Historical

To London last week to inspect the Grandson, who is now 2 years old, with a mop of fiery red hair and the construction of a prop forward. There is a good French word for this - 'Cousteau'. Alex for, such is the child's name, is 'cousteau'. We went by train, because I like trains and the French TGV is an excellent way to travel, as long as it stands still. When it is travelling it hops about a bit. This does not help those who are écloppé, which is what the French insist on calling those who are lame. I am still lame in spite of the fact that everyone insists that I should not be. Anyway, be that as it may, the lameness or whatever it may be makes a train corridor a place of interest and peril. One of the good things about being unsound is that those who run trains and such like things are very helpful with 'assistance' which is the provision of baggage carrying, wheel chairs and such like, so that with Mrs. Poole to carry 'The Spectator' I was trundled happily throughout France and England, except for the occasion at Haywards Heath when a willing but unskilled youth made a determined effort to push me under rather than onto a train on the line for Victoria. I have to say that the French are very good about helping others. On my way back from England, my destination was Poitiers. Poitiers is a big and very busy station. The exit from a train is by steep steps to the platform. There was a wheel chair waiting for me. There was also a mass of people waiting to exit. There was great deal of Gallic enthusiasm. I found myself being bustled backwards down the steps and my lame leg being thrust between an urgent whistle blowing train and the edge of the platform - not really recommended. Another problem with a long sitting journey on a train is that joints can go to sleep. I had got my joint from St Pancras to Lower Sloan Street after 8 hrs on the train. The Joint decided that enough was enough and gave up; dropping me outside the Sloane Club where many kindly persons picked me up, patted me over, dusted me down and eventually guided me into the bar.
I will tell you something else that I did not know until I became lame. This piece of fascinating information is that being lame makes getting in and out of a black cab rather difficult. Yes, I know that they are all 'handicap' friendly and have floors that fold out into a ramp. This is fine, always supposing that (a) it is a model of cab that has been fitted with a ramp (b) that the cabby's partner / driver did not take the tool that opens the ramp to Southend with him and leave it there (c) that the present incumbent is of the obliging nature that does not mind having half his floor taken up and (c+) that the driver is not French and has therefore never heard of providing his passenger with such a totally unheard of and unnecessary luxury (without some extra payment). However, there is an alternative - when your 'andicappé' is struggling trough the cab door Taxi persons can provide physical help by applying a shoulder to the backside and applying a bit of firm forward propulsion and yes, your fare may well collapse in a crumpled heap on the floor, but if you knock a bit off the meter, then the chap may not complain, too much. A pleasant thing about train travel is the time you can spend reading books. Between England and Lille (Europe - return) I got well stuck into Anthony Beever's excellent book on D - Day. I displayed a copy to my friend Claude on my return to France. He assured me that he knew all about it. His family had lived behind Omaha beach and his family had been amongst the 3,000 French civilians who were liberated with extreme prejudice in the struggle. There are some very interesting historical snippets in Mr Beever's book. For instance: it seems that General de Gaulle spent time during the war to writing a book on French Military History that managed to avoid all mention of Waterloo and the fact that Napoleon was absent from the Battle (which as every French child will tell you was a famous French Victory) because he was squatting over a ditch battling with piles - poor chap.