No rain to speak of for a month. This week's five day forecast for my neck of the woods a stack of blazing suns. Hosepipe ban back on any time now then.

This morning’s post included an ominous brown envelope. Yes, a communication from the Inland Revenue. Checking up on pension payments. Don’t that lot ever give it a rest? Not content with squeezing me for the last thirty-nine years during my time as a wage slave, before I’ve even had a chance to find a suitable spot for the gold carriage clock and join the bowls club, here they are, back for a second bite at the cherry.

Relations were so bad during the period when I was self-employed, the brown envelopes were secreted away and only revealed when my mood was judged to be stable enough for the contents to be read. Even then, there was no guarantee that the brown mists would not descend and bring on an outrageous display of blood vessel popping fury, for which I was later thoroughly ashamed. But they just wouldn’t let it lie.

For years, my then accountant, Alan, had an on-going series of skirmishes with a pit-bull of a female tax inspector who’s jaws were immovably clamped around my throat. The lady was not for turning. Eventually Alan’s stoic refusal to accept defeat paid off and she was forced to concede. All income had been rightfully declared and there was nothing more to pay. Pah!

But my secret late-night fear is that she’s still out there, lying low and watching, waiting for her chance to pounce and finish, what to her, is unfinished business. As the late, great George Harrison once wrote (with a minor update):

Don't ask me what I want it for, (ah-ah, mister Brown)
If you don't want to pay some more. (ah-ah, mister Blair)
'Cause I’m the taxman,
Yeah, I’m the taxman.

Now my advice for those who die, (taxman)
Declare the pennies on your eyes. (taxman)
'Cause I’m the taxman,
Yeah, I’m the taxman.

And you're working for no one but me.

Taxman!

As I’ve mentioned, I belong to a gym. I’ve been a member for about ten years now. It’s located at a hotel about a mile-and-a-half from my house. Very convenient.

I should run, or at least walk there, but I don’t. I use the car. Yes, I know, carbon emissions and the like, not to mention the additional exercise, but until recently, if I went on a weekday, I had to get to the railway station after my session and catch a train to London in time to get me into the office by 9.30. So, walking, even running, wasn’t an option. I had to get back home, eat breakfast, collect my bag and make the 8.03. Now I have no such excuse, but there is invariably a good reason to drive. This usually involves a combined trip to the supermarket, or some such errand or another. Pathetic half-baked reasons they may be, but it’s my conscience and I’ll have to live with it okay? Or walk.

Anyway, the gym. It’s not large, but has a pool and a well-equipped exercise room that has recently been updated with new machinery. There is also a steam room and Jacuzzi. These tend to be more popular with the hotel guests than gym members and they can be seen luxuriating, wallowing even, like families of perspiring, pink hippos. Twenty minutes on the cross-trainer or steps would be of infinite more benefit. And there my friends, in that one damning, judgemental sentence, lurks the curse of being a regular, paid-up gym user; the highly irritating tendency to feel justified in passing judgement on those who aren’t.

If the majority of the population wish to be free to fart in the face of good advice from the experts and pay scant or no attention to the importance of keeping fit, that is entirely their affair. But I promise to cease any comparisons with keep-fat people and large mammals and all such spiteful elitist nastiness. I should be content to spend a smug hour or so a day forcing unwilling muscle and sinew through a series of punishing routines on contraptions that might well have been devised by the Marquis De Sade himself. In fact, I’m not so sure that he isn’t a member. Which is where, my good companions, the real fascination of belonging to a gym lies; the members. They are a constant source of fascination and are subjects for endless speculation.

In this intimate environment - where one subjects oneself to all kinds of stresses, strains and positions, exposing all manner of parts that, in everyday circumstances, are best kept covered and contained – some relationships inevitably form. The majority are confined to a nod and brisk ‘good morning’ or ‘see you’, in deference to a member’s privacy and right to suffer in silence. Others blossom, with actual conversation taking place. This, in my experience, is more likely to occur among the female members.

Women are much better at forming more than a mere nodding acquaintance, seemingly happy to discuss the most personal of topics with relative strangers. Men tend to stick to the weather, sport and golf – not a sport, but an unfathomable obsession. But there is hardly any communication across the gender divide. When it does take place, this is most common amongst the older members, where any hints of an ulterior motive, or ‘coming on’ are presumably presumed not to exist. Of this, I’m not so sure. Don, though long since past his eightieth birthday, has a wicked glint in his eye when addressing the ladies. A heart bypass and a fall from his garage roof a few years back seem to have done nothing to dampen his ardour. And just what was he doing on the garage roof at his age? I bet he’s no stranger to a swinging chandelier or the top of the wardrobe.

I’ve seen many come and go over the years. Some don’t stick it for long and soon disappear, never to be seen again - like the young man who accompanied his treadmill activity with a loud and single cough, emitted at regular and frequent intervals once he’d warmed-up. He wasn’t missed. Nor were the couple who pitched up on Sunday mornings and stage whispered and giggled away twenty minutes of everyone’s quiet solitude. But on the whole, there’s little to complain about, unless you’re called Don. For as well as retaining his lust for life, he keeps the management on its toes, ensuring that standards are meticulously maintained.

But I suppose we all benefit, we, the motley crew that make up the membership; Derek, hairy shoulders, bald head, over forty rowing-machine champ; Dr. Death, the spook of the weights; Edna, pensioner, arrives each day by bus; Rick, Canadian Harley rider who’s lack of height is compensated by pure power-packed muscle; George the cheery swimmer; Thumper, the treadmill queen: Bernard with the matchstick legs and his daughter, the school head; Sam, ruddy faced, always ready with a smile; Ted, the Saints supporter; Vince the Charlton fan; Fran, undisputed dame of the cross-trainer; Helen, with the hip replacement, caring for her bed-ridden husband; Shirley, the Porsche driver who drives herself; Jeff, Shirley’s partner, who needs driving; The Colonel, white knees, white vest, cream shorts, white socks, odd tennis shoes; Tony, a dead ringer for Anthony Newley, but still very much alive.

All there, most days, mostly. We happy fit few. Or should that be phew?

Everyone I talk to who's done it, says it and it's perfectly true. Before I retired how did I possibly find time to do all the things there were for me to do? I mean, there simply wasn't enough time.

And do you know, there still isn't. For two weeks now I've been planning a trip to London to stock up on paints so I can, at last, begin project 1 on my list. Do you think I've managed to get there? The devil I have. Too much to do.

Take this blog. All the time in the world to write, if not daily, then at least three times a week I supposed. Not so. I constantly run out of time. All the time. It's been a week since my last posting.

So here I sit, pounding the keys, when, quite frankly, I should be in bed, preparing for the next exhausting round of relentless activity. If this carries on I'll have to get myself a little job. Go there for a rest and a little peace and quiet.

This morning I woke earlier than the previous four days; been sleeping long and sound since arriving in Cornwall. People say it’s the sea air, but I’m not so sure. Could be that I was just plain tired. My dreams have been many and vivid, in full colour like a movie. The plots too have been complex and well scripted, with a well-rehearsed cast of characters weaving in and out, almost looking like the people they were meant to be, but easily identified nonetheless, as is the way with dreams.

Today was the day that we had arranged to commit Peg’s ashes to the waters off the St. Anthony lighthouse in Carrick Roads. Peg, my mother-in-law, died last October and her three children and partners gathered here on what would have been her eighty-ninth birthday to carry out her wishes.

We made our way to Prince of Wales pier in Falmouth where we rendezvoused with the pilot boat, which had been chartered by arrangement to carry us to the chosen spot. The weather had taken a turn for the better, at last matching that being enjoyed by the rest of the country. The wind was light; a north easterly blowing off the land, this ensuring a near perfect crossing for which the bad sailors among our number offered up thanks.

Peg accompanied us safely encased in an urn made of salt, specially designed for such sea committals. The casing would be dissolved once in the water and its contents released, carried on the currents to their final resting place. The two-man crew welcomed our small party aboard, made sure we were comfortable inside the compact cabin and we set off across the sparkling waters of the bay.

We passed the docks and jetties which Peg had first seen as young girl, when she and her two sisters had first visited Falmouth some eighty years ago. Their father had been chief engineer on a P&O steamer and regularly found himself in the town when the ship put into dry dock for routine maintenance and repairs. Taking this opportunity for his daughters to see something of their oft absent father, their mother would sometimes bring the girls from their home in south London to stay. It was during these childhood seaside sojourns that Peg grew to love the sea and all things nautical.

She returned here many times in her lifetime, passing on her love and fascination to her own children, who, in turn, have passed it on to theirs. Her wish to return here as a final resting place was long understood and it was agreed by one and all gathered today that there was no finer memorial site than this beautiful stretch of coastline.

After twenty minutes or so, the coxswain eased the boat to a halt a few hundred yards offshore, the lighthouse white and shining in the spring sunshine, the sea slapping rhythmically against the side, with quietness all around. Following a few words of love and dedication, the urn was dropped gently into the calm waters, sinking swiftly to the depths and onwards into eternity. Flowers, cast onto the surface, briefly marked the spot before being taken by the tide and scattered.

We returned to shore and raised our glasses with a good white wine over a long and joyous lunch. A fitting farewell from those that live on for a life well lived. Cheers Peg.

Rainy day, dream away
Ah let the sun take a holiday
Flowers bathe an ah see the children play
Lay back and groove on a rainy day.

On the way back from a very good lunch in Truro, we passed under a railway bridge that bore the declaration ‘FREE CORNWALL’. As the Royal Duchy could probably do with every penny that it can get, as it’s officially one of the poorest regions in the UK, I imagine this statement is not declaring some kind of cashless help yourself free for all , but is calling for independence from England and/or, Great Britain.

Cornish nationalists and others maintain that Cornwall is legally entitled to greater autonomy. They note that the United Kingdom is not a homogeneous nation-state, but is instead composed of several Home Nations, most of which are also described by some as Celtic nations; which many think does not include England.

Nationalists who assert that Cornwall is, or ought to be, separate from England, do not necessarily mean to advocate separation from the United Kingdom, but merely Cornwall's recognition as a fifth 'home nation'. They also cite laws and constitutional peculiarities related to the Duchy of Cornwall that seem to indicate that the territory of Cornwall is not simply an English county.

It’s difficult to imagine how Kernow could afford to go it alone without the support of the UK exchequer - grants from the EU maybe? It could be that its people would settle for the establishment of a Cornish Assembly and the right to officially be known as Cornish rather than English or British.

Whatever else, the weather on the peninsula has certainly seceded from the Union. For the second day running, while the rest of the country basks in sunshine, we fumble for our rain hoods once again.

While the rest of the country is basking in the unseasonable fruits of global warming, down here in God’s own country, it’s raining. That’s Cornwall in case you were wondering. But then it is Friday the 13th (hands off keyboard to mime sign of the cross) and we did choose today to go to St. Ives. It always rains when we go to St. Ives. Without fail. As sure as eggs is eggs. So, in the circumstances, I’m not complaining.

St. Ives, as those of you who have journeyed to within its boundaries will know, is always busy. No matter what the season or weather, its narrow, undulating streets are constantly crammed with visitors, all performing that strange ritualistic manoeuvre that trippers, especially to English seaside towns, are obliged to do. I refer of course, to The Seaside Shuffle.

This is usually undertaken in groups, the larger the better for maximum footpath blocking effect and the key to a good shuffle relies on two factors – to move at the slowest speed possible while still maintaining forward momentum and to have absolutely no sense of purpose. Well, the latter is not strictly true. Performers are required to browse the windows of every shop they pass in search of gifts to take home for those who are not fortunate enough to be there themselves. Every household in the land has a scenic tea towel, knick-knack made from shells, tee shirt with hilarious message, egg timer with multi- coloured sand or a furry blob that can climb walls and scare the life out of aged relatives too weak (or wise) to have made the trip.

But today, we opted out of this quaint custom and slipped through eerily deserted back streets to Tate St. Ives. Not everyone’s cup of tea, but we like it. The main exhibition was a room full of Francis Bacon’s, all painted when he visited the town back in the late fifties. Again, not everyone’s cup of meat, but we like him. After our own version of the shuffle, known as The Gallery Shuffle – similar to the seaside kind, but undertaken inside, with no possible hope of affording, let alone buying the items on show - we took a leisurely lunch in a favourite fish restaurant where I chose bangers and mash.

By the time we were ready to undertake the 1 in 2 climb back to the municipal car park – they should provide oxygen at the halfway point, or at the very least a Mars Bar – the rain had started to fall quite heavily. We drove back to Falmouth through spray and mist, all ready for an hours snooze before supper. But in the silence, as my two companions rehearsed for the nap ahead, one nagging question occupied my thoughts. What did all those lonely St. Ives gallery owners do before there were computers? At least while earnestly staring at a laptop screen, they can feign indifference to the throngs that constantly pass them by in search of the perfect novelty to take home.

**** art. Let’s all do The Seaside Shuffle.

Overlooking Falmouth Bay this evening, the sun in the west throwing long shadows, with the sea, silver and sparkling and the gulls wheeling and diving against the pale sky, I was taken back some twenty years or more.

We had come down as an extended family as we often did in those days - brothers, sisters, wives, husbands, grandmothers and cousins. The plan was a week’s stay for most, but I had to leave after the first weekend and return to work on Monday morning. We had spent the day on the beach. The weather had been glorious. Perfect for exploring the rock pools, collecting yellow shells, eating the local ice cream, visiting Pendennis Castle; doing all things that had become a tradition, passed on through the generations, unquestioned and as solid as Cornish granite.

I left my departure until around 5 pm, aiming to be more than halfway home before I would need to switch on my headlights. The journey would take at least four-and-a-half hours, most likely even more on this summer Bank Holiday Sunday. I left the happy band still making the most of the daylight and climbed the steps that led from the beach to the car, parked on the road above. Ben, my eldest son tagged along and while the others waved goodbye from below, we looked down on them from the wooden rails of the fence at the cliff edge. I said my farewells to Benny, still chatting as he always was as a child, and pulled slowly away from the curb.

In the rear view mirror, Ben was sprinting along the footpath, chasing after the car, waving and laughing, until finally he gave up, chest heaving, standing alone, his hand across his eyes shading out the sun. That moment has become frozen in memory, recalled as clearly today as if it were captured in a photograph. Why that should be so is difficult to say, but with the passage of time it has taken on a significance that transcends mere memory. It marked some kind of change in all our lives from the moment it occurred. Not dramatic, but a subtle shift, like the end of a chapter in a story only partly told.

There have been many twists and turns in the lives of those present on that summer’s day, in what now feels like an age apart. But whatever the future has in store for those of us that were present and still remain, our lives continue to be marked by such moments, adding to the grand mystery of it all.

For the past few days there's been much debate in the 'meedja' about school kids rating their teachers and sharing those opinions on mobile phones and various internet sites.

The hoo-ha has largely revolved around the inclusion of manipulated photographs showing hapless members of the teaching profession in humiliating and sometimes pornographic circumstances. A spokesperson from one of the host sites appeared on the radio this morning condemning the circulation of such images while defending pupil’s rights to express and share private opinions, as long as the content was not obscene, racist, homophobic or anything else that contravenes the numerous laws of the land.

Fair enough. But teachers surely have the same rights as their pupils. They should be free to exercise those rights as individuals and private citizens and circulate their opinions of the kids they have in their charge in the classroom. Let’s all have access to these ratings. Have a laugh.

Okay, teachers are no doubt prevented from sharing information covered by their employment contracts, but as for personal opinions that are not covered by confidentiality clauses, fair game surely. Let’s all see the fattest, spottiest, shortest, smelliest and goofiest in the class - the biggest ears, the yellowiest teeth, the largest nose, the baddest hair and the fattest arse. That would slow the little charmers down a bit.

So what do I choose to do on my first day of liberty from the tyranny of being a slave to the monthly wage and the daily commute? Embark on a salt-caked steamer bound for the Pacific Islands? Not exactly. Pack a kerchief and set out to retrace the steps of Laurie Lee on his journey of discovery to the Iberian Peninsula. Not quite. Head for American shores, hire a car and re-live Jack Kerouac’s journey on the road? Like ah, hip jive far-out be-bop groovy no way man. Climb Everest? No head for heights. Row the Atlantic? Soft hands. Hit the hippy trail? Allergic to Brown rice. Retreat to a monastery? Sackcloth brings me out in a rash. Join a gym? Already have. Buy a caravan? Not unless it’s the camel kind. Take up golf? Now it’s getting daft.

No, I went one better than all those. I went to Ikea.

When I told friends and colleagues of my plan it was met with slack-jawed incredulity. And who could blame them? But I reasoned that I would start off my retirement at the lowest point and work my way up from there. Things could only improve. And frankly, I needed to go.

It’s been four or five years since my last visit and like it or loath it, they sell stuff that you just can’t get anywhere else for a price that defies comparison – if you can live with white melamine and beech effect recycled paper and household waste that they somehow mould into the shape of shelves, kitchen units, sofas, home organisers and storage boxes. Clever buggers those Swedes. Who cares if you have assemble the stuff yourself, first risking a heart attack or serious disc problems humping the boxes from storeroom to car to front door?

The answer is millions of us care. But for reasons that will forever remain a mystery, we still do it. In the same way that the same millions tune-in to England games – football, rugby or cricket, it makes little difference – and expect something that will rise above hopeless mediocrity.

No, the difference between Ikea and our hapless sporting failures is value for money. You might have to battle the traffic en-route to Croydon or Brent Park, queue to park, get trapped for hours in the maize of the store, lost and desperate for a pee in TV and Media Solutions, get to the self-serve store to discover that the white Benno cd tower is out of stock and only available in oak effect, accidentally ram your trolley into the calves of the poor unsuspecting sap ahead of you in the line for the till, suffer the dagger-sharp stare from the check-out operative for not having all your bar codes facing in the same direction. Yes, all this and more.

But when I reflect on the neatly stacked rows of books in my freshly erected Billy shelving units, I get something approaching a glimmer of satisfaction, made all the warmer in the knowledge that my next visit to the Swedish emporium is at least four years off. Which, alas, is significantly more than the time to the next England game.

I don’t buy the crap from those that talk about ‘women’s singers' in a kind of sneering, patronising whine. What does that mean, 'women’s singers'? Recording artists that only appeal to women, I guess. It’s usually reserved for female artists that touch on subjects that are deemed to be too soft or sensitive for a male audience. Too girly. Too wet. Too caring. And where does this view usually originate? Why, with men of course.

Okay, I’d be the first to say that not all music appeals to me. There are many reasons for this. But when it comes down to it, it’s all about personal taste. And that that can defy logic when we’re called upon to defend it. It’s not always easy to explain why we like something. Maybe we shouldn’t have to. It’s a big and diverse world out there with enough to go around, without needing to get too bothered about other people's choice of music. But somehow, when our own pet likes are ridiculed, we feel honour bound to rally round our flag and fight off all comers, usually by launching a counter attack against some grinning, gloating oaf who dares to challenge our choices.

Although, when it comes to matters musical, all men are not like Jeremy Clarkson. There are those who have moved on from the macho posturing of 70’s rock and its obligatory companions - mullets, pressed stone washed denim and suede Chelsea boots. But hang on. Having just expounded the virtue of live-and-let-live, I’m at it myself. Poor old Jeremy. Why shouldn’t he be allowed to head bang along to Zep and the Sabbath if he so chooses. I’m still partial to a bit of Page and Plant myself. That said, some of my all-time favourites are to be found under ‘female vocal’, as they were described in the far-off days when people shopped for LP’s in independent record stores.

At the top of my list is Joni Mitchell. She can disarm me and cut straight to the heart and soul, leaving me quite helpless, unable to resist the feelings her songs repeatedly expose. Never so unfailingly as ‘Chinese Café’ from the album’ Wild Things Run Fast’. When Joni repeats ‘nothing lasts for long’, followed by a few lines from ‘Unchained Melody’, I’m hopelessly lost. And it’s strictly personal.

We’d be playing –
‘Oh my love, my darling’
One more time