The Boy who grew a tree in his tummy.

 

Peter Fletcher is a young boy living with his parents, Douglas and Avril, in a comfortable house with a big garden in a town somewhere to the west of Croydon and east of Guildford.  He is popular at school, and, as his class are a couple of years away from any major exams, the atmosphere there is fairly relaxed. 

Douglas is a bit of a high-flyer in the computer industry; when people ask him what he does, he always says: “Well, I am in IT – I have to keep my eyes open and I drink lots of tea!  Hah-hah-hah!”  Peter and his mother have heard this so much, they are well and truly fed up with his comment.  Anyway, at the time of this story, Douglas was overseas and would be out of contact for a long time.  He was working in offices all over Australia, upgrading computers and getting them to talk to each other.  Which, I hope you agree, is very public-spirited; these poor computers have to work so hard for us and then just left alone at the end of the working day without anybody to talk to or let off steam about the work they have to do.  It must be a tremendous relief for them, to know that they are not alone and can talk to their colleagues.

One Saturday morning, Avril picked all the fruit and vegetables they needed that day from the garden, as most of it was set out as an allotment, and she grew practically everything that they needed for the kitchen.  While she was preparing their lunch, Peter came into the kitchen, picked up an apple from the bowl and started to eat it.  Eat is not quite the word: devour is more like it, Peter held the apple by the stalk and ate it all.  The peel, the flesh, the core and all the pips.  When he had finished, he popped the stalk into the rubbish bin and let loose a mighty belch which echoed around the kitchen like the death rattle of a hippopotamus.

 When Avril had recovered, she shouted out: “Peter, how could you do that?  Now apologise!”

“I am sorry, Mum.” said Peter.  Then a few moments later: “Mum, I know I am sorry, but what am I sorry for?”

 When Avril had recovered her composure again, they sat down at the kitchen table together and had a long chat about the etiquette of burping in public and keeping the noise under control.  As they finished, Avril kissed Peter tenderly and returned to the counter to finish preparing their meal.  Unfortunately, during all the commotion, she did not notice that some of the potato peel and a little piece of earth had fallen into the colander and was cooked with all the vegetables.  Peter did not notice it in the sauce and ate the lot.

Now, floating around in his tummy, were the apple pips, the earth and the potato peel un-noticed by Peter’s Turkish Wrestler and gradually they got closer and closer to each other…

What do you mean, you don’t understand about Turkish Wrestlers?  Alright, alright, just to clarify: everybody has a Turkish Wrestler working in their tummy.  He starts off the digestive process, throwing food against the walls, jumping on it, banging it about, squeezing and crushing it.  That explains all the noise you hear from your tummy at times, the groaning, grumbling and grinding, then the rumbling and splashing sounds that we have all experienced.  The inside of your tummy is a place where the eyes of man have never set foot, so just ignore all that piffle they tell you in Biology.  Peter’s Turkish Wrestler is a man called Kemal Buldan and, at the moment, he is too small to carry out his true profession as a wrestler.  Has anybody ever seen a small Turkish Wrestler?  No.  Precisely, and that is why all these proto-wrestlers start their careers working in people’s tummies.  Very smart they look too in their Kisbets (the leather trousers worn in oiled wrestling bouts) – not that anybody can see them, of course.

Where was I?  Oh yes, the apple pips, the earth and the potato peel were swirling around in the watery fluid in Peter’s tummy (it only came up to Kemal’s shins, not too deep); then they all came together and the pips were absorbed into the earth which itself adhered to the peel.  A shock – a bit like a pleasant tremor – spread out through Peter’s body.  He felt a warm and happy sensation pass through his chest, Kemal fell over, picked himself up, scratched his head and got back to work.

Two weeks passed, all was quiet and peaceful and, somehow, Kemal never caught up with the apple pip (which he would have pushed straight down the alimentary canal) so it had germinated and started growing.  The roots started to push out and the teeny-tiny trunk did what it is programmed to do: look for the light.

“Ow!  Blooming Ouch!  What’s that?”  Peter was having his morning wash, felt something in his tummy button, picked at it and it really hurt, obviously not fluff then.  He pointed it out to his mother, who said: “Oh dear.  Let’s try to get rid of it then, Peter.”  Avril picked up her eye-brow tweezers and a magnifying glass, had a good look and said: “It looks like a tiny little leaf.  How did that get there?  Now let’s see if we can tweak it out.”  Peter’s reaction indicated that the tiny little leaf was not going to go without a fight and he went very pale and sweaty.  Avril said she would get him an appointment with the doctor that afternoon.  What Avril did not know is that just as she was pulling at the leaf from the outside, Kemal was pulling at the roots from the inside; the trunk had found Peter’s tummy button and was working its way out from there whilst the root bundle had locked itself in place like a limpet.

Peter went to school and, after he had finished for the day, went to the doctor’s surgery and met his mother there.  After a little while waiting, they were called in to the doctor’s room.  This was a dark, gloomy, high-ceiled room with one wall completely occupied by an enormous book-case filled with medical magazines and periodicals along with countless text books, all showing signs of wear having been consulted many times over the years.  Against another wall was a full-size skeleton hanging from a hook and numerous charts and diagrams.  On the other walls were numerous framed photographs of Doctor Clayton with various professors and dignitaries along with – in pride of place – his medical certificates; oh, and there was a small dusty window as well.  Dr Clayton was a kindly man, but he was often a bit brusque with his patients as he was under such pressure.  He put Avril and Peter at ease and asked what the problem was and then had a good look at the leaf in Peter’s tummy button.  He reached for a pair of medical tweezers and said he would try to remove it but Peter explained about the pain he had experienced earlier.  “Interesting!” exclaimed the doctor and then turned to his book-case, muttered to himself, pulled a ladder over, climbed almost to the top, recovered a book, descended and returned to his desk.  “Now we are going to get somewhere.” he said to Peter and Avril and read through sections of the book for a few minutes.  When he had finished, he shut the book (Rudge, Simkins and Willis: “On floral and fungal growths in the body”) and rang a hand-bell on his desk for the pharmacist to come in whilst starting to write a prescription for Peter.  When the white-coated pharmacist came in, the doctor said “Ah, Mister Reeday, I am just writing a prescription for an arborifacient, could you make it up now, please?”

 Mr Reeday responded: “Don’t you mean an aborti …” but Doctor Clayton interrupted testily: “No, not an abortifacient!  The boy has a foliaceous eruption from his umbilicus – which needs an arborifacient.  Now, take this book, the formula for the prescription is on pages 68 to 70 and bring the book back to me later, please.”

 The pharmacist had a look at the leaf, refrained from mentioning tweezers, and asked Avril and Peter to sit in the waiting room for a little while.  Whilst waiting, the doctor’s clerk came over and said: “I have the bill for you here, Mrs Fletcher, the fee today for the consultation and the prescription is three florins, would you like to pay now, or shall we send the bill over later?”  Peter looked a bit shocked but Avril got her purse out, paid the sum due and the clerk went off to write out her receipt.  It took a little while for Mr Reeday to make out the prescription, but when he returned, he handed Peter a small cardboard box with “Prescription – Peter Fletcher” carefully written on the top.  He opened the box to show them a large oblong pill inside resting on a piece of cotton wool, a virulent green glow seemed to be coming from within.  “Now, this pill should be taken as soon as you get home with plenty of water, but no later than nine o’clock this evening as all the chemicals will have worn out by then.  Any questions?  No.  Good night then – Oh, have a cup of hot cocoa about fifteen minutes after taking the pill to take the taste away.”

When they got home, they went into the kitchen, Peter poured himself a glass of water, grinned at his mother, said: “Hail, Caesar!  Those about to die, salute thee!” and swallowed the pill.  Avril hugged him tightly, said that she hoped earnestly he was NOT going to die and started making them both a cup of cocoa.

Down in Peter’s tummy, the pill landed like a bombshell.  Debris scattered all over the place when it hit the floor and Kemal looked at it in horror.  He walked around it carefully, then decided it looked much too dangerous to throw around and try to break up.  The pill was pulsing and flashes of green inside could be seen through the casing.  All he could think was that it was about to explode.  What could be done?  Who could control it and make Peter, and everybody inside him, safe?  Of course, the dwarves and elves who worked in the upper and lower intestines; they had the machinery and cutting equipment to deal with this sort of infernal machine.  Kemal gingerly picked up the pill, it was now completely spherical, and the surface was completely taut as if whatever was inside was trying to break out.  He could not let it happen here.  Where was the hatch to get through to the intestines?  It was always moving around.  There!  There it was, half-way up the side wall and, fortuitously, one of the new tree roots that were working their way around the tummy passed quite close.  He ran along the tree root, reached the hatch and heaved it open, shouted: “Sorry about this, I can’t manage it on my own.  I’ll bring round a couple of bottles of Raki later!”  He pushed the pill through, slammed the hatch shut, jumped down and took cover behind the remains of Peter’s afternoon snack.  There was a long, ominous rumbling from beyond the hatch, then the unmistakeable sound of a bulldozer in action, followed by a flame-thrower, then blessed silence.

It took Kemal two hours to pluck up his courage and visit the intestines.  He took a full case of Raki and lots of glasses.  The dwarves and elves were waiting for him a little way along the hall, they did not look happy.  “I am sorry.”  He said.  “I am really, really sorry.  I did not know what to do, I could not help myself.”  By now, he was surrounded by dwarves and elves, all scowling at him and carrying large metal bars and hand-tools.  He was very worried now.

The biggest and oldest of the dwarves pushed through the throng to Kemal until they were bumping chest to chest and said:  “Tha’ did right, laddie.  If that thing had gone when you were holding it, you would have been blown to smithereens.  We’re the ones with the kit to deal with those poisons and we’re glad to see you safe.  Now, I see you’ve got some of that Turkish falling-down juice with you, it’s time to celebrate hey!”

 After a drink or two, they swore loyalty and eternal friendship.  A little later, Kemal showed some wrestling holds and throws to the younger dwarves, they showed promise but their insistence that they had to keep their daggers on at all times was a bit worrying.  Later still, they toasted their fathers and mothers.  Then their grandfathers and grandmothers.  Then their great-grandfathers and great-grandmothers, but then they lost count and got a bit confused.  Some of the younger dwarves fell over and started snoring where they lay.

Shortly after this, Kemal decided that he really should return to base.  None of the dwarves was in a fit state to talk to, so he went over to where the elves were sitting and said he had to get back to the tummy now and he would return in the morning to collect all the glasses.  “Don’t worry, Mr Buldan,” said one of the elves, “We will bring the glasses through for you and thank you very much for a lovely evening.  We have all enjoyed ourselves!”  They all looked very rosy-checked and had big beaming smiles on their faces.  Kemal wished them all a good night and returned to his domain.

 Kemal managed to get one of his boots off before he fell over – fast asleep!

 He had a good night’s sleep, but when Kemal woke up, he rather wished he hadn’t.  His mouth tasted as if he had eaten something that was putrefying which had then crumbled and was now stuck to the back of his throat; his head felt as if someone had wrapped steel bands around it and was in the process of tightening them.  Then he saw the table nearby, on it were all his glasses (beautifully clean and glistening), a large jug of a heavy fruit juice, a plate of bread rolls and a bowl of peaches, nectarines and apricots.  Thanking the elves for their generosity, he tucked into their bounty.  Soon afterwards, he felt great.  He stood up, belched contentedly and got back to work.

Peter and his mother meanwhile did not have a very good evening.  They went into the living room after having a couple of cups of cocoa, Peter did not feel like eating.  Avril placed a large bucket by Peter’s chair, he glanced at it.  “What’s that?”

“Sundry purpose bucket,” came the response.

“What’s it for then?” 

“Sundry purposes.”  said his mother enigmatically.

They did not feel like watching the television, so listened to some of Avril’s dance records.  “Prehistoric.” said Peter.  “No,” from Avril “Just five years before you were born.”

“Definitely prehistoric then.” responded Peter.

After an hour, Peter said “I don’t think it has worked.”  Avril, who had been studying a medical encyclopaedia and seen no use of the bucket, agreed with him.

“What can we do now?  You know I have been bleeding a bit from my tummy and it still hurts an awful lot.”  Avril put down her book, looked lovingly at Peter and after a while thinking about what they should do, responded: “Right, you stay in bed and take the morning off school.  I will go in and tell them what’s going on and try to find out what we should do next, OK?”

Next morning, Avril would have to go on the School Run.

In the morning, bright and early, Avril walked up to the school gates and there, as she expected, were the alpha-mummies clad alike in go-faster lycra, clustering around the start-line making sure nobody else could get to the front.  All dressed-up in electric-blue or lipstick-pink leotards with their hard eyes appraising each other warily and looking with complete disdain at the other mums, and a few dads, who were dressed in whatever came to hand for the school run.  The alpha-mummies were eager to get the run over as quickly as possible today.  All of them had watched their favourite cookery programme on the television last night, presented by Rosina Brooke.  The alpha-mummies idolised Rosina; she was one of the top celebrity lady-chefs in the country (or is that lady celebrity-chef?).  They all had a complete collection of her cookery and life-style books, every device or implement that she used was quickly acquired and used in their kitchens.  Many of them had a signed photograph of Rosina (framed, of course) in pride of place on their kitchen walls; her lustrous blue eyes gazing out at her adoring worshippers.  Woe betide anybody who had the temerity to even think about painting a moustache above those luscious lips!

In last night’s episode of: “Rosina - in your Gourmet Kitchen” she had demonstrated Cornish Pasties with a Tunisian Twist, and all the alpha-mummies were desperate to finish the School Run quickly and get home to make this delicious repast for their adoring families to lunch on.

 Avril meanwhile had other things on her mind and scanned the (non-alpha) throng for one of her trusty friends.  Over there, on the other side was Gertrude - just the right person to confide in.  She waved over and Gertrude saw her and noticed the look of concern on Avril’s face so knew something was awry and started to move over.

Just at that moment, Mrs Ellis, the Deputy Head, came out and rang a hand-bell as warning that the Run was about to commence, blew her whistle and they were off.  Except Avril, as she needed to let Mrs Ellis know about Peter’s absence this morning.  Avril gave her a summary of the situation, she expressed concern, said that Avril seemed to have the situation in hand and, if there was anything the school could do, to let her know.

By now, the runners had covered a fair bit of ground and Avril had to run pretty hard to catch up.  It took a while of determined running, but she caught up with the stragglers at the back of the pack, Gertrude was lagging behind and waved Avril over.  Gertrude took Avril’s arm and said:  “You’re winded.  Don’t say anything, get your breath back and we will talk in a while.”  Avril was much reassured by Gertrude’s confidence and they trotted along side by side for another mile or so.

When Avril felt more comfortable, she told Gertrude the full situation as succinctly as she could, Gertrude was a good friend, they had known each other for years and she was always able to see clearly through a problem and find a good solution.  Gertrude listened carefully and they ran on a bit further in silence while she considered the situation.

“Avril,” said Gertrude “what you need is a tree surgeon.  No, not one of those two axemen who practise around here.  You need a highly-skilled one to handle this situation.  Ah, we are nearly finished now, thank heavens!  Come straight over to my home with me and we will find somebody for you.  But, be warned, this will probably cost you a handful of golden guineas.”

At this point, they crossed the finish line and were given their times.  Not a single alpha-mummy was in sight, but most of the other mums and dads clapped them over the line before catching up on all the news.  Avril and Gertrude made their farewells and walked quickly to Gertrude’s home to do their research.

They were successful and two days later, Avril and Peter set off for Peter’s appointment.  They took the Central London Railway line to Bond Street station and then walked over to Harley Street.  Peter looked at his mother with worry written all over his face: “Mum, I’m scared.  What’s going to happen?”

Avril gazed at Peter, and said: “Don’t worry, dear.  They know what they are doing.  You will be alright.”  But inside herself, she was just as worried.

They reached the right address.  On the wall by the front door was a large well-polished brass plaque that read:

Mr Sebastopol Jack

Fellow of the Royal Society of Consulting Tree Surgeons.

 

 Avril rang the bell and stepped back.  In a short while, the door was flung open and a very smartly dressed young man stepped out, looked at them with a beaming smile and said: “Peter?  Mrs Fletcher?  Welcome to Mr Jack’s surgery.  Do, please come in and we will get the paperwork done in the waiting room.  He smiled at Peter as they stepped in and said: “I can see you are worried; but please don’t be.  Mr Jack will care for you and look after you very well, believe me.”

In a little while, they were ushered into a large, airy, wood-panelled room and Mr Jack himself greeted them.  He was a tall broad-shouldered man wearing a flowing green and brown surgical robe and cap (to keep his hair in place) who quickly reassured them with his grasp of the situation.  He asked Peter to take off his shirt and lie down on the examination couch in the centre of the room, switched on a set of powerful lights above Peter, put on a pair of glasses with magnifying lenses then spent a few minutes intensely examining the growth in Peter’s tummy button.

“Right,” he said eventually as a couple of nurses came in to assist, “I will need a dose of local anaesthetic.  This is just to numb the skin around your tummy so you don’t feel anything, Peter.”

One of the nurses went off to prepare the anaesthetic.  Mr Jack turned to the other nurse and the young man, who had just come back in.  “I will need three or four small, surgical Retractors, a 20-gauge chainsaw and a 35-gauge chainsaw in reserve, along with a length of plastic tubing.  Now, could you get a flask of hot chocolate and a couple of cups for Mrs Fletcher and put the screen around the couch, please?”

A 20-gauge chainsaw is one with a one-twentieth of an inch (1/20^th) blade and a 35-gauge is one with a one-thirty-fifth of an inch (1/35^th) blade.

The young man busied himself getting the screen in place and then bringing a tray over to Avril with a flask of spiced hot chocolate and two cups and saucers (one for Peter when all was finished) and saw that she was comfortable.

The other nurse went over to a large wooden cabinet, unlocked it and took out two surgical trays.  On one of them she placed a 35-gauge chainsaw, a thin piece of plastic tubing and some retractors.  She then picked up the 20-gauge chainsaw, filled a tiny jug with petrol and proceeded to top up the chainsaw’s fuel tank.  When the tank was full, she sealed the lid and took the chainsaw to an electric socket on the wall under a sign saying: “Chainsaw starter only.”  She plugged the chainsaw in and there was a delicate cough followed by a high-pitched whine, the sweet aroma of petrol fumes started to fill the air.  She put the device on the tray and placed this on a table by the couch.

The first nurse had given Peter an injection and his skin started to get numb.  Mr Jack helped to put up a small curtain over Peter’s chest and then explained to Peter and Avril what he intended to carry out and asked Peter to lie back and try not to move about or to look over the curtain, reassuring him that he would not be hurt in any way.  His assistant, the young man, asked Avril to sit down again and poured her a fresh cup of chocolate.

Mr Jack asked the nurses to use the retractors to gently pull the skin away from the little tree trunk, which they did and, whilst holding it back, he looked into the hole to see that the root ball was secure and watertight.  He then got to work with the 20-gauge chainsaw and the whine deepened considerably as he expertly trimmed off all the suckers and branches from the root ball up to where the trunk appeared above Peter’s tummy button.   Every now and then he stopped and said: “Suction”, the nurse moved a small tube over and vacuumed out all the debris that had collected in the hole.  When the trunk was completely trimmed, Mr Jack wrapped a piece of plastic tubing around it from just above the root ball to about three-quarters of an inch above skin level, then asked the nurse to remove the retractors and gently ease the skin back to the tubing.

All done!  The nurses removed the screens and helped Peter to sit up again.  Whilst Peter was putting his shirt back on, Mr Jack pulled a chair over from his desk, sat next to Avril and explained all that he had done.  Peter came over and sat in the chair waiting for him.  “Mum!  Mr Jack’s brilliant.  I didn’t feel a thing and all the scratching pain has gone now.”

“Thank you, Peter,” responded Mr Jack, “now, I will need to see you again in a few weeks to check on progress and prescribe you some special Humus pills to give the root ball in your tummy all the nutrients it needs.  Also, if you ever go to a good Greek restaurant …” Here he was interrupted as a very irritated rumbling noise came from Peter’s tummy.  “Sorry!” he resumed, “I mean a GOOD TURKISH Restaurant.”  The rumbling stopped.  “You can’t do any harm by having a good portion of hummus as a starter.”

The pills arrived and Mr Jack explained that they were made from irradiated and pasteurised finest quality top soil which would feed the roots in Peter’s tummy with all the essentials they required.  To make the dosage simple, Peter only needed to take one tablet on the same date each month.  After making another routine appointment to see Mr Jack a few weeks later and paying the fee for the consultation (which did indeed come to quite a few golden guineas), Peter and Avril said their goodbyes and made their way home.

The next day when Peter returned to school, he had to let his class-mates know what had happened to him; he had to do this quickly as they would find out eventually.  This caused immense, raucous hilarity amongst his class-mates who called him Pip-Pip Peter from then on.  After a couple of weeks everything settled down and Peter’s situation became part of their life.  He consistently refused to build a swing for them to play on.  Every time the teacher mentioned something like:  “Well, the core of the conundrum is …” or “Peel off the label.”  Most of the boys would burst out with laughter, turn round and say: “Did you hear that, Pip-Pip?  Peel off the label.  Sure it won’t hurt?”  Peter would smile and everybody just carried on with their lessons – until the next time.

In the playground though, if any of the boys from other classes started to tease or bully Peter, one or two of his own class would quietly turn up by his shoulder and defuse the situation; much to Peter’s relief, they were comrades after all and they stuck together.

Soon after this Kemal kept banging his head while working in Peter’s tummy.  That was it, he was growing up.   He quickly made the arrangements for a much smaller replacement wrestler to take his place and then return to his homeland: Turkey!  He popped through the hatch to the intestines to let his friends know he would be leaving in a couple of days, they arranged to have the farewell celebration the next night.  On his way back, one of the elves’ team leaders had a quiet word and suggested that if the dwarves invited him to take part in their “Dagger and Boot” dance, it would be best to decline and sit that one out, Kemal nodded his agreement.

The next day, Kemal, freshly shaved and hair neatly combed, joined the dwarves and elves in their communal hall.  The dwarves thrust a large tankard of Bear-skin Brown Ale into his hands and the evening got off to a good, convivial start.  After a while, the dwarves asked him to join in with their dance, mindful of his warning, Kemal politely declined.  When the dance finally lumbered to a close, Kemal was quite shaken and relieved to have avoided the carnage.  Manfully, he joined in with giving first aid to the injured, washing the blood away from wounds, applying pads and bandages and holding them in place until the bleeding stopped.   

When all the damage had been cleared up, one of the elves handed him a small glass and said “Try this, this is our drink, the dwarves don’t like it.”  Kemal thanked him and the elf filled the glass from a small black flask.  The glass felt warm and the drink looked like water with a slightly reddish hue.  

Kemal took a sip – it was icy cold!  He dipped his finger in the liquid, it was warm; he took another sip, again icy cold but with a sharp flavour of berries and the bitterness of herbs.  “Thank you, thank you, it is delicious.  What is it called?”  The elf said something indistinct, Kemal asked him to repeat it, it sounded like the “Erl-King’s noggin”.  Kemal asked if he could have another glass, please, the elf smiled and said “Just one.”  With his glass topped up, Kemal sat down to really savour the fine drink he had been treated to.

The evening swirled on, with singing (but no more dancing) and toasts to all and sundry.  Eventually, Kemal decided it was time to leave as he had to welcome his replacement and make his departure shortly; the dwarves tried to present him with a full-sized stuffed and mounted black bear; fortunately, he was able to decline this as he had to travel light, but a sheathed dagger was thrust into his belt for him to keep.  He eventually was able to make his final and regretful farewells to all his friends and commence his homeward journey.  He was able to carry out the handover to his, much smaller, replacement and make his way out; Peter was fast asleep and his mouth (fortunately) was wide open.  Kemal made his way to the railway station, nobody noticed him en route, and boarded a EurasiaTunnel express – the Silver Crescent – which would take him all the way to his homeland without having to change trains.  There was a small compartment where Kemal and fellow returnees could travel comfortably without being noticed by the other passengers.  Thus Kemal left these shores, never to return.

Interestingly, some years later, Peter was watching one of the Eurosport television channels waiting for the netball finals to be shown when the results of that year’s National Wrestling Championships from Turkey were shown, and there was Kemal – the champion!  He was just waiting for the presentation to be made by Queen Daphné, Peter did not know why, but he was transfixed by the screen and stared at Kemal in wonder.  In a moment, the camera was pointing straight at Kemal and it was as if they were looking straight into each other’s eyes.  A look of recognition, confusion and bewilderment passed over Kemal’s face then the view panned over to the victor’s podium where Kemal was being shepherded, he still looked a bit startled, but he took his place.  He knelt down to await the queen.

This was the first time that any monarch of Greater Turkey had attended a wrestling championship and the capacity crowd was jubilant at the honour they were being shown.  As Queen Daphné walked down the steps everyone sank to their knees in awe and respect, she smiled at those around her and, when she reached the arena, turned round and gestured for the crowd to stand again.  Walking towards the podium, she was given the crown of laurels by a courtier.  She reached Kemal, raised the crown above her head and turned round slowly to show the crown to all four corners of the stadium.  To huge acclaim, the queen then placed the crown on Kemal’s head and bade him stand up, shook his hand, said a few words to him and made her way to leave the stadium.  As the queen's car drew away, the president of the Turkish Wrestler’s Federation stepped forward with a velvet glove stuffed full with gold rings to present to the champion.

 The screen then went momentarily blank and cut to the television studios to carry on with the next broadcast.  Peter watched the netball feeling slightly bemused for a while, but soon recovered.  Meanwhile a warm glow suffused his tummy for some hours.

About six months after Peter’s first appointment with Mr Sebastopol Jack, he was sitting contentedly in the kitchen.  He had just had his third follow-up appointment by then and he, and his tree, were making good progress.  Avril was baking, she was just putting the finishing touches to an apple pie and handed over a piece of fruit for Peter.  He looked at it and went a bit green.  “Sorry, Mum.  I just can’t eat apples again.” he blurted out, and he never ate an apple again.  But, in the autumn, he always had one or two to give his friends.

The End.

Author’s warning: If you wish to grow a tree in your tummy, you must take great care as it is a procedure that is prone to complications.  Peter was extremely lucky in that he was able to see a top-class tree surgeon who gave him the treatment he needed.  I strongly suggest that you consult a tree surgeon with an excellent track record in supporting patients growing trees in their tummies before you commence ingestion and propagation, particularly so if you like peaches.

Postscript.  After he left his school, Peter enrolled in an agricultural college.  In their Topiary and Hedgerow classes, he met a very nice young lady who was in a similar condition to him, although she was growing a pear tree in her tummy.  I do hope that they decide to settle down and run an orchard, together …

 

Another glass of champagne? I don’t mind if I do!

 The Bank Chairman and HM the Queen Mother

 

Once upon a time … I must start this article with these words: Once upon a time, because I have no hard facts to put forward in its support.  However, I have worked with, and talked with, many people in Barclays Bank’s Head Office when I worked there and when I was in one or two of the Bank’s Societies and was able to piece this story together from conversations with various fellow staff members.

This all happened in the 1960s and 1970s.  The world was quite different then and Barclays Bank Limited (as it then was) was run and managed actively by the Chairman and the Directors; many of whom would have been family members of some of the banks that had been absorbed into the Barclays Group over the years.
 
To give you a bit of a flavour of what it was like at the time in Barclays Bank Head Office, one of my colleagues from a while back told me that, on a Friday, it was always possible to see which directors were going to the country for the weekend as they would be the ones wearing tweed suits to work.
 
Sir John Thomson joined the Bank in 1929 and was made a director in 1947, serving as deputy Chairman then Chairman from 1958 to 1973.  He was a member of one of the families that owned Parsons, Thomson and Co which became part of the Barclays group in 1900. 
 
One day, Sir John “looked in” to the Arts Council office to see Miss Joan Saunders, the Hon Secretary, on her knees bashing tacks into the upholstery for a footstool for some play or other, whilst Jean her assistant (later my wife) was endeavouring to create a parasol out of an old umbrella frame and some yellow satin.  He seemed amused, he could take anything in his stride.
 

Sir John was a man who was very keen on horse-racing and would often go to the races.  Being a member of the establishment, Sir John would usually watch from the Royal Enclosure and was, as likely as not, to encounter the Queen Mother there.  They were both very knowledgeable in equine matters, would compare the horses they were examining and make bets together.  The wager, I had been told, was usually a case of champagne.  After the race had ended, their secretaries would make arrangements to settle the wager.  If Sir John had lost, then the arrangement would be for the Queen Mother to visit the Bank’s Head Office at 54 Lombard Street to “collect her winnings”. 

On the appointed day, the Queen Mother and her retinue would arrive at the Golden Gates of 54 Lombard Street and would be whisked smoothly to the Boardroom on the seventh floor.  Very few staff saw her arrive, but everybody knew when she was in the building.  The Queen Mother would be greeted in the Board Room by Sir John and the Directors, champagne corks would be popped and all present would enjoy a most convivial occasion.  When the Queen Mother was ready to return home, I do hope that somebody would place the case and any unopened bottles in the boot of her car before she returned to Clarence House.

Interestingly, whilst Sir John was having drinks at Clarence House one day, he was very impressed indeed by their champagne glasses.  When he asked where they came from, he got a rather evasive response.

When he returned to 54 Lombard Street, he despatched two of the young men from his office to scour the royal jewellers around the West End to track down the glasses.  They started off very unsuccessfully, but, eventually, they tracked the champagne glasses down – to FW Woolworth’s. 

That’s the Wonder of Woolies!

Recommended reading:

 

The Barclays Bank Group Archives is an absolute treasure trove of useful information; please follow this link:

https://www.archive.barclays.com/

Barclays Group Archives picture ref 33/792

Sir John Thomson at the races accompanied by his lady wife, with his horse Proud Tarquin, who won a number of major steeplechase races, including the Champion Novices' Chase at Cheltenham and the Guinness Handicap Chase at Leopardstown.  I am exceedingly grateful to Barclays Group Archives for letting me have this lovely photograph and allowing me to publish it here.

 

The Hatton Garden Job – a dry run?

In 1987 (the year of Hurricane Fish) and early 1988, I was on attachment to Barclays Bank’s Edgware Road Branch / Business Centre for a few months.  The branch is in a parade of shops and flats on the Edgware Road about fifteen to twenty minutes brisk walk from Marble Arch and the temptations of Oxford Street.  The branch is on the southern end of the parade and was set out, as far as I can remember, at the time, with a banking hall and some customer services on the ground floor.  The strong room was in the basement.  The machine room and various management offices were on the first floor.  On the second floor were a number of Personal and Corporate Sector departments, all the Relationship Managers’ offices and the Business Centre Director’s office.  Behind this, were all the staff facilities for this floor (kitchen and rest rooms) and a large free-standing strong-room.

 

This strong-room (internally about 2 ½ by about 2 ½ metres as far as I can remember - which was quite capacious) was in an area that bank customers do not normally see.  But some customers (or workers) did see it, and the large door with the usual dual combination locks.  Well, somebody obviously talked about it to somebody who listened very carefully or somebody overheard the conversation, started to put two and two together and made a plan for an audacious raid.  There were two fatal flaws to this plan and I will come to these later.

 

I do not know how long it took for the bank robbers to make their preparations, but one day (after a Bank Holiday weekend), the early-morning team came in to discover all the damage.

 

The robbers had got access to one of the flats which shared a party wall with Barclays’ offices and broke through this wall to get into the bank’s premises.  They then set to work on the top floor strong-room using sledge hammers, chisels and (I presume) other heavy duty power tools to break in.  They did not get in.  Even though they inflicted tremendous damage to the concrete wall, they did not get through the net of steel rods embedded in the structure of the wall.   The steel framework held firm and the robbers - who did not appreciate the massive strength of the wall - had to leave completely empty-handed.

 

I do not know whether any of the robbers were caught and brought to justice as I moved on to another branch shortly after this and then to a Head Office department – but you do wonder whether some of them might have been in the same gang that carried out the Hatton Garden job some years later in 2015; it was much the same plan that they carried out.

 

The two flaws?  Well, I have mentioned the first of these, they did not appreciate the construction of the strong-room and their tools were not adequate to the task of breaking through the walls.  Secondly, a mistake made by many thieves over time, there was no money, bullion, jewels or anything portable and of value in the strong-room.  The contents of the strong-room were composed entirely of security documents (guarantees and deeds over land and buildings for instance), so they could not be sold to anybody.  Yes, it would have been very difficult to re-construct any stolen security documents, but the thieves would not have been able to make anything from their theft.

 

I know that I have been the victim of crime and it was a devastating experience each time.  Criminals steal huge amounts of money each year; but it is a truly wonderful experience to witness them fail to get away with anything at all!

Please, Sir, may I have some more?

A couple of articles on the BBC Radio News last year (2019) piqued my interest.  One of them was about the Flexitarian Diet and the other was about how cattle, particularly cows,

generate high levels of Methane gas – a significant contributor to global warming.

The first article discussed how much was made of the Flexitarian diet in 2019, when it started to attract a great deal of attention in diet rankings; it being a way of life espousing a flexible approach to vegetarianism.  The diet being predominantly vegetables but not precluding eating a limited range of meat.

Now where have we seen this sort of diet before?  Got it, the Ministry of Food’s Second World War national rationing programme.  The scientists who devised the rations for UK citizens during the war would recognise all elements of the Flexitarian diet although the 1940’s diet reflected all that was available at the time.  Really, this is not much “new” but a fresh, healthy, varied and flexible approach to a daily diet.

Incidentally, Churchill attended a dinner at Claridge’s Hotel during the War where all the guests were served Woolton Pie, he spurned it, pushed it away and said “Bring me some meat.”  They did.

At the end of the war, the UK population was very lean and healthy, very few people were overweight, but everybody was hungry a lot of the time so nothing was wasted and if a bar of chocolate was left lying around - it would not last long!

Secondly, the special report on climate and land by the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) describes plant-based diets as a major opportunity for mitigating and adapting to climate change ― and includes a policy recommendation to reduce meat consumption.

“We don’t want to tell people what to eat,” said Hans-Otto Pörtner - an ecologist who co-chairs the IPCC’s working group on impacts, adaptation and vulnerability - in interviews during 2019. “But it would indeed be beneficial, for both climate and human health, if people in many rich countries consumed less meat, and if politics would create appropriate incentives to that effect.”

Similarly, if countries take action to completely refresh the way in which they farm cattle or move away from a predominantly meat-eating culture it may be possible to really change the impact of meat-farming methods.  We need to change, that much is agreed, but precisely how far we need to move is still subject to a great deal of debate.

Once again this makes me think of the scientists working on the nation’s diet and rations during the Second World War.  What they were concerned with was delivering a specified portion of calories onto the population’s plates every day of the week.  They calculated the area of land available across the entire country, along with the financial cost and the quantity of fodder used to deliver a specific number of calories each day to everybody in the nation.  Their aim was to ensure that everybody had sufficient food and this was delivered as economically as possible.

A major problem that they faced was that certain breeds of cattle needed much more land than others for grazing and cost much more in terms of veterinary and feeding expenses.  I believe that decisions were made then not to breed certain cattle during the war and concentrate solely on those that gave the maximum benefit.  In short, a number of breeds probably disappeared completely and some are now regarded as “Rare Breeds” and farmers have been trying to build up their stocks from a very small base.

We went to a Rare Breeds farm once in North Wales.  Mrs A stroked a Jacob Sheep in the big field, then a Shetland pony wandered over while we were enjoying the view and started trying to eat my wife’s shoe.  I do not know what they were feeding them on – the grass looked luscious to me!

Recommended reading:

Laura DAWES:           “Fighting Fit – The Wartime Battle for Britain’s Health”. Weidenfield & Nicholson – Paperback edition 2017.

A couple of hyperlinks to two BBC items that are informative reading:

Control - Click here for Link to: "Meat - a Threat to our Planet" on the BBC

And Control - Click here for Link to BBC Health report on the Flexitarian Diet

Oh! Is that the time?

Back in the Eighteenth Century when Lord Dandy-Lyon decided to commission a clock for Ragwort Hall, his palatial estate in the country, he would have visited a specialist clock-maker to have it designed and made to order.  It might be a long-case clock for the hallway or a tower clock to be installed above the stable block.  But, whatever, the situation, it could be the first clock to be set up at his home that was both reliable and accurate (many clock-makers might disagree).  How then, to get the time right?  There are no radios giving time pips every hour and no other reliable clocks for any number of miles.  The answer is simple, the clock-makers will make his Lordship a sundial to go with the clock.  The clock-makers will check the exact location of Ragwort Hall, work out its Latitude (degrees North or South of the Equator) and design a sundial with the Gnomon fixed at the correct angle.  When this is set up properly (and is pointing due North) its shadow will show LOCAL time whenever the sun is shining.  That way, his Lordship, or his trusty servants, will be able to check the clock time periodically.

Local time is significant because, until the arrival of the railways and the telegraph system of communications, noting the time was a local matter and what time it was on the other side of the country was of no concern.  To demonstrate this: the Longitude for Land’s End is 5° 4' 4.2" West (of Greenwich) and for Lowestoft it is 1° 45' 5.72" East; which means that (according to my calculations) Local Noon {1} in Lowestoft is 29 minutes and 48 seconds earlier than Local Noon in Land’s End.

Memo to Lord Dandy-Lyon: “Train your servant before you Trust your servant.”

Royal Collection Trust / © Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II 2020

Move forward now to the early Nineteenth Century and imagine yourself aboard a Royal Navy Battleship – the HMS Vulcan.  Captain Fearless and his officers will be on the quarter-deck (precursor to a modern-day ship’s bridge); one side will be the Captain’s territory and the other side for his Lieutenants, the time is fast approaching mid-day.  Almost all of the officers will have their sextant with them and will be using this to get a sighting of the Sun and the horizon to determine when it has reached its highest point, making it mid-day, and the angle between the Sun, the ship and the horizon.  When the officers have agreed between themselves, the First Lieutenant will approach the Captain and advise that they make it Noon, the Captain will agree and thus Noon it is.  Bells will be rung, hourglasses will be turned and the ship’s new day will officially begin.  The navigators, at this point, will be charging down to the chart-room with their calculations and will proceed to plot their location.

The navigators would use their charts, Nautical Almanacs and chronometer (set accurately to display the time at Greenwich {2} or their base port throughout their voyage) to determine their position at sea (Latitude and Longitude) and bearing.  Then they can advise the Captain of their progress and position.  Obviously, as it takes a while to collect their observations and make their calculations, they cannot pinpoint their exact position at sea, but they will be fairly close.

Nowadays, however, fixing the position of ships and planes can be carried out at any time, regardless of cloud cover (which can stymie sextants), using modern satellite technology and time measurement.  Time is measured now by the vibration of caesium atoms and this is regarded scientifically as the most precise means possible of maintaining accuracy. 

In Great Britain, Greenwich Mean Time and British Summer Time are the two official times used. Whereas overseas, Co-ordinated Universal Time - which, to the layman, is effectively the same as GMT - is the standard for setting timekeeping around the world - and in manned space vessels.

With all this accuracy, you can check the time, to a fraction of a second, at any time, night or day.  But, do we really care about the exact time?  Ask somebody what the time is and, as like as not, they may say “Oh, about a quarter past seven.”  Which gives plenty of leeway!  But, if you are racing to catch a train or are a pub landlord about to announce “Time, gentlemen, please!” then the exact time is critical.

We have four mechanical clocks and one battery clock in our living room, each of which is true unto itself and we love them all, their ticking, their chimes and observing their intricate movements are a joy to hear and to behold.

--------------------------------

 {1} Noon – or mid-day – is the precise moment that the Sun is at its highest point in the sky that day.  If you are in the Northern Hemisphere, the Sun will be to your South and your shadow (pointing North) will be shorter than at any other time in the day.  The Sun will never be directly overhead, unless you live in the Tropics. 
The Tropic of Cancer is 23ﹾ 28’ North of the Equator and Capricorn is the same distance to the South.  The Latitude of Lizard Point in Cornwall is 49° 57' 19.19" North and for Eastbourne it is 50° 46' 7.36" North; thus, in the United Kingdom, we are a long way from seeing the Sun too high in the sky, being closer to the North Pole than the Equator.


 {2} In the Nineteenth Century, Greenwich Mean Time was adopted as Great Britain’s “official” time by Act of Parliament: The Statutes (Definition of Time) Act 1880.  Subsequently repealed by The Interpretation Act 1978.  British Summer Time was first enacted legally in 1922 (after being used as a temporary measure in the Great War) and British Standard Time in 1968, but these acts were repealed by The Summer Time Act 1972. 

Excellent reading:
AC GARDNER     “Teach Yourself Navigation”.  The English Universities Press Ltd – Second Edition 1973
AP HERBERT       “Sundials Old & New”.  Methuen & Co Ltd - 1967
Dava SOBELL      “Longitude – The True Story of a Lone Genius Who Solved the Greatest Scientific Problem of His Time”.  Fourth Estate Ltd - 1996
 

With thanks to staff at the National Archives and Worthing Library (Reference Department) for their kind guidance by pointing me in the right direction in my researches and also to staff at the Royal Collection Trust and the British Sundial Society.

The cartoon came from the February 1994 Bulletin of the British Sundial Society; I have not been able to track down who drew it but if you know who does, please let me know and I will be delighted to acknowledge him or her.  
The cartoon is, in fact, a copy of a 19^th century drawing which is in the Royal Collection, if you would like to look at the original, please click here:  Thomas Rowlandson - 1808.

 
The Royal Collection is a vast repository of wonderful pieces of art and I would recommend using the link as a way into explore this wonderful Collection.