As youngsters, my sister (then known as Tina) and I would often go fishing at the weekend with our step-father Harry and step-brother Pete. On match days we’d sit and watch them fish but if it was a family outing, Mum would come along to keep an eye on us and we’d be allowed to cast our own lines and try to catch a few fish ourselves.

They were the happiest days of my childhood.

I loved the ritual of preparation. Mum packed our lunchboxes with enough sandwiches and cake to feed a small army while Pete and Harry boiled wheat and hempseed for bait; sprinkled tins of maggots with fresh sawdust; mixed and bagged groundbait; oiled reels and checked lines; tied various sizes of spade-ended hooks to fine leaders; attached lead weights to swim-feeders; and sorted floats by colour, size, and buoyancy.

In the evening, we would pack our gear into an old green Bedford van so we could get away early the next morning and drive to the venue before dawn. When the alarm went off, Tina and I crawled out of our beds, dressed in the dark, and climbed into the back of the van where we wedged ourselves among the half a dozen cushions that were scattered on the bare metal floor, and settled down for the journey.

As the sun rose, Tina and I craned our necks to look through the windscreen between the heads and shoulders of the three adults sitting on the bench seat in front of us. We had the crucial task of magpie spotting and we knew that the success of our entire expedition depended on our dedication and keen eyesight.

Single magpies were the problem; they brought bad luck. Pairs and groups could be ignored but if we encountered a lone magpie, the magic words Good morning Mr. Magpie. How’s your wife today? had to be yelled in unison by everyone in the van in order to avert the disaster of slack lines and empty nets.

50 years later, I rarely go fishing and I’m not superstitious by nature but I still find myself saying the same words out loud whenever I see a solitary magpie. Nursery rhymes didn’t really figure in my childhood and I had no idea why single magpies were thought to be unlucky. In fact, it makes me smile to think that until quite recently I believed that this esoteric knowledge was a family secret, handed down from one generation to the next.

For some reason, I woke up late this morning with the first two lines of the nursery rhyme going round in my head, as if they had come from a dream. The words prompted the memory of our family fishing trips and, as I pondered their meaning, they also seemed to speak a deeper truth about life and love.

One for sorrow,
Two for joy.

Of course, not all pairings are joyful and we can be happy on our own, but right now it’s the shared adventure of being and becoming a couple that most excites and delights me.

One for sorrow,
Two for joy,
Three for a girl,
Four for a boy,
Five for silver,
Six for gold,
Seven for a secret,
Never to be told.
Eight for a wish,
Nine for a kiss,
Ten for a bird,
You must not miss.

Last Friday, Hedda and I went to see La Boheme at the King’s Head Theatre in Islington. An unlikely venue you might think for an opera, but for those of you who don’t know, this pub has a thriving theatre in a back room behind the bar.

As you might imagine, the theatre is neither grand nor large. The space seats about 60-80 people, with no room on stage for elaborate sets, a chorus  or an orchestra. In fact there’s barely enough room to swing a contralto. But it was a fabulous setting for an updated version of Puccini’s popular classic performed by Opera Up Close. 

This was no 19th century spectacle to be admired from the distant reaches of the auditorium of the Royal Opera House. Set in a grungy flat near Euston, with Mimi as a dying junkie desperate to get her next fix, the production was visceral and immediate. Our bodies literally resonated with the singers’ voices and the effect was electric.

We became part of the drama as the cast threaded their way through the audience into the tiny arena in which they lived and loved in our midst. As the story unfolded, we found ourselves laughing and weeping, not at the characters, but with them. It was as though our own joys and sorrows were taken up and amplified through their voices.

Unsurprisingly, the tragedy of Mimi’s early death stirred my grief over the loss of Chris and yet, it was Mimi’s joyous love duet with Rodolfo that echoed most strongly in my mind as Hedda and I walked out arm in arm. We paused for a moment on the pavement, to hold each other close. Then we hailed a cab and headed for home.

Omnia vincit amor, as Virgil said.

Love conquers all.

My father Ray was the second of three brothers. He’s the one with the cricket bat in his hand. The youngster in the middle is Tony, and the one on the left with his arm draped over Tony’s shoulders is big brother Ken. I would guess that the picture was taken just before the Second World War.

Ken joined the RAF when war was declared and trained as a pilot. He was barely in his 20s when his Beaufighter was destroyed on a reconnaissance mission over the Friesian Islands. My father followed him into the RAF and had just completed his training as a Lancaster pilot when the war ended. He had the flying bug and stayed in the RAF until he was killed in a plane crash in 1953 at the age of 28. After his National Service in the Royal Navy, Uncle Tony followed in their father’s footsteps and worked for British Rail.

The three brothers each had one son. Ken’s wife Eve discovered she was pregnant with Ian just after Ken was killed. Ray married Vera in 1948 and I was born a year later. A few years after that, Tony and his wife Jean had Jonathan. Growing up, I knew Jonathan but Eve moved away to make a new life and I rarely, if ever, saw Ian.

We (Ian, Geoff, and Jonathan) got on with our separate lives and had no occasion to get together, until very recently when we met at Jean’s funeral. Halfway through the wake, it occurred to me to get someone to take a photograph of us some 70 years after the snap of our fathers was taken.

And here we are: Ian is on the left; I’m in the middle; Jonathan is on the right. If you were to meet us individually, I’m not sure you’d realise that we were cousins. But stick us in a line and I think you can see a certain family resemblance.

Afterwards, we persuaded the “guvnor” to join us for a second photograph. That’s Jonathan’s dad Tony, second from the left. Since my mum died, Tony is the only direct link I have to my father. He’s a lovely man and full of stories. I’m going to call him right now to see how he is getting on and arrange to go and see him again soon.

Captain Midnight here with a special trade secret for all you loyal fans.

Some of you have written, asking how we super-dogs manage to live among you undetected until our superpowers are needed. Actually, gulling the average human is pretty easy. They mostly see what they want to see, so all it takes is a little sleight of hand and a convenient telephone box for the switcheroo.

Herself is far from average but even so I had to explain the finer points to her the other evening. We’d been out to a party at her friend’s house and she seemed surprised that I hadn’t been recognised. The conversation went something like this…

“My friend liked you,” said Herself. “She thought you were sweet.”

“Happens all the time,” I said.

“She called you a Comedy Dog.”

“A what?”

“A Comedy Dog.”

“And why do you think she said that?”

“Well, you know,” said Herself. “Standing on your hind legs; chasing cats; furry dreadlocks; sleeping on your back with one leg in the air; being addicted to chicken. That sort of thing.”

“Excellent,” I said. “My C.K. seems to be working.”

“Calvin Klein?” she asked, with a raised eyebrow.

“No. No.” I replied. “Clark Kent. Superman’s mild-mannered alter ego. All super beings need an alter ego, so they can pass as normal. We call them C.K.s.”

“And yours is Ted the Comedy Dog?”

“Correctamundo.”

“Really,” she gasped. “You mean all that stuff is just part of your disguise?”

“Yup.”

“All of it?”

“Except for the chicken thing,” I confessed. “That’s for real.”

She took the hint and raided the fridge for a late-night, poultry-based snack.

So there we have it super-dog fans. That’s why you never see Captain Midnight and Ted the Comedy Dog in the same room at the same time. I don’t mind you knowing but you must promise not to blow my cover or I will be forced to leave Planet Earth and return home to my birthplace on the furthest moon of Kanis.

Oh alright, I’m just kidding.

It’s the third moon.

#ComedyDog   #CapMidnight   #Gottcha