It's
not as though we've never been here before. First there was the opera,
then the T-pot (which I bought and broke the handle), and most
recently the Netflix mini-series with Gary Oldman and Emma Thompson's
cat. No apologies for any lack of origination, except to say, this
fanhood has been lifelong; that despite living ex-patria for two
decades, I've listened in as regularly as allowed on UK holidays and
local Internet speeds.
Only
circumstances have changed. Back when, in Blighty, I most recently
remember waking up early, damn early, after late-night drinking
bouts, listening to the broadcasts between draughts of water,
stupefied, head pounding, eyesore, red-nose, sneezing, coughing,
scratching arse, praying, Arglwydd Melys, never-again. With warnings
of gales in Chromarty, Dogger and German Bight, intestines churned,
war having broken out amongst those that suffer on the sea, crying to
be heard by Thee.
Nowadays,
of course, such blasted drunks are less frequent because of age and
pressures of parenthood, living in lands without proper pubs and two
hours before Greenwich Mean Time means times are called while England
is still in the throes of night rages, late revellers rolling home.
At seven AM local, Internet-tuned to Radio Four's anschluss with the
World Service, followed at five-twenty GMT by the morning's Shipping
Forecast.
I
crane with an actor's ear while the weatherperson - a cross between
scientist and thespian - delivers the ten minute set piece either as
a promising drama school audition or syllable-perfect Gielgudian
unflap. On another level, the SF is like playing a hand of patience.
Will the reader stumble or fall at those guttural Scottish place
names?
Will
the numbers, the repetitions, the monotonies and threnodies breakdown
in coughs, splutters and over-apologetic frogs-in-throat? Is the
reader a young, inexperienced, angst-ridden tenderfoot too eager for
a clear round? Is precipitation in sight, or is s/he a case of the
aloof, urbane, RP pooh-er of visibility?
A
few years back, I stoop to recall, the SF was under threat. It was
one of those periodic shake-ups the Beeb goes through when Auntie
clears out the cupboards and consigns a new generation to grow up
without bloop-eaters. Unlike Mrs Dale's diary or Jack Demanio's
clock, The Shipping Forecast sailed on beyond its natural retirement
age. Now, even in the age of GPS, we still get our daily fix of solo
yachters pouring over their charts in heavy seas while tuned in to
the Home Service. Long may she sail.
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| Hoop-La! |
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