More for May - Marriage

Did I watch The Marriage? Too right I did – You do not miss important family occasions like that. I would not miss Cousin William’s wedding. You did not know that he is a cousin of mine? Well, a lot of people did not; including, I suspect, William. It all rested with the Duke of Cambridge (Queen Victoria’s wicked uncle). He may have been head of the army, sorted out the terrible state of military supplies after the Crimea – still rides as bronze horse down Whitehall as Duke of Cambridge, but he was still a wicked old rake. All this requires a bit of explanation which involves my Great, Great Grandfather (I always get a bit muddled with “Greats”). His mother was a dairy maid at Windsor Castle; her father was a brick maker in Slough, who retired to a pub in Windsor. His daughter was put on as dairy maid at the castle where she caught the eye (wicked and lecherous) of the not quite so old Duke, which led to the girl becoming pregnant (good eyesight those old Royal Dukes). She produced a son and probably worried about his future (dairy mailing was not well paid) and her being an unmarried mother. It was fortunate that someone showed an interest in the boy and paid for an expensive education and a degree course at a French university, which allowed him to marry the girl who became my maternal Grandmother, whom he later dumped. This seems to suggest that if you are going to be a bastard it makes sense to be a Royal one (as it might have been a lecherous Duke of Cambridge). So now you understand how I might be HRH William Wales’ cousin – that’s all right, just call me “Sir”.
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I now have a “Scootair de Mobilité” which gives me a great freedom of local movement. It is a funny little machine with an electric motor (runs off a battery). The battery is charged off the mains and a charge will give you about 50 Klicks and a top speed of C.8.KPH on 4 wheels. It is definitely not an x country vehicle, but I can get around the shops on it and it gives me a great feeling of independence. I saw my first in London, ridden by a Chelsea Pensioner; he gave it a very good chit. I got mine from Optimum Mobility in Gloucestershire and it changed my life. I can now walk with two sticks, but distance and speed are somewhat limited. On the Scootair (French pronunciation), I can whizz around the town (no licence required) and on the back roads. Normandy is cobwebbed with sunken stone lanes. I can chug about for 2 to 3 hours without meeting any traffic (except the occasional tractor). Pip loves it, we have bought him a dog bag which goes on the front pannier. He rides there like a Duke or a Lord, off the motor road he runs along the lanes. At half speed the Scootair produces a good “dog jog”, on the tarmac he jumps up onto the foot plate and rides between my feet and is rather rude to passing Poodles or Yorkshire Terriers.
The “Scootair” has indeed come as a boon and a blessing to us, it deserves attention from any handicapped person.

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Someone asked me what I thought of Mr Clegg. The answer to that is “very little and very seldom”. I have a problem because for 20 years I shepherded in Northumberland where “cleg” is the vernacular for that dreadful thing – the “Blowfly”. It is not that I am suggesting that he is a possibly lethal pest – it is just that I wonder what can be the use of him.