TheBanyanTree: A word for everything

[John Bailey]

Sunday April 18, 2004

A WORD FOR EVERYTHING

Today it rained. A lot. It started out all soft and mild and beguiling but 
by midday it had decided to be mean, changing to a cold, windy rain. Just 
the day to stay home in the warm and dry, sitting by the fire or, at least, 
by the hole in the wall where our fireplace is going to be. Sounds an 
attractive prospect, and one we'd have followed, too, if Graham hadn't 
decided days ago that Sunday was to be garden centre day.

"You don't really want to go out in this, do you?" I asked, more from hope 
than from experience.

"It's only a bit of water. You always say it's only a bit of water."

"Well, yes, but that's when we're obliged to be out in it and I'm taking a 
positive view. When you're indoors it's rain, and this is a nasty rain."

"Don't care. We have to stick to the plan and a bit of rain isn't going to 
stop us."

Well, what can you say in the face of such fierce determination? I put on a 
sweater, pulled my weatherproof coat on, and did the best I could to adopt 
a brave face.

Seems I'm in the land of fierce determination, because the garden centre we 
visited first was crowded with folks buying stuff for their next garden 
project. Everything from plants to piles of rock was being stacked into 
trolleys and carted out to waiting vehicles. We were after aquatic plants, 
mainly, but this garden centre doesn't seem to do them. It's a splendid 
place, though, large, well organized, and with prices up to a half less 
than those we've been used to in Wales. The plants are of first rate 
quality, bright and fresh and sturdy. Anything that falls short of standard 
is removed to reduced price bays so, if you're willing to nurse an invalid 
back to health, you can pick up some real bargains. I've forgotten the name 
of the place again but I know where it is and in fact I'd visited it 
before, on my first trip up to Lincolnshire over a year ago, when I was 
hunting for temporary rented accommodation.

The second place, specialising in aquatics, was the one we were really 
aiming for.  A few miles further, at Gayton-le-Marsh, it's a delightful 
experience, even in the rain. We looked at the range of filtration pumps 
first and groaned at the variety on offer -- all sizes and shapes, and all 
prices, too. So Graham had a chat with the guy who knew about these things, 
and we picked up a handful of brochures and leaflets for study at home. 
Then we repaired to the water plant section and chose a beautiful water 
lilly, one guaranteed to produce masses of flowers throughout the season 
once it's established, and a couple of fistsful of oxygenating plants to 
populate the bottom of our pond. We also weakened to the temptation of 
marginal plants, and bought five good-looking water irises and another 
plant the name of which I've forgot.

"Is that it, then?" I asked as Graham ticked items off the list he keeps in 
his bingely-beep PDA.

"Yup. Shall we have coffee and cake before we go?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

Once we'd finished up and I'd remarked for the dozenth time on the superb 
quality of the Victoria Sponge, we headed off on the second leg of our journey.

See, my reward for the trip had already been determined -- a side journey 
to Skegness for a fish lunch. Graham had wanted to see Skegness for a long, 
long time, so both needs were to be satisfied.

The drive down the coast road from Maplethorpe is an experience not to be 
missed, even in the rain. This is one of the main holiday playgrounds for 
the entire English Midlands, and these folks take their holidays very, very 
seriously. The result is acres of holiday caravans and mile after mile of 
little retirement bungalows for those who, over the years, have decided to 
make their favourite holiday destination the place to which they will retire.

Our arrival in Skegness was not auspicious. The wind blew, the rain poured, 
and it was darn cold. Even so the town was teeming with people who don't 
let a little thing like unfavourable weather spoil their holidays.

"Right. So this is what they mean by bracing," said Graham. "Where do we go 
for our fish and chips, then?"

"Over there," I said, pointing with my stick at Harry Ramsden's.

"You're kidding."

"Nope. Best fish in town, and the chips aren't bad, either."

"Ok. In for a penny, in for a pound. But I'm not sitting outside."

"Inside is a bit bleak."

"Just so long as it's out of the wind."

"Ok. Don't say you weren't warned."

The fish was excellent, batter-fried to perfection. The chips were not so 
good, though perfectly acceptable. The little plastic forks with which we 
were gifted were useless but that's no problem for a traditional British 
fish-and-chips enthusiast like me, who wouldn't dream of using anything 
other than fingers.

"But there are no napkins," said Graham, slightly dismayed to find himself 
in a bleak, undecorated and unheated brick-built cavern behind the fish bar.

"Bit Southern and mamby-pamby, are napkins. Not to worry, though. I took 
the precaution of stuffing some paper handkerchieves in my pocket. Here..."

"That's bloody typical of you."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, you relish in dumps like this but you still call tissues 
handkerchieves."

"Call me old fashioned."

"You're not old fashioned, you're just awkward."

"Why, thank you. Nicest thing I've heard all day since the lady in 
Gayton-le-Marsh asked me if I'd like a second slice of Victoria Sponge on 
the house."

"Jammy git. How did you wangle that?"

"Oh, by being my usual charming self."

He was right on his word choice, though. It really is a dump. Outside, 
under the canopy, it's fine, if a bit windswept, but the inside is 
uncomfortably less than salubrious.

"I wonder if Prince William knows he's going to be King of places like 
this," I ventured as we were finishing.

"They've probably got mock-ups in the catacombs under the palace so's he 
can practice."

"That's a good thought. Sort of: 'I name this dump...' I wonder what he 
would name it?"

"Goodness knows. He'd think of something, wily little bleeder."

"Well, of course. He'll own the King's English by then. When you own a 
language you are pretty well guaranteed to find a word for everything."


--

John Bailey   Lincolnshire, England

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