Much water has flowed under the bridge, Mr Robinson, since
you contributed your appraisal of my grasp of Physics to that 1974 school report
– the one that would help steer my O level choices (this being in the
monochrome, pre-Bay City Rollers, pre-GCSE world). How long, I wonder, did your pen hover over
the virgin page before you committed your wisdom to posterity by writing the
word “Poor”?
Admittedly it would take a barrister at the top of her game to
quibble with your assessment, given that I achieved but 15% in the qualifying
exam, coming 92nd out of 93 in the year. My lack of ability was compounded by the fact
that it was a multiple choice exam, offering five possible answers to each
question, so that a random selection of answers should, as a matter of probability,
have yielded a slightly less disgraceful 20%. (Could never get my head round 32
feet per-second, per-second. Still can’t.)
No, there is no disguising how ‘spot-on’ was your judgment on my
performance. It was poor. Well done, then, to the Son and Heir (bless ‘Im)
who has just graduated with a BSc, so removing the unscientific stain on our
family’s honour.
Nowadays, of course, teachers would never be permitted to
comment honestly on my performance. They are compelled to use weasel words and
wibble, such as “Ivan has been making progress this year towards a level 3 in
physics, exploring such concepts as….”, which of course tell you nothing at
some length. No. “Poor” was honest, accurate and brief.
Well, it’s never too late in this life to change direction
and apply yourself. The last forty years
have been spent trying to find a topic at which I can excel, to expunge Robbo’s
well-justified sneer and to give Mrs King senior something to drop nonchalantly
into conversation at the historical society.
I’d like to think that my attempts at home brewing might be up there above
the 50% mark. True, owing to time
pressures I’m back to using kits right now but, in the past and maybe again
fairly soon, I’ve mastered brewing bitter from scratch using nothing but malted
barley, water, hops and yeast. Seasoned
beer drinkers, experts all in real ale tapped from the wood, have sampled my brews
and, through puckered lips, declared them to be “drinkable.” If I
have brewed better than some, it is because I have knelt on the shoulders of
giants – so thank you, Dad and uncle Norman.
Or it might be preaching.
I have to ration this nowadays to avoid causing despondency among
colleagues less gifted in oratory. When I intoned the call
to worship as guest speaker in a local church earlier this year, one lady had
an epileptic fit and another had palpitations.
(I say it again: I had warned them several times about the air-horn).
But this morning I had that ‘Eureka’ moment: here, at last, was an achievement on the
strength of which I could look Robbo once again in the eye. Four years ago I went to study the curing of
meats under Ray Smith, master butcher at River Cottage of Channel 4 fame. Since then I have been curing joints
of meat with varying degrees of success.
Yes, the flavour is there but all too often they have simply been too
salty. And during those years,
ministerial colleagues have occasionally called in for breakfast and have eaten the bacon –
often asking for seconds. Now I need to
pause at this point and pay tribute to these colleagues: stout-hearted, square-jawed, clean-limbed
chaps all of ‘em.* If I was facing a scrap
with an ugly crew put up by the local pagans I’d want these guys as my wingmen,
watching my back. Are they daunted by saltiness? No sir. 'Never complain' is their
watchword. If one or two lay claim to a problem with cholesterol as a polite
way of excusing themselves from a third or fourth rasher, who am I to mind?
But now they need fear excess saltiness no longer. For, along with Mrs King (junior), I tasted
this morning a rasher of home-cure that was Demerara–sweet and not a trace of
saltiness. Ray: I returned to your recipe and your years of Master Butchery
have been proved again.
Given the lapse of time it is entirely possible, Mr Robinson,
that you have already been gathered up by the angels in blatant defiance of
gravity. Achieved escape velocity, in fact. And it is unlikely that you
would remember me for I was then one of the quiet boys. But, if called upon one
final time to exercise your incisive judgement, I am hopeful that though my grasp
of physics has continued to pursue its inevitable course towards randomness,
you might grudgingly award my home-cure 51% and a “Satisfactory”.
*Sadly, it's been some time since a female colleague dropped by for breakfast.
