Tag: Boy Scouts

Thinking Things Through

You know how it goes: the more you think about a thing, the less likely you are to do it.  The benefits of action are pulped whilst the risks become mountainous.  I have done many, many foolhardy things in my life, but I can’t recall actually preparing for any of them.  Generally I do things ‘now’ or not at all.  It is over half a century since I last clambered into the Boy Scout uniform, but were I to don the woggle today I would almost certainly find myself the proud recipient of the ‘Talking Myself Out of Stuff’ badge.  If consideration is required on any course of action, it is highly probable that nowhere is where it will take me.  I will tackle almost anything if it is just dropped in front of me, but give me the time to ponder the best way to get things done and the solution will almost always be by not starting them.

But – and here’s the rub – I have also begun to realise that it is possible to appear a bigger fool for not trying something, than for trying it and failing – although the physical pain is generally not so great.  I have two daughters who have always known exactly which buttons to press, two son-in-laws who, up to date, have not yet started to treat me with utter disdain, and four grandchildren who still believe that I am capable of absolutely anything.  This is not a faith that it is possible to ignore.  My wife, who has to live with the consequences of damaged back, shredded knees and shattered ego – not to mention the potential for having to scour the neighbourhood for a usable defibrillator – is slightly more circumspect.  Nobody (I think) wants to see me get hurt – at least not seriously – but if they can just laugh at my ineptitude a tiny bit, then everyone is happy..

Anyway, human frailty (physical and mental) being what it is, the risks of personal damage are now beginning to be stacked against the possibility that this might be the last opportunity I ever get and, increasingly often, the chips are falling on the latter.  The thought process goes

  1. I would be stupid to even think about it.
  2. The potential for physical harm is massive.
  3. I might make a total prat of myself.
  4. I might not.
  5. I’ll do it.

I left pride behind me long ago.  It has taken a long holiday in a double bed with my ego.  Looking foolish is not something that has ever gravely bothered me.  I am certain that, in my lifetime, I have from time to time offered temporary shelter to most of the deadly sins – although I would have to look them up to be sure.  I am sure I remain guilty of one or two of them, but they are definitely the ones that I can do without getting out of my chair.

Now, don’t get me wrong here, despite this new insight, I’m not going to rush into things.  The decision to become more spontaneous is not one I intend to take lightly.  I need time to think it over.  We are more than a month into the New Year now and I have yet to undertake anything that I could consider even slightly risky, but I feel the time is coming.  For instance, the next time we’re out and about, I might climb a tree… or at least stand under one… providing none of the branches look loose… and there’s no risk of a thunderstorm… maybe…

I’ll think about it.

Keeping the Woggle Clean and the Primus Primed

Scouts
24th World scout Jamboree (22 July – 2 August 2019)

Back in the day, I was a scout (actually, the ‘day’ being what it was, I was a Boy Scout – but it wasn’t my fault. There were no Girl scouts: girls were Guides. Boy Scouts and Girl Guides seldom met – except if they happened to be on a weekend camp close to one another, in which case the results could be very unpredictable) and I loved every dib-dib-dib of it.

I was a good Scout. I am by nature polite. I kept my woggle clean. I rose through the ranks from standard pack member to Seconder and, eventually, to fully fledged Sixer. It was a proud day when I attached the Sixer badge to my sleeve. I collected Scout badges like other kids collected nits. They were neatly sewn to my sleeves (the badges, not the nits) with a precision that earned me my sewing badge. My knife was always safely sheathed in my belt and withdrawn only for a bit of authorised whittling. I always helped the elderly cross the road – whether they wanted to or not. I baked bread in an improvised clay oven (it was inedible); I fried semi-gutted fish of some sort on a primus stove (it was inedible); I toasted marshmallows on the campfire (they were inedible and the molten sugar removed most of the hard palate). My ging-gang-gooley was the envy of every campfire encirclement for miles around.

Times were different back then. I remember trudging off from home on a Friday night carrying a tent and a rucksack loaded with food, a meth’s-filled primus stove and a sleeping bag, to hike around the surrounding countryside for 48 hours (remember, no mobile phones back then – I think perhaps my parents had something they should have told me) finding suitable places to camp on the two evenings before returning home only to find my family had moved*. I was fortunate to spend my first night camped on some grass outside a farmhouse. The lady of the house (having met me when I asked permission to camp on her lawn – Be polite: Boy Scout law) brought me hot chocolate to drink and a bacon sandwich to save me from the meth’s-sodden sausages I had planned. She could not, unfortunately, save me from a night in a meth’s-sodden sleeping bag, although she did lend me a torch so that I didn’t try to light my candle lamp. It was a warm night and the meth’s soon evaporated. I slept like a baby, but awoke the next morning with an unexplained headache. I spent the second night, I recall, in an orchard about two hundred yards from home. I attempted to boil sausages because I wasn’t allowed a campfire and I had no oil to fry them in. The results were not pleasant. I ate a couple of unripe apples and slept fitfully.

Anyway, the point is, I did all this to earn a badge (I can’t remember what badge it was – Lunacy, probably) to sew on my sleeve and the memory started me thinking: why can’t we have badges now for doing something that we have never done before. How thrilled I would be to receive my ‘Not putting my foot in it’ badge. I would award myself a badge for the first time I ate Spaghetti Bolognese without pebble-dashing my shirt; the first time I visited a friend’s house without wrecking something priceless; the first time I turned down something sweet because I’d just eaten already; for making an entire journey without shouting at the SatNav; for avoiding the attentions of over-eager scouts when waiting to cross the road; for being prepared with a dob-dob-dob at the drop of a hat. I could be a sixty-sixer in no time…

*That last bit is not true – obviously.

I originally wrote a different piece yesterday evening for publication tonight, but then today I saw a news item about the Scout Jamboree, so I wrote this today instead. 

Below is a photo taken from my window as I typed last night.  It’s not really relevant, but it just seems a shame to waste it…

Night