HCP - 24 March 2026

Morry-Cambi Minstrel: 2026

New Year's Resolution: finish novel about Morecambe

This afternoon we meet Jon, Flora, her sis and Henry the hound at a freezing cottage they've rented for fun in Grasmere. It's only -6 outside, nearer -10 indoors. Later, a huge golden Wolf Moon, with Jupiter slung below like a bright pendant, shines in the heavens as we drive home in Jay’s blissfully warm Honda.

If you get lost in Cumbria, you'll know when you motor across the border into Lancashire because smooth roads abruptly plunge into sink-holes aka pot-holes and tarmac moguls.

Btw, quantum mechanics is just entanglement. An enthusiastic presenter on R4 mentioned this and a 'Jello-Universe' in December. She'd just been on a trip on a 'ferry-full of physicists' to Heligoland. Only taken 56 years, from the time it was discussed by us bright 15-year-olds, viewed by the village with mistrust, sprawled on the grass in the recreation ground.(Pete our leader had read about it.) Nice to know not all science is solved at break-neck speed.

I pour hot water over the ice block in the iron bird-bath; it was saved from rubbish left out in Chiswick. Our home is full of rescued plants, items and cats. Stunned visitors liken it to a mad museum.

Anxiously check our friends in the Lake District aren't snowed in, or toe-less with frostbite. Thank heaven, they've decided to return to their cosy London flat a day early.

1.30pm: Guitar practise.🎸Poor Tony, however much he explains, I cannot grasp the methodology of scales. The brain-blank reminds me of 1970s algebra lessons. His wife Wendy says soothingly, 'Don’t take any notice, Helen. Tony was a child musical prodigy, he played the organ in church aged ten'.

Twelfth night; took down Christmas tree yesterday but can't scrape the 'removable' plastic snowflakes off the sitting-room window.

Jay takes his car in for a Service; he forgot last year so the garage charges him punitive rates.

I've decided on the title Full Circle for my book. It will be written to capture the loud anarchic spirit of Morecambe's West End before it's silenced by passive-aggressive gentrification.

I now volunteer remotely for the Comms department at lovely Lancaster Hospice – no, really – which entails going in once a week to collect paperwork, and ask Ian in IT to smooth out the latest glitch between my Morecambe desktop and Comms. I’m about to join VOICE too, another hospice section, and have volunteered to take Minutes at meetings. The latter makes me worryingly popular.

I’ve tidied my research notes for Full Circle novel into a neat pile.

Crossly pay my Tax Bill – I’d rather donate it to the Food Bank. At a local level we don’t even get recycling bins! The Council’s stubborn excuse is they were nicked back in 2015 from round our way. I had to buy a new wheelie-bin when we moved in in 2016, which I promptly decorated with gaudy stickers.

This didn't stop the guy rendering a nearby tall building from 'borrowing' our bin off the street. He mixed his gloop in it; bin had just been emptied but ... Euw. I spotted the builder up a steep ladder but he looked so knackered I took pity and didn't rock it. Obviously I've mellowed with age and accepted it never occurs to people round our way to liaise or ask, before launching into some activity or other. At least this one's legal.

Noi has offered to come back and do two hours cleaning a fortnight. Joy! It's six years since we’ve seen her and Noi no longer looks sweet 16 – she looks 25 and is sporting black tattoos. It turns out Noi's nearly forty and her small son who used to come round with her, is now taller than both his parents and 16. I need a lie-down.

Kathryn and Ian, who also foster for Lancaster & Morecambe Cat Rescue, come round for a cuppa and addictive chat about les chats. Other friends callously rattle a collection-tin after mere seconds of cat talk. Two hours whizzes past then, sated, our visitors reluctantly refuse the offer of wine. Everyone’s driving, or going home to Get the Tea. People here eat early in the evening, a civilised habit.

Jay kindly sets off at 8.30am on a Sunday, to accompany me to a neck MRI appointment at Preston. Luckily we don’t have to depend on public transport or we’d be up at the crack of dawn. The MRI scanners are housed at an odd location, in a couple of large lorries parked behind wire fencing. This site is beside a closed hospital, at the end of a narrow turning. I feel sorry for the young staff, an Indian radiologist and an Arabic nurse, both working a 12-hour shift.

The cramped changing area inside the lorry is not designed to conceal anyone disrobing. The Velcrose fastening on the thin curtain rips open if you sneeze, swear or sigh.

Drag myself out for a Run, now I have new trainers that fit. Foolishly, I bought decorative running shoes in an online sale, only to find them very heavy and too big. What is it with sizing? I have gorgeous boots which, like Cinderella’s ugly sisters, I can hardly jam my toes into, yet I can’t bring myself to part with them. As Georgie* would say, it’s ‘very diffy’ to return some online purchases anyway. I’ve searched miniscule oriental address labels in vain on packaging. Serves me right for shoring up Chinese sweatshops.

I collect Sharon from a car-cluttered cul-de-sac in Bare. Turning my Jaguar round - I'm bad at reversing more than a couple of yards - is complicated by her partner having parked across the entrance to their immaculate drive. After almost colliding with the gatepost, I ask a passing youth to turn the Jaguar for me. He does this with aplomb and a millimetre to spare. Marvellous!

Attend Speed-Awareness Course, on Zoom – what possessed me? Why didn’t I trot to the centre in person? I hate phones, even ones where you can all see each other. My misdemeanour happened on Bay Gateway, where there's a short stretch sporting 40mph signs in the midst of a 50mph zone. On the day, I was absently speeding at 45 while SUVs whipped past me at 65mph. The speed detector in a lay-bye must have had a field day.

The course instructor is a kind, humorous and non-judgemental woman. Which works much better for communicating the dangers of speeding to her varied group than being scolded, as in olden times. Also made me blush for being a past teacher-cum-dragon. Karma is a bitch.

Off on a Home Visit to a woman in Halton who wants to adopt a rescued cat. We have a great chat in the kitchen while her ten-year-old granddaughter serenely draws next door in the sitting-room. The rehomer confides she has not only rescued dogs, cats, a rabbit and a tortoise over the years, but also Piranhas.

This new website is almost ready, hurrah! I broke the last one – soon after BreaksIt - so fingers crossed it doesn’t happen again. As a backstop, we could join the EU again.

Carol and Dave are visiting his nonagenarian aunt in Liverpool, who has all her marbles, unlike me. We’ve known them for an astonishing number of years and don’t see old friends often enough. We happily convene at Maray, a small restaurant Carol and Dave know in Liverpool, where the food is delicious and the staff joyful. Fortunately we all recognise each other and get on so well that health is scarcely mentioned.

It’s good doing the Guardian Cryptic Crossword: apparently an Axolotis is a loveable Salamander.

In a sociable month, we meet Steve for lunch at The Italian Orchard, where an efficient staff of elderly Italian men serve the food so charmingly that this customer forgets she's an OAP.

My new molar is in; marvellous! But needs screwing in further in a final appointment next month. I try and tell Jay all about having the gum trimmed - he’s booked in for a new tooth - but he promptly practises French loudly on Duolingo.

There are roadworks galore in Lancaster; humanity is not at its best. Someone needs to invent flying emergency vehicles, not just helicopters. If I was younger I would offer patients piggy-backs to A&E along the pavement. Btw, how long does it take for drivers’ ears to bleed when trapped beside an agitated ambulance? There's obviously a demand for ear-plugs, they've gone up to five quid in Boots!

A dermatologist at Lancaster Royal Infirmary obligingly sprays my back with liquid nitrogen in case any of the new marks are pre-cancerous. Morecambe drug-dealers are missing a trick: rather than wait months for an out-patient visit, people could nip into back alleys to score cans of LN.

Jay goes to check mildew in the loft for the young couple who adopted beautiful kitten, Balou, last year. They live in a new house and Jay reports all seems fine on the building side. He suggests installing a dehumidifier in their loft to stop condensation wrecking items stored up there.

Every day’s a school day: I thought youngsters wisely rejected possessions and exist nowadays with a phone, laptop and capsule wardrobe. Oh, and a pampered cat.

See Mapp & Lucia*

FEBRUARY

Mollie Jenkinson's funeral at Thorncliffe Crematorium in Barrow: in her mid-90s, Mollie was an intelligent and curious woman and had lived through enormous social change. I saw a faded photo of her as a child with her siblings, all wearing wooden clogs. When I asked, Mollie said they were comfortable.

Despite living all her life at Whitbeck on a remote farm, Mollie was in touch with all that was going on. This redoubtable woman enjoyed excursions to London into her eighties: to sports and art events, also visiting her son who worked there. Many attended the funeral service and the female priest, who had known Mollie well, shared memories of her friend.

I paper-clip sections of Full Circle together, it'll encourage me to write the book.

There's hardly ever a north-easterly gale here: so annoying when there is because one has to run home along the Prom against the wind - normally it's helpfully shoving from behind. But icy gales are a reassuring return to trad Winter weather.

Six Nations! Resurrect my England rugby shirt and evict moths.

Jonathan has a stonking Cold: the virus has had a high local hit rate. Fortunately the Winter Olympics keep him entertained, and chilled. It's amazing what humans do to keep themselves amused betwixt cradle and grave. Young people somersault through blizzards down mountains, arbitrarily attached to a board. And as for being on a bob-sleigh ... Dear God. I might sleep under the bed tonight, clutching the carpet for reassurance. Jonathan watches the Olympics wistfully, but then he's done mad things like canyoning down rapids and ski-mountaineering.

Biblical floods in Rome: when rugby players hit the turf a tidal wave splashes the stands.

I'm lost, out on two Home Visits to putative cat-adopters near Kendal. Now, away from the main road in twilit gloom, there's no SatNav signal. Not sure the paper map in the boot will help either. Sweatily, I slowly turn the Jaguar on a narrow track between hedges near Brigsteer. A Mercedes shoots round the bend in a blaze of headlights and screeching brakes.

Wherever I stop a car - it could be atop Big Ben - someone will want to drive past or park. This man looks annoyed at having to wait. For a nasty moment my front wheels spin in the mud, then I'm round. The lane gradually widens until Murky can roar past. A man in a hat with ear-flaps waves to me to stop. He saw me drive the other way and now crosses his farmyard to direct me to the cottage I seek.

NHS dental appointment at Bare. I haven't been back since 2024 when a charming but inept young woman took hours to give me two small fillings, watched by a yawning trainee. I'm relieved to see a confident dentist instead; he not only laughs at my jokes but speedily inspects my fangs and concludes I don't need any treatment.

Charge e-bike battery. Very diffy: for a start I have four keys with which to secure my e-bike like Fort Knox - and this is just for genteel Lancaster town centre. I drop the unlocked heavy iron battery bar and narrowly miss my foot , pre-charging. Afterwards, the bar will only slot back in at an awkward angle and upending the bike in the hall doesn't help. Whoever designed the battery should be sentenced Sisyphus-like to drag it repeatedly up Helvellyn. Bar dents the hall floor twice more before it clicks in. No-one comes up from the basement flat to check if we've dropped off a ladder or the mortal coil.

High Court decides Palestine Action is not a terrorist group[I reckon Yvette Cooper is the terrorist.] Another nail in Labour's coffin. I hope the multitude of wrongly-arrested protesters sue the Police.

Valentine's Day is the 38th Anniversary of me proposing to Jonathan. He has been cautious about using the affirmative ever since. I book us in at the Parker's Arms fabulous restaurant as a treat; the food will make him feel better.

It's a beautiful day, sporting sunny icy weather and snow-covered hills. We drive home via The Courtyard Dairy to buy Jonathan the best cheese. Might purchase a nifty picture of Wallace and Gromit too that I've seen in the window of Bay Framing.

Good clickbait header: 'Is your Doorbell Spying on You?' No, just a bored intern in China. Despite pervasive social paranoia, people still welcome Alexa into their homes. Astonishing too, how journalists anthropomorphise formerly inanimate objects. A hurricane does not intentionally kill people: it isn't sentient! Nor is Prime Minister Cardboard.

Curling is just people cleaning ice, I wonder if the male Olympic players [for example] mop the kitchen floor as assiduously at home.

The Rev Jesse Jackson, civil rights leader, dies. Why can't cowardly war-mongering dictators drop dead instead?

Christine is very chuffed with her new hearing-aids. She's hearing the high register anew and reports pulling a tissue from the box is akin to a deafening crush of cellophane, as is using zips. But, get this, the brain soon sorts out these noises so they're experienced as normal.

Andy Mount-All Windsor was arrested this morning and questioned for 22 hours while his two houses were searched. If they'd been smaller properties would he have been let out quicker? AMAW is only suspected of previous misconduct in public life this time, so that's all right then. Dallas, 1980s dramatic soap opera about the rich and famous, pales next to Randy Andy's doings. Now Charles is King, he's stuck with taking action against his own bro. You couldn't make it up!

Jo arrives for a visit featuring Six Nations on TV, hedonistic drinking and delicious food. England are useless! Jo and I consider burning our retro shirts at Twickenham but, trains South being what they are, I'll dye mine black in Morecambe instead. Obvs. more wine was necessary to drown our sorrow.

Elaborate funeral plans are for the young i.e under-60s. I'm donating my bag of bones and acid to startled worms in Dalton Woods. Do try and remember people, after I'm dead. In a cardboard coffin, tagged with graffiti by one or two peers with shaky hands, who drop me into the earth with relief. Btw, I've cancelled my original musical choice of Mud, Mud, Glorious Mud by Wallace, as it's bound to be raining. Instead I want bagpipes enthusiastically played, followed by peals of church bells.

Admiral has quoted £82 rise in home and one car insurance, so I do USwitch and get £96 off with Gen.Accident car insurance run by Aviva. Later USwitch sent me Sheila's Wheels' quote that is £18 cheaper. Too late, never mind.

Dentist 2pm, to screw implant in further and provide a mouthguard against my nocturnal teeth-grinding during Six Nations.

Jersey (the island) is due to join the Isle of Man in agreeing to medically-assisted dying. Wales is greatly in favour too. Cue for The Grim Reaper to go on strike.

A sensible female plumber who leads the Green Party in Denton and Gorton has won the bye-election from Labour with a huge majority, hurrah! That'll teach PM Cardboard to refuse to let Andy Burnham stand in case he won and posed a leadership challenge. Cardboard is in tatters now from causing the bye-bye election.

Photobooks are marvellous: my phone has skilfully atrophied my memory muscle so that I send off the photos it stores. If the electricity goes off zillions of people, not just geriatrics, will be vacantly stumbling along streets.

It's been raining for 48 hours; Nimbostratus will probably obscure our planned squint through a telescope at six planets neatly lined up in the night sky tomorrow.

Beautiful day, so I went for a five-mile Run which released the energy to try yet again to befriend the fostered-ferals on our top floor. Nope. The bite-proof gloves I bought online are useless - Jay demonstrated by sticking a fork through one of them. I wasn't wearing it.

The Iranian religious despot is assassinated by the US; pictures of Iranians either celebrating or mourning are televised. I expect the same would happen were positions to be reversed.

I heard Rogue Male with John Guilgood in the lead on R4Xtra during the night, a perk of insomnia. Really exciting! Because I missed the start and the hero was Lord Ben, I had to check whether Tony Ben was in Intelligence during WW2, but no. It turns out this story is famous, with a popular old film, book, etc. Now Ben - another one! - Cummerband is due to star in a remake of the film this year. Which is probably why Rogue Male was on the radio ... The media reminds me of Dali's painting Autumnal Cannibalism, for ever devouring itself.

MARCH

Trump and Israelis bomb Iran, despite Peace Talks going well. Want to cry when I see photos of the wanton destruction.

Jocelyn at u3a wittily remarked, 'Andrew 'the man formerly known as Prince '. Jay related this on his return home, he was suspiciously happy. I must check it is a Current Affairs discussion group he attends, not Tinder for OAPs.

Middle East war; no doubt petrol prices will rocket too.

Radio announcer lugubriously reports decline in British healthy life expectancy. This has dropped in the past three years by three years for women and two for men, due to the Tory government's austerity progrom, plus its Covid mismanagement. Not to worry - there's a spoilt toddler with his finger near the nice red nuclear button across the Pond.

Morecambe's glorious sunset has emerged from behind the old Battery [military] building. By the time BST occurs this month, the days will have lengthened and lightened so much it feels de trop. Switch BST to Valentine's Day: it will help us regard others with love.

Good job I filled up with petrol last week as garages are hiking up prices, despite being accused of profiteering.

Fantastic Wales v Ireland rugby match, which Ireland won at home but it could have gone either way. ITV's commentary is rubbish compared to the BBC's. When French TV films games it's worse, with interminable shots of kids' gappy grins and players' derrieres, while viewers miss action on the pitch.

France won the English game at the last minute, literally. Thank heaven for Slugignon Blanc on special offer in Sainsbury's.

Order online Rory Stewart's The Places in Between from Used Books, having enjoyed his candid memoir Politics on the Edge about his time as a politician. Pity he's a Tory.

I see an email from someone called Myrtle at HMRC stating I can see how my Tax has been spent. Obviously Junk.

Today Donald Quixote veered off on a tangent about windmills after slagging off Nato and Starmer for not supporting his and bestie NetAYahoo's war against Iran. Very diffy for them, and everyone else, now the Strait of Hormuz has been closed by Iran so no oil can be shipped.

The war on Iran has already cost the US 12.7bn and it's only day six: I don't feel so bad about my profligacy now.

We go to our remote caravan at Silecroft and renew the LPG bottles we use there for power, now Farty and Yahoo are bombing oil fields in the Middle East. Fuel scarcity will probably mean no cooked breakfast by the Irish Sea, or any heating next Winter. I'm willing to bet these wars won't be over by then: Farty-Crump is at a loss now he's released the Demons of the Apocalypse. We have matches and plenty of candles - it'll be just like retro 1970s power-cuts.

King Charles has inaugurated a new footpath made by Natural England, that stretches around the coast of England, [don't they mean Britain?] 'King Charles III England Coast Path' is 2,689 miles long, so we can all wander in a loop. A wonderful free way of seeing our beautiful and varied island. Better keep schtum, Farty-Crump might decide he wants it!

A beautiful unseasonably warm day again so we drive round t'other side of the bay. We'd be able to spot Morecambe except we're behind Black Coombe, visiting our static mobile home for the first time this year as the site's closed from January until March. Unfortunately Big Weather has hurled the lid off a large plastic box on deck - which was clipped down - and it's full of water. In which has drowned: bbq charcoal supplies, a tent, a big plastic tablecloth and a shovel. Also, the legs on the sturdy deck table have rusted through.

Something has exploded inside in the bathroom, black splodges cover every surface including the fortunately low ceiling. I speak to Paul, who drains down the caravans' water system in Winter to check he didn't have a mishap: he's reassuringly pleasant.

'Oh no, it's weather blowing through the air vent. Saw someone's shower before now and it was black. The thing is to check your vents are closed.'

They look closed but after I've cleaned up, I tape kitchen roll across to impede dirt during the next Gale Force 9. Probably lucky our caravan has a raised bank behind it so is still in situ.

The tent is now up and drying in the spare bedroom here at Morecambe. There's still room for Christine to sleep in there when she comes to cat-sit soon.

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