and when we explained, he shook his head and said in a world-weary voice that relayed perfectly his thoughts about the idiot visitors he had to deal with, the next boat is 11am tomorrow, Madame. With three tired adults and a crying baby set on lynching me, he took pity on us and allowed us to sleep on the hard benches in the terminal. Not sleep exactly, no-one did, especially not our baby, who grizzled most of the night, but she had her reasons as it turned out.

 It was a raggle-taggle, exhausted foursome who drove back after a few hours on an unseasonally rough sea between France and Portsmouth. The men didn’t drive so they had baby on knees all the six hours back. At that time there it was not compulsory for passengers to wear seatbelts in the back of a car, (which seems astonishing now), so our precious baby was just handed back and forth for the whole time. She was still averse to sleeping or being comforted by anyone, except when being fed, and even then didn’t feed with her usual gusto. Our neighbours were a doctor and nurse so I felt safe that if there was anything wrong, they would have detected it. So that night when said tetchy baby came out in a rash on the back of her neck, I nipped next door to see if the professionals could throw any light on the matter. German Measles was the verdict.

That diagnosis would have been manageable had not both Ellen and I been in the early stages of pregnancy, her a few weeks ahead of me. As it was we both rushed off for tests, and waited a couple of tense weeks for the results. Hers was fine, mine undefined and I had to take it again, with another muddy result, so we had an anxious wait for six months before a perfect baby girl emerged, much to the relief of all the family.

Years later after many less dramatic episodes of dishorilogia had beset me, I was travelling again to St Malo for a boat that was leaving at 9pm. As we drove towards the old town, Intra Mures, at about 6pm in search of dinner before boarding, we saw a boat arriving at the port. Because it was holiday season, I reasoned that that Brittany Ferries must have put more boats on than usual. We toddled off for a seafood extravaganza and when we returned to the port, it was to find that we had been looking at our boat. It had sailed at 19:00 not 9pm and there wasn’t another until 7am the following morning.

Photo by Omer Nezih Gerek on Unsplash

This led to a sweary scramble to find somewhere to stay, an almost fruitless task on August bank holiday. We eventually found the last room for hire in St Malo, and one that countless others had rejected by the forlorn look on the landlady’s face when she showed us to the top of a five-storey building with no lift, into a grubby attic room with hideously threadbare towels and dubious sheets. We took it, of course.

Unbelievably I’m still allowed to book stuff and still no one monitors me or demands to see the confirmation. I sometimes have to ring ferry companies or hotels and confess I’ve booked the wrong dates, eat humble pie and beg to change the booking. Sometimes I get lucky, other times, it’s an expensive lesson – that I never seem to learn.

I have been gearing up to collecting  my sister from Bergerac airport on Wednesday afternoon, made my excuses to the French conversation class and cleared my diary – she’s arriving Thursday  …                                    

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I’ve read

The Maiden by Kate Foster. Long-listed for the Women’s Prize for Literature, this is a story that bowls along and can’t help carrying you with it and wanting to know what happens. Set in 1679, it’s the tale of three women and the man who has them in thrall in one way or another, with consequences. Thoroughly recommend it.

North Woods by Daniel Mason. The story of a single house in the woods of New England told over the centuries, following the lives of the people who inhabit the house. Plenty of lyricism, nature and magical realism. lots to like and admire in this very clever structure.

I’ve listened to

Charles Paris: What Bloody Man is That? by Simon Brett. One of the Charles Paris mysteries, which I always enjoy on the radio with Bill Nighy playing the central role. This was the Audible book with Simon Brett, who was likeable and competent but he was no Bill Nighy.

These Days by Lucy Caldwell about a family living through the bombings in WW2, is being serialised on Radio 4xtra at the moment. I read and enjoyed the book, but this version read by Lisa Dwyer Hogg really brings it to life. You can catch up with it on BBC Sounds.

Thanks for listening to or reading this newsletter. I appreciate you taking the time.