by Louth Nick
“Bernard, Hermès is a domesticated animal, not some escapee from Longleat.”
“Tell that to the tortured sparrows I’ve had to pull from its maw. She chews off the flight feathers and the feet and watches the poor things as they flap helplessly. Quite puts me off breakfast.”
“Well, we’re not having a cat flap and that’s final.”
And so it goes. Eunice gets her way, and I relent. After the best part of three decades at home, Eunice is in her element. Everything is arranged just the way she wants, from the anti-macassars on the sofas to the myriad baskets constructed at her evening classes that gather dust on every inch of sideboard, mantel piece and coffee tables, like a legion of refugees from some savannah bondage ritual.
As the Johnny-come-lately I am told I’m in the way in the kitchen, that I clutter up the sitting room and am merely a nuisance in the dining room. I actually can’t get into either bathroom except by appointment, and as for the bedroom… well, I tell you about that later. Suffice it to say once Eunice has had a drink or two the threat of hippopotamus manoeuvres is real enough to deter any move into that room. In fact I only feel at home in the den, where I have my desk, PC and investing materials, or up in the loft where my model railway is taking shape.
Monday 4th April: Investing at a run
Investing has for me become something like cross–country running was when I went to St Crispin’s: something I have been told to do for my own good, which I rarely enjoy, and which requires rather more stamina than I had bargained for. And one more thing about investing: like cross-country I always seem to come last. The trouble with owning shares is actually quite simple. It’s great fun when prices are going up and awful when they’re going down. Despite what I’ve been told by those who supposedly know better, there’s nothing whatever you can do to influence which of those experiences you get. Look at Railtrack for example. Seemed a fantastic bet when John Major privatised it along with the rest of the railways in 1993. No one cared about the railway infrastructure it owned, it was the brownfield land that got investors salivating. All that undeveloped waste land around the sidings and marshalling yards, the old disused tunnels, the rights of way, the forgotten weed-strewn acres. Then what happened? October 2001, down comes the whole edifice, pulled into administration when Stephen Byers refused it any more government money. I paid 360p for the shares in 1993, could have sold them for £17 at the peak of the market (why didn’t I? I have no idea) and then they were suspended at 276p. I got most of this back eventually, but that was a big comedown from the compensation we should have had.
That was merely a typical experience. My portfolio of shares in 1999 was worth £130,000. Now, six years later, it’s down to £82,000. Almost every disaster during the great bear market has come to visit me: the split cap debacle, Equitable Life, Railtrack, plus a mis-sold endowment mortgage. Thank God for the MoD index-linked pension. Perhaps the most irritating thing is the hours I have spent writing down the closing prices, using my old slide rule to calculate returns, jotting down when the dividends are due and all that. I should just have done what my mother does and stick it in Aunty Vi’s Burmese teapot.
Wednesday 6th April: Taxing conversations
First day of the new tax year. Plenty of capital losses in the old one to set against future gains, should I ever have any future gains. Eunice has been on at me again about cholesterol, having caught me in the den in flagrante with a packet of Scottish shortbread. I had secreted them in the lockable desk drawer where I keep my Hornby catalogues but once the door opened I was caught like a startled rabbit.
“Bernard, what are you eating?”
“Just a meagre biscuit, dear, to keep body and soul together.”
“There’s nothing meagre about that. Do you know how much fat there is in a shortbread biscuit? It’s 28 per cent! Come on, you remember what the doctor said. You don’t want to end up like my Uncle Giles.”
“What, you mean having to move to Slough?”
“No, I mean having a coronary.”
“The heart attack that killed him was brought on by a road accident, not by a Walkers shortbread!”
“Well yes, but it was a clot that blocked off his blood vessels.”
“The clot in question was the one in the Astra that shot the lights on the Hanger Lane Gyratory System and bent Giles’s Peugeot.”
“It’s not funny, Bernard.”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“You could easily die, and I’d be a widow!”
Hm. Yes, that would make you think, wouldn’t it?
Tuesday 18th April: Gone with the windy
Took my 89-year-old mother to the cinema this afternoon to see a special pensioners’ screening of Gone with the Wind. This is probably her first cinematic outing since Ben Hur. Though the cinema is now an Odeon she keeps referring to it as the Gaumont.
“Ooh, look at the price, Bernard. That’s disgusting! Five pounds even with me pensioner discount. In my day it used to be fourpence ha’penny, full price. Come on, let’s go home. Even Clark Gable’s not worth that much.”
“Mum, I’m paying. It’s a pretty normal price. At Leicester Square you can pay a tenner.”
We get into the auditorium, Dot grumbling continuously, then she wonders why “it’s shrunk.” I explain as best I can about multiplexes with their myriad screens. All around us, loopy old ladies are rustling bags, clanging mobility frames, dropping walking sticks and shaking umbrellas. The start of the film has no effect on the hubbub. Vivian Leigh’s appearance gets them cooing, and there is a long and loud discourse somewhere to our left about whether she was ‘common’ or not. Clark Gable’s arrival provokes plenty of oohs and aahs. A momentary hush during the first kiss between Scarlett and Rhett is disturbed by the high-pitched whine of a hearing aid in the row behind. At the end Dot’s teary eyes are squinting at the credits and even though I was bored witless by this never-ending melodrama I can see she’s enjoyed herself.
“Clark Gable reminds me of your father, you know.”
“Come on, Mum,” I reply. “They’re completely different. Dad was 5’4” in his boots, built like a whippet, and had thinning mousy hair.”
“Ah, but you see Geoffrey’s moustache was exactly the same as Clark Gable’s. And he had the same dark eyes.”
Reluctant to challenge these mixed-up memories any further, I let her witter on aimlessly until I get her home.
Elevenses: Fine tea of victoria sponge, rich tea and biscuits, almost made up for the tedium of the cinema. Then the bombshell: “Bernard, dear. That was really nice. I was thinking of going every week, if you would accompany me. There’s Mrs Miniver next and The Sound of Music in a fortnight.”
Oh Lord, just shoot me now and get it over with.
Wednesday 4th May: Spirals at Spirent AGM
Never thought I’d turn into one of those old buffers who turns up at shareholders’ meetings for the sandwiches and vol-au-vents. Still, hoped to find out what Spirent does and why I’ve lost so much. Didn’t understand a word of the annual report. In my day, state of the art telecommunication testing meant picking up the receiver and barking down the Bakelite and seeing if you got an echo.
Never thought I’d miss the scrape of the train as it chugged across Hungerford Bridge on those misty mornings, hearing it again today, I found I did. Help!
Elevenses: A Twix on the train. Bit naughty.
Close of play: Portfolio up £136.20. Spirent rose after the chairman’s statement. Maybe I’ll just hang on.
Friday 10th June: Hobnobbing again
A better day. Jarvis crept up 4p! Clutching at straws perhaps, but maybe the recovery has began. Two years ago 4p was neither here nor there, but now here I am celebrating each and every twitch in the price. Surely someone wants to take it over. Please, please. Can’t bear to take a six quid per share loss. Really can’t.
Elevenses: Six Hobnobs…oh dear. Finished the packet. Eunice will find out. Can’t bear another of those interrogations about ch
olesterol. The woman won’t be happy until I’m eating Ryvita or some other Scandinavian hardboard and my insides are as dry and dusty as a Jewson’s warehouse. Nipped out to Kwik Save to buy another packet of Hobnobs, hid all but six in the Hornby drawer, the balance going back in the biscuit tin. Cunning! That’ll give me some respite for a few days.
Close of play: Portfolio up £18.62. Hooray!
Sunday June 12th: Incandescent about split-caps
The papers are saying that only those with zero dividend preference shares will get a bite at the split-cap compensation package. What about those of us with income shares, eh? Aren’t we entitled to a bite of the compensation cake? I would have chosen zeroes if I’d known, but you don’t normally start looking up who stands where in the creditors’ queue when you buy an investment, do you? It would be like celebrating a christening by measuring the child for a coffin.
Elevenses: Half a crushed tube of Smarties that I found in the pocket of my overalls. Don’t think I’d even worn them since February when the bathroom gutter fell off. Still, presume there’s no sell-by date on such confections.
Eunice has been flicking through conservatory catalogues again. Though she’s not said a word after our last bust-up on the issue, one brochure, with price tags that reach well into six figures, has been left very prominently in the den. She’s as subtle as a hailstorm of anvils. The woman believes money grows on trees. If she’d worked or even contributed a penny in National Insurance in her life we wouldn’t be so badly off, but now it’s the usual refrain: “But darling, you were supposed to support me. Thick and thin, don’t you remember?”
Thursday 7th July: Bridging the divide
Finally finished my application form for split-cap compensation. The deadline is in a week and I’ve no idea how much if anything I will get. I was advised to buy the damn things by a commission-and-gin fuelled stockbroker, now resident in Ibiza and beyond the reach of (affordable) law. I was clearly mis-sold. That’ll teach me to listen to Eunice’s bridge partners, won’t it?
Elevenses: Half a packet of jaffa cakes (delicious).
Close of play: Share market up, Bernard’s shares down. Just mulling this repetitive misery when Eunice swans into the den, does a twirl and says: “So what do you think?”
Baffled by this prompt, I make a stab at it. “Oh, that’s lovely. Mauve does really suit you. Nice buttons as well. Nice, very nice.”
“Not the cardigan, Bernard,” Eunice says testily. “How can you think that I just bought this cardigan when you know perfectly well that you bought it for my birthday in 2003. You are hopeless, really.”
“Ah yes, of course. The boots then?”
“Don’t be dim, I bought those in Herne Bay last October. You must remember, while we visited Felicity? After her varicose vein operation, remember?”
“I really have no idea…”
“Look,” she flicked at her hair. “Can’t you see it’s different?”
“Um…”
“Bernard, the highlights. And it’s layered, now isn’t it? It used to come straight down here at the back. Mr Paul says I have hair that’s just brimming with thickness and vitality for a woman of my age.”
“Mr Paul? Is that the hairdresser?”
“Principal stylist, Bernard. Catwalk Cuts doesn’t employ ‘hairdressers’. They have designers and stylists.”
“And prices that would make a supermodel wince, no doubt.”
“Bernard, if you had your way you’d have me queuing with the pensioners for the Wednesday morning £3.95 discount cut at Scissors, wouldn’t you? Don’t you think I’m worth more?”
Well, she certainly thinks she is. But it’s muggins here who picks up the bill.
Monday 1st August: Peter’s perfect portfolio
Had Peter and Geraldine over for dinner on Saturday. Peter Edgington and his oh-so-bloody-perfect portfolio. How can a man with holdings in three banks, a power generator and one oil and gas firm (BG Group) have done so well? The year’s far from over and he’s already made 18 per cent, twice what the FTSE has done. Besides, about half his money is in gilts and cash. I’m fully invested in shares, but I’m down. It just doesn’t make sense. Naturally, Peter has just installed a hardwood framed conservatory (“none of this uPVC rubbish”) and Eunice is absolutely green. Does he know that our entire house is framed in uPVC?
Elevenses: Three hobnobs from the secret stash…v. restrained.
Bought 1,000 shares in Lloyds TSB, ready for that big interim dividend later this month. What’s good enough for Peter Perfect is good enough for me. I’ll sell them as soon as I’ve got the payout.
Close of play: Portfolio down £170, Jarvis down again. Stand exactly where I was back in February. Tut, why do I bother?
Tuesday 9th August: Public spectacle
Lost my reading glasses for about three hours this morning. Hunted all over the house for them, in the loft, behind the PC. Got more and more irritable about it, especially when Eunice started to ‘help’.
“Where did you last see them, Bernard?”
“I can’t even tell you when I last saw through them.”
“Alright, what was the last thing you read?”
“Um...that old Chronic Investor magazine that’s in the en-suite.”
“So did you leave your specs in the loo then?”
“Not that I could see. But that’s the point, I need to be wearing the buggers to look for them.”
At this point Eunice went off to search both bathrooms. “No, they’re not there, but neither is the magazine.”
“So?”
“So, Bernard, wherever you put the magazine down is probably where your specs are, yes?”
“Well, possibly.”
“If you got yourself some varifocals like I suggested, you wouldn’t need to take them off.”
“Have you seen the price of varifocals? I don’t really need the distance vision bit, it would be a waste of hundreds of pounds and Dolland & Aitchison would be rubbing their hands with glee.”
“Well, what about half-moons then.”
“Oh, come on. They make me look like a grandfather.”
“Bernard, you are a grandfather.”
“Yes, but I don’t feel like one and I don’t want to look like one.”
“Well what is the alternative? You won’t let me put a cord on them because you whinge that you look like a librarian. I give up.”
Elevenses: Gave up on the specs, settled down for a Club Biscuit and a cuppa in the front room. As I plonked myself down I felt a crunch under my right buttock. Delving in the back pocket of my moleskins, I fished out the elusive spectacles, minus the left lens that had popped out. So that’s another £5.99 down the drain.
Close of play: Up £183.60, so long as I count that Lloyds TSB dividend that I’ll be entitled to tomorrow.
Wednesday 10th August: Paying dividends
Plagued by nuisance fax calls while I was waiting for daughter Jemima to ring me from the airport. Every minute the phone rang, and the moment I picked it up it just went ‘beep’ into my ear. Hung up, then exactly the same bloody thing happened one minute later. So I dialled 1471 to discover that the caller had “withheld their number”. I wish I could withhold mine! I rang BT’s nuisance call section, which is apparently staffed with imbeciles and cretins. No, it didn’t count as a nuisance call. No, they couldn’t tell me what number it came from. Well, yes if it was a breather they’d find out, but not for this. Then they suggested I should disconnect the phone for an hour! Idiots! I think I’ll set up some fax calls to them, see how they like it.
Close of play: Down £215.30. Was going to sell Lloyds TSB, but the shares dropped so much now they’re ex-dividend I’d actually be worse off. Must pay more attention to these things.
Chapter Two: Book Fair at St. Simeon’s
Saturday 13th August: Crackerjack pencil
Eunice persuaded me to come with her to church for their annual book fair to raise money for the orphans of Kigali. This isn’t our
local C of E of course. St. Dunstan’s isn’t good enough for her and the five-minute walk would mean few excuses not to go every Sunday. St. Simeon’s is a good half hour drive but it has some rather worldly attractions, apart from its fine Norman tower and crumbling honey stone masonry. Many of the local great and the good are found there, drawn from the large mock-Tudor houses that back on to the golf course. Eunice and her appallingly snobby crony Daphne Hanson-Hart go to church not to cleanse their souls and commune with God, but to elbow each other and hiss over the hymn books every time they spot a celebrity. Sometimes it’s Lady Topham, and occasionally the Hon. Sir Giles Topham MP too. More usually there are the collection of ‘formers’: The former Blue Peter presenter, the former make-up woman for Kiki Dee and the former model wife of someone in Eighties pop group Take This. Or do I mean Take That? Something to do with punch-ups anyway.
In glorious weather, the Reverend Alec McKenzie, who reputedly has the creed tattooed on one shoulder, is in fine, very camp, form. His retinue of adoring spinsters have set up three dozen trestle tables, heavy with bodice-rippers, forgotten poetry and Macedonian dentistry manuals, but so far there are few takers. I have just found myself a dog-eared but extensive collection of Railway Modeller when suddenly the sky turns as livid as a bruise and big fat raindrops start to ping down onto the tea urn beside me. With thousands of books primed for a soaking, the Rev tries all he can to stop the punters fleeing for their BMWs. He rushes around, handing out Tesco bags yelling: “Fill a bag with books for a pound.”
At the mention of such a discount, Eunice, who had been deep in conversation to Daphne about the evil of wheelie bins (which are soon to be introduced locally), suddenly finds passion for the plight of the orphans of Kigali and wades into the fray. Fifteen minutes later and out of breath, Eunice and I sit in the Volvo with the rain pounding on the roof and compare our purchases. Amongst many others I’ve got 101 Uses for a Dead Cat, Harrap’s Dictionary of Ottoman Architecture, a rather soggy 1967-71 collection of Railway Modeller and the 1963 Airfix Annual. She’s got two bulging bags of Danielle Steele, a Maeve Binchy omnibus, Rosemary Conley’s Hip and Thigh Diet, Baskets! A celebration in Hazel, Willow and Raffia, and finally (and most ominously) Multi-Orgasmic after Menopause: A Guide for Couples with an introduction by Claire Rayner.
