Basset

In south east Kent, the country side, August 2009 there was that year sunshine every day. The town I retreated to Sandwich, genteel, secret, houses luxurious behind discreet walls. There were invitations to lunch in London and to Suffolk, to “spend a couple of days”. My company is now of the well retired, or well divorced, those who are discreet. I am home.

Back to the village were I was born. The country side, Nonington the place I spent a childhood a dull adolescence before I went to that sailor town. On leaving college in Portsmouth where my knees were taught to tremble behind the Wilshire Lamb, I drifted then to London, drove trucks for Andy Voyais Plumbing dropping new copper pipes direct from the builders merchants to the scrap merchants and then back again, all signed in and out as Prince Charles. One morning fine, September, as now thirty one years on, I changed my overalls for a suit in the back of the transit in St Peters St, went in the side door of 4 Milbank, and became a Civil Servant, an employee of the Crown Agents.

It was a pleasant job, I did not miss my Transit Van. Chris Wilson showed me how to fill in forms, introduced me to form design, John Pragnell, big in the church introduced me to pornography circulated through the Dip. “You won’t want that” said Jim, a pipe smoking senior, “You can get plenty of the real Drip round here at your age.” He was right about that, "let’s go down the pipes, at lunch time, it will only take tenn minutes". I was, even after college in Portsmouth surprised about that. It was all fun, sex drink, Government, until in 1978, or thereabouts, on behalf of the Crown Agents I went to the Peoples Democratic Republic of South Yemen.

I had spent beyond my means, the cpf had gotten high. Ted Saunders, the lover of my boss, Doris, a lady direct from Le Carre, said “If you apply for that job you will get it. You can regret it. If you go there you will never come back.” I stayed four months in Yemen, but Ted was right. Once gone I did not come back from seeing a life made of betrayal, brief love, disappointment, revenge and laughter. Cigarettes, wine and Basset. But hey, back home, here comes a tale: sex, murder, mayhem? That is what they like to hear.

After the PDRY, a country that no longer exists, came Mauritania, Guniea Conarkry, Cote D'Ivoire, Cameroon, then, one March morning in 1985 I set out to Dar es Salaam to be for one year the Crown Agents Representative in Tanzania. I was a very proud Basset that day.

In the great sadness of old age I remember that day of hope and opitimsism.

Coming home I visited family, mother, brother, sister, said hello, saw their children. I am a remote Uncle, remote since none of my love affairs have led to issue. A couple of terminations, "I am very keen to have a child but not with you". Julie had a lovely daughter later in life.

It has been a homecoming and a good bye. I recuperated, told them I must leave again since one comes home to die and say good bye and that is done. I set about the cashing up, the attendance at my mothers eightieth birthday, Christmas Day 2009. I could be a celeration and funeral farewell in th house my father built. I have outlived his life span by a year already. I planned then to set off on one last suicidal adventure with the last of my cash and life. It would be a good blog, there will be readers, for the murders, sex or mayhem?