When past hardships evoke gratitude for the present

Because they are close neighbours, we know the youngsters quite well and Herself readily agreed – on my behalf too, no doubt intending to claim power of attorney if I objected – when the parents asked if we could pick the kids up from school and entertain them for a few hours.

Somewhat surprisingly, I have to say, entertaining these three for a few hours meant that we fed and watered them when they got to Chez Clement from school and then settled down while they asked us – and me in particular – questions about what they called ‘the olden days’.

They seemed fascinated by the concept of a world without television, computers and the other bits and pieces (mostly hand held) which I can neither name nor use, and the fact that children of my generation didn’t come downstairs on Christmas morning – or birthdays, come to that – to more presents than they knew what to do with.

But the main topic of conversation was the soup kitchen in The Square, where Herself and I had been that morning. After telling them what we’d eaten – and the absolutely fantastic choice – Herself mentioned that thousands of pounds had been raised for the Shelter Trust for the Homeless and she went on to explain that not everyone had nice, warm homes to return to every day, where there was always something good to eat.

The conversation then developed into whether homelessness had ever been a problem before and I told them that my cousin who used to be in the States Police had told of how he and the other policemen used to search German bunkers at Mount Bingham and Westmount looking for homeless people in the terrible winter of 1962/63.

They looked on open-mouthed as I said that winter was so cold that one Jersey character froze to death while seeking a bit of shelter in the doorway of the Opera House and others were only spared that fate because the police found them and placed them in relatively warm cells overnight before letting them out the following morning after a cup of hot tea.

I suppose me referring to those youngsters’ pleasurable visit is my way of thanking those involved in last Tuesday’s soup kitchen – everyone from the chefs to the consumers and the very many in between – and also those involved in the various charities and government agencies who when the occasion arises help those who are hopefully only temporarily unable to help themselves.

Despite what people like me say when we are having a bit of a poke at what might generally be described as do-gooders and officialdom, they too play a vital role in making this small community a good place in which to live.

IT was also the Budget last week and while I’d like to bang on ad infinitum about me parting with barrels of cash every year without being asked for approval on how it’s spent, I’m going to resist the temptation. Instead, I would just like to focus on one small bit of common sense from the thousands of words uttered in the Big House during the debate.

It came from John Young and he said: ‘I find it difficult to accept that we are going to ruin our tourism industry by putting 7p on a bottle of wine.’ I agree entirely with the Deputy but unfortunately no one seems to have got that message across to those in the hospitality industry whose sole motivation is greed.

I am talking about the pubs, clubs and restaurants which charge a fiver and sometimes more for a glass of Vino Collapso, also known as the sort of cheap plonk where you almost get more when you take the empty bottle back than you paid for the full one in the first place.

Readers of my generation may well recall the old Selection Treize – it came in one litre bottles with stars round the necks – and I reckon the last time I saw that was when sharing a glass or three with some Breton farm workers on my Uncle Percy’s farm many decades ago. From recollection, those Bretons used to call it pinard – a throwback to French soldiers (les poilus) during the First World War when they got a daily allocation of the stuff. It started at a quarter of a litre in 1914, was doubled to half a litre the following year, and in 1916 was increased to 75cl a day; a quantity which might go some way towards explaining the reputation for drinking afforded to the French.

It may also explain my own affinity to the place and its people, but I digress.

As to the point made by Deputy Young, he will probably find that by the time the increase of 7p a bottle – about a penny a glass by my reckoning – hits the punters it will have been rounded up and what used to cost a fiver will likely be ten per cent more expensive.

Moreover, you can rest assured that whatever the new price is, the increase will be blamed on Philip Ozouf and his Budget and he will no doubt be accused of ruining the tourism industry. The reality, as many people know, is that the demise of parts of that industry is attributable in part to short sighted greed within it.

And finally,

My thanks to Betty Ellis for confirming that I got the correct Oscar Mourant last week. Mrs Ellis (nee Mourant) said she was extremely proud of her father, who was administrator of the General, Overdale, St Saviour’s and Grouville Annexe hospitals – a huge workload by any standards. Mr Mourant died recently just a month short of his 100th birthday.