..but I won't do that.

October 4^th – There’s lots of things I’d do for money, lots of things I have done for money…but I won’t do that.

I used to sporadically dig trenches for the MEB (Midlands Electricity Board to you younger set…back in a time when the utilities were owned by the people) back in the 60’s when I was strapped for cash and between bands. Could do that back then. Lose a job at 10.00 in the morning and have another by 15.00 in the same afternoon; honest, I’d walk round the factories and ask if there was a start going and in six cases out of ten there was. Because of the nature of the work, the MEB was always good for a fortnight’s slog and they’d take you back if you slipped off after a couple of weeks, in fact they were glad to have fit lads on their team…oh, yes, I've not always been this tub of lard you see before you; there was a time when I could almost be referred to as sylph-like. Anyhow, we’d be the poor buggers you’d see on the side of the road in the pouring rain digging the trenches from one lamppost to the next, the ones you swore at because the road blocks you had to slither through on your way home were caused by us…we used to put the signs and barriers way away from where we were working some days and as far into the road as we could without actually causing an obstruction, then watch the traffic jams form at school’s out and works traffic home-time…great fun.

The payback was when it started to rain ‘’cos we only retired to the luxurious surroundings of our gabardine hut if the rain lasted longer than twenty minutes. The Ganger (our boss) was, of course, back into the hut even before the first spot of rain had ricocheted off the sycamore leaves above us, leaving his second in command to oversee the trenchers (me and three others) and make sure the rain really was tipping down before we were allowed to come in from the storm and dry off round the brazier. Was OK in the summer as my shirt could be off all day and a tan gained as a sort of bonus, but in the winter? Was a bugger. Amongst the one gang I worked with there was a guy, can’t remember his name…think it was Simon, and he was a real strange one. Not strange as in dangerous just strange as in he had some weird ways of amusing himself and others around him. Liquid refreshment was much in use during the summer lunch break and on most days Simon would bring back to the hut a straight pint glass and, in the afternoon snap break he’d roll it up in a newspaper, smash it with his hand, unroll the paper and then, if we each gave him a shilling, he’d eat the chucks of glass, all of them; scrunch them up like a packet of crisps and seemingly with as much relish…leaving only the thick base behind like the remains of a Christmas turkey; I wouldn’t do that.

When I worked for The Game Conservancy on a wildfowl research project, my main job was to build up the habitat that had been devastated by gravel workings. This meant planting reed cover, trees, land management and so forth in an effort to produce, as quickly as one could, suitable habitat for breeding wildfowl once the digging had ceased. We used to have a wonderful selection of birds in and around the gravel pits; ospreys, short-eared owls, divers and grebes of several species and as diverse a collection of waders as you could ever wish to see, particularly in the spring and autumn migrations. Well, one spring when the little terns started to congregate in the open patches of bare ground on the one small island in the middle of the far end of the main lake, which was about 250 yards wide and probably sixty feet deep at that point, it was decided that a removal of all vegetation, except a ring round the outer edge, and a deep covering of gravel on it might entice them to nest. To that end, in the late summer and in readiness for the following year’s breeding season, I used the flat punt we had as a kind of dredger, ferrying the vegetation I cleared from the island back to the mainland and then, when all was clear, ferrying the gravel (we’d plenty of that) from the mainland to the island. All went well and one late summer evening I punted across to do the last rake over and remove any stubborn plants that were trying to make a come back on the central area. Completely wrapped up in my job, it was only after I looked up that I saw the punt had loosened from my tie-up and had floated way, way off. Own fault. Poor knot skills. I looked at the distance to the punt then the distance to the shore. Shore distance was shorter, about 150 yards; a decent way off but shorter. I stripped off down to underpants, waded into the water until it shelved off very steeply (about five yards from the island) and then struck out for the shore.

I need to say here that, in my younger days I could swim quite well. No Michael Phelps but I could do a bit…key word here: younger days. It was when I was about half way across that the thought struck that this was harder than I remembered…much. After another ten or so strokes I felt the lower part of my body begin to drop deeper and in an instant the rest of me followed suit. Funny how your mind can focus on detail, focus on thought streams and recognitions of predicaments even when the actual event is taking place and you’d figure every sense would be fully occupied, isn’t it? As I dropped deeper into the water I can clearly remember thinking, and in this order;

That’s calm…warm…not unpleasant’.

My depth increased as my thoughts ran on;

You know what, Peter, if you don’t start to swim you’re going to drown here and now.

The ability to see decreased in direct correlation as the depth increased. I remember kicking, kicking, then pulling my arms through and through, and through until I broke the surface and gasped, but I also knew I couldn't stop to tread water, if I did I knew for sure I’d sink again and also knew for sure that I’d not have the energy to do that climb again.

Lie flat

I heard myself say;

Lie flat on the water and swim.

So I began to swim like a clockwork toy, no grace, no style, just with sufficient momentum to drag myself through the water. Seemed like forever but it was probably only about four minutes when my fingertips touched ground below me. I continued to swim as the water grew shallower; I swam right up onto the shore like a cartoon character until I lay gasping like a grampus and vomiting like drunk. I wouldn't do that…again.

On this day in 1999, Janie, half-sister to Jimi Hendrix, announced that she was going to dig up Hendrix’s body and put in on display in a glass mausoleum so that the curious could view it…for a price. Would you do that to a family member? I wouldn't do that. Neither did she as public outrage made her shelve her plan…it would seem some people would do anything…