Post Scapa missive

Okay, so for those who don’t know, I’ve had some interesting issues over my BAA shares. Computershare have had a backlog, which has meant that whenever I’ve sent something, I’ve received an acknowledgement by return and an actual reply up to three months later. The crux of the matter is that my last registered address was Hextable Close, and they needed proof that I was at *that* address before moving to Beazley Court. Proof could be a utility bill. Any utility bill at all.

Except that I moved from Hextable over six years ago, and destroyed the utility bills from that address well over a year ago. Over much routing around and finding loads of stuff with Hextable on it, there was a distinct lack of anything that I thought might be acceptable. Nice man at Computershare suggested bank statements and all sorts, but I tend to destroy thing at five years, although I suppose six years is the legal requirement.

However, in my routing around, I discovered that I had P60s! From Magna/Intier covering the period where I moved. They weren’t on the approved list of documentation, but I sent them off with a very polite letter explaining that it was all a number of years ago, and would they please consider my P60s to be adequate. I awaited my acknowledgement by return. It never came.

Seven days later, I received my P60s in a blank envelope with no explanation. Upon telephoning, I was advised that it was being processed and could take a few weeks. Sigh.

And then, out of the blue and in amongst the large pile of post awaiting my attention after Scapa, there was a very nice letter waiting for me. A very, very nice letter confirming transfer to this address. Thanks for the heads up, Dad *hugs*.

Also amongst my post was a letter from the TV Licensing people telling me that they had information that I had a TV recording device and no licence for a TV. Just call me gobsmacked. Rang them to inform that I’d been paying by Direct Debit since time began, and who the hell gave my vendor permission to tell them anyway? And was answered by an answering machine which I worked my way through. I think the problem has something to do with them spelling my surname with four ‘L’s, three ‘C’s and no vowels.

The Monday after we returned, I took an Ocean Diver lecture in the evening, in which I managed to scare any budding wreck divers. On the Tuesday I took Try-Snorkellers (three seven year old and one forty-two year old), and failed to drown them. Actually, they were kind of fun. Actually listened and do what they were told.

Last weekend we went to Kent Divers for air fills and came back to mine. The kits had been having the hump because I’d abandoned them for a whole week. They still had the hump and turned their backs.

Sunday we had a dive. We stayed in-shore, mostly because we had a newly qualified Sports Diver who was very nervous and wanted to keep to reasonably shallow depths, so we chose a wreck we hadn’t done before off Samphire Hoe, the Helene (which might be the Helene aka the Orangeman or the Halcyon).

Nervous Sports Diver along with two buddies went down and had a great dive whilst Chris and I looked after the RIB. They came back up and boarded the RIB, Chris and I kitted up, rolled overboard and went down the shot. Visibility was a metre at best. Less at point of anchor in the wreck. Being the last pair in (Chris volunteering this), we had to free the anchor and send it to the surface. The anchor was caught in fishing nets wrapped around the underside of the bow of the wreck. So, I freed the anchor while Chris got the lifting bag ready, but whilst I was pulling the anchor free, I noticed that I personally had some unexpected resistance. I was caught in the fishing net.

Now, one of two things happen; either paaaniiiic, which is what happened to that poor chap on the Dresden, or training kicks in.

I grabbed hold of Chris, on the basis that if I wasn’t going anywhere, neither was he. He was very puzzled as this was not normal procedure for me, but went with it, sending the anchor up and stowing his kit. Once he was sorted, he asked me if I was OK, and I indicated that I had a problem. Given the visibility, he and his torch had to come very close up and personal, but found that a couple of loops had caught around my gauge. Now you have to understand that there were plenty of backups in place. We both had blobs to send up and mark our places, we both had knives in easy reach to cut the netting and at twenty metres I had enough Nitrox (oxygen enriched air) to last the best part of two hours which is more than enough time to get Coastguard and commercial divers on site and down.

In any case, Chris unlooped the net and I was free. This all took place in the space of about four minutes. The only thing I found creepy and somewhat disconcerting was the bow of the wreck soaring over the top of us; on any other day I would have found it impressive, but on this day it was intimidating. The entire incident was enough to remind us both never ever to get complacent. Scuba is one of the safest sports in the world; but, like driving, only if you’re sensible, aware and in control, especially if there’s a difficulty, otherwise it can be unforgiving.

We went on to mooch around for another twenty minutes, finding lots of holes, however wildlife was minimal. There was a lot of silt which probably stunted any growth, and eventually I got bored and decided to call an end. We launched a DSMB (blob) and came up. This is not wreck I would care dive again unless Samphire suffered from a day of excellent viz, in which case I’d love to dive her again.

Monday, we had a day of leisure. It was lovely just to stop for a while. We mooched over to the South Foreland Lighthouse, and I played with my cameras macro settings.

Tuesday evening, we did a Try-Scuba evening in the Hundred of Hoo pool. That was fun. Especially as we had a film crew making an ad for the Hoo leisure centre. The part where they were filming us might have worked better if they’d had an underwater camera *snerk!*.

Wednesday, I had an interview with Medway Sports Council, which went well, and a long way towards getting me on the approved Sports Coach Register; I need to do a couple of courses in Spetember to finalise. Kits decided that I’d been punished enough and all demanded cuddles all at the same time. Fish were very unhappy.

Bill unfortunately passed away whilst I was at Scapa, cause unknown. But today, all the fish were at the surface, including the baby plecs who were all very neatly arranged in a border around the perimeter of the tank. It turned out that the air pump was dying, letting out very few bubbles. Emergency visit to the pet shop resulted in vicious dual air tube air pumping going on, which sent entire tank into paroxysms of highly oxygenated delight.

This weekend is given over to parental visitations, next weekend is coaching course, then Weymouth weekend, then girly weekend, then October. Its all go!

Return from Scapa Flow

We were very good and got brownie points from Marlene by all being up in time for breakfast, and all being packed and ready to go not long after nine. Which meant that she and Di could clean through without having to yell ‘Oh shit!’ when the next group arrived.


Unfortunately, nice sparkly new rental van didn’t start. Ade turned the ignition and there wasn’t even the merest thought of the possibility of even contemplating turning over by the engine.

Never mind, the man who lived in the house opposite where we were staying leapt to the rescue, with his cat, a rather lovely Blue Burmese, supervised. He ran around the corner and appeared with much banging and smoke in his prehistoric Rover, and attempted to jump start our shiny new van with jump leads that were missing half their crocodile clips. Needless to say, it didn’t work.

However, Marlene twitched the curtain and noticed our predicament. With a yell at the silly man to go away, and another yell that resulted in a lady poking her head out of a window, she went scooting off for her car. The lady who poked her head out the window dashed downstairs and leapt into an Audi, driving in the opposite direction. Mere minutes later, after I had discovered an interesting road named ‘Hell Hole Road’, a big Peugeot 406 2.1 diesel came screaming around the tight and narrow corners in a manner reminiscent of Ayrton Senna; in the opposite direction, the Audi lady screeched to a halt Damon Hill style, mere millimetres from the front of the Pug, and held out a set of sparkly new copper jump leads. Marlene plonked her Pug in front of the van and exposed her extremely large battery, the leads were attached and the van jumped to life.

Yay, the sisterhood!

Steve managed to demonstrate his closet rebel skills, wandering through every ‘No Unauthorised Entry’ sign he could find at Stromness ferry terminal, and testing every camp-bed, folding chair and assorted other items on display at every service station visited.

Ade and Chris drove us back to Kent mostly uneventfully, with little in the way of traffic jams or other inconveniences.

Arrived back at Rochester at 5am Sunday morning and slept for a week.

Thanks, Adrian for organising, and thanks to everyone for contributing to a terrific week.

Chris and I decided to split up for our diving today, just to be different. So I dived Brummer with Joss, whilst he dived it with Ade. It was a very nice and chilled dive. Apart from the divers that jumped in as we were doing our 6 metre deco stop. At least one novice and all were rude. Not one okay sign in thanks for the fact that we had put ourselves as far from the shot line as possible in parallel flag formation so that they had as little manoeuvring as possible.


Ade’s DSMB, the one that kept trying to escape, having failed twice, this time tried for suicide. Chris and Ade popped it up, and it was promptly run over by another dive boat, The Invincible, with the boys hanging on the end of it.

Stopped off at Moaness for lunch. This was a random cafe 300 yards along a windswept and rainy road.

Dived the Tabarka in the afternoon, which sounded a bit scary with its negative buoyancy entry and full penetration as she is completely upside down. But actually it was easy. The entry wasn’t even close to the adrenaline rush of the only other negative entry I’ve done at Elphistone, and the skipper really did put us right on top of the wreck. I was diving with Steve, and we spent the entire time inside the wreck; it was stunning.

Although we lucked out and managed to take a route where we met only one other pair in passing, we ended up in a shoal of divers from The Invincible, and surfaced with them. Thus, we had to sit in the water as Invincible picked up some of her divers before she had to move out and circle round in another pass to pick up the rest. At this point, John L nipped in to retrieve us. Whilst waiting, we managed to acquire an offer of drinks from Invincible, but sadly didn’t have the opportunity.

Once aboard, we cleared our kit in time for arrival at Stromness and put everything in the van. I think we were all sad to leave the John L, and for one would love to dive from her again.

The final meal was at a Chinese, and after Steve (with his nice Scottish accent) valiantly drove the Dive Cellar wreck, um, van to Kirkwall, we spent an amusing half hour walking its tiny streets before locating a pub for pre-dinner drinks. Richard was awarded the wooden spoon for the Wettest Dry Suit Diver, and Dameon won the Most Environmentally Unfriendly cork.

Today we knew there was a good chance we would be blown out, but being the intrepid explorers we are, most of us went down to the boat anyway. Skipper James was happy to go out and have a look, suggesting that a couple of the more sheltered dives might be okay.


Five chickened... er, I mean opted to find alternative amusements for the day, while the rest of us departed, determined to prove how ‘Ard we all were.

The F2 was an option again; however all the dive boats were headed out there, so we decided to look at the V83.

Before entry, we acquired a crash education in keeping one’s balance in full dive kit whilst being buffeted by a Force 5. We jumped in and went straight down the shot line amid strings of Lion’s Mane tentacles and weed.

The V83 was covered in wildlife, most of which seemed to be battling each other. We saw a large lobster and a small conger arguing over occupation rights to a hole under the boiler, which ended abruptly when they saw us. The conger hid inside behind the lobster who presented arms and that was that.

Pugilistic hermit crabs lived up to their name, whilst a crab stepped on a starfish and got thwapped in return. All in all, it was quite a bad tempered selection of wildlife aboard.

We came back up to find something approaching a Force 8, but Skipper James manoeuvred John L with precision to pick us up. It was in this weather that it really became clear that John L was and is a tug and incredibly stable. A second dive was out, so we came back to Stromness in increasing winds, well into Force 9 by the time we docked.

Feeling righteous, we got pizza, cakes and whiskey hot toddies for lunch; there was no sign of the wimps... er, I mean, those who chose not to dive today until well after the evidence was dispatched.

Only eight of us went out on the boat, the others wanting to get some relaxing and sightseeing time in. Seven dived the first wreck, the Coln II again, and six dived the block ship, Doyle at noon.


Last time, we only did the outside of the hull of the Coln, so this time we decided to go down to 33 metres and look in the wreckage before ascending to the hull for a drift back to the shot line. She was as beautiful as the first time we dived, with plenty of wildlife hidden in the wreckage.

Chris either grew an inch overnight or the boat shrunk, as he couldn’t seem to stop knocking himself out on the ceiling of the rooms onboard. Richard continued to get wet in his drysuit, so Chris lent him his semi-dry, which he wore under his drysuit. With all that extra air trapped, his next dive was just a tad hindered without any extra weights to compensate. He still got wet, but least now he was warm and wet.

Doyle could only be dived at slack with margin for error towards the incoming tide so that if there were problems, persons would be swept into the Flow, and not into the North Sea; and with a little more than half hour slack window, that margin was taken very seriously. We were given a maximum dive time of thirty minutes, and all adhered to this, popping up at 28 minutes.

Very nice man at Stationers provided us a service that is not normally provided and helped us prepare our Wanted posters. The very nice lady in same shop informed us with much rolling of eyes and waving of hands, that being reported to the police was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard of, as all the farmers wandered around everywhere with big machetes as a matter of course.

Adrian cooked a beautifully garlicky SpagBol. Yum. Burp.

Went to pub to finish off the day.

The day dawned bright and clear with Marlene ruling the kitchen with an iron rod and it was good to see the boys scuttling around under her orders. Due to a strained wrist, Richard elected to go to Skara Brae and came back with some terrific photos.


We went down to the John L and headed out to the Brummer. I can’t get over how wonderful the visibility was. There were some beautiful dahlia anemones, each a different colour combination from the last and some crabs buried in the silt trench that ran along part of the hull amongst many other things.

The loo got blocked and with the help of a coffee mug, our resident plumber, Adrian, unblocked it. And promptly returned the mug into the caffeine rotation, but as no one other than Ade knew exactly which mug it was, all were eyed with suspicion.

At lunchtime, Adrian and Steve (with his nice vaguely Scottish accent) found out that they had been reported to the police for attempting to enter the Museum in drysuits with dive knives strapped to their legs. It should be pointed out Lyness is a popular quay for dive boats at lunchtime as it’s next to most of the wrecks and allows smelly divers to stretch their legs without offending anyone. The Museum/Cafe really is the only building for miles around. Yet, Steve and Ade made the Orkneys Most Wanted list. The rest of us decided to assist by creating ‘Wanted’ posters.

We skulked away for the afternoon dive, the F2 and barge again. Most dived the F2, but Chris and I went over to the barge and, undisturbed, the wildlife was just waiting for us. Two wrasse decided we were their new best friends and followed us around. A conger eel came out to play, free swimming. And life simply abounded Red Sea style.

The conger was a challenge to my burgeoning photography skills, with the fish itself happy to pose, but for some reason my camera didn’t want to focus on it. Thus, I spent a long time getting up close and personal with it while failing to get any good pictures, right up until it shot lightning fast right at me. I jumped, camera went flying, and there might have been a girly scream coming out of my reg, but with no one able to hear it but me, I shall deny it. Fortunately my camera was physically attached to me, and I calmed down to see the conger back in its hole looking innocently at me as it munched the fish it had snagged from under my camera.

When we returned to the boat, a DSMB had been found floating in the flow and rescued by the boat. It belonged to Adrian. Again.

Adrian and Steve used a sea urchin to fish a wrasse for dinner. Chris, Joss and I went out to dinner instead; the Orkney steak and Dark Island ale pie was just divine. I wasn’t going to have any pudding, and simply ordered another drink. Until I spotted the original Orkney ice cream with butterscotch sauce in a brandy-snap basket. Oink.

The weather this morning was much better than yesterday, and after Marlene’s breakfast (I made the porridge), we went to the boat and set out for the wreck of the Coln II. Once again, a beautiful dive with stunningly clear water and plenty of the small types of wildlife to be found. The highlight was Nicola attempting to kneel on a scorpion fish that he didn’t see, which sped off in the direction of my camera.


Adrian managed to lose his DSMB. The boat found it floating happily in the middle of the flow and rescued it. Richard’s drysuit seemed to be doing a better job of letting water in, than keeping it out.

I decided to duck out of the second dive specifically to take photos of divers going in and out of the water.

At lunchtime, we moored up at Lyness again, but this time went to the museum. On the way there, Chris, Steve (with a vaguely Yorkshire tone to his accent), Dameon and I met up with a disgruntled Adrian stomping away; the Museum Curator had chucked him out for going inside in his dry suit. Chris and Steve pouted and commiserated with Adrian, they too in their drysuits, whilst Dameon and I shot inside and had a good look around. We encountered Joss and Richard and Nicola already there. Nicola got told off very quickly for climbing an unauthorised ladder in order to take pictures. Whilst it’s positioning was such that it was clear that the ladder was not to be climbed, there was nothing to actually say it couldn’t. But since the curator also ran the only cafe for miles, he won.

The wind picked up for the afternoon, the waves getting choppy and only six dived the Karlsruhe. Which was a little disappointing as I’d wanted to get pics of everyone, but what the hey, better to dive safe. The six who dived came back up to tell the rest of us how absolutely brilliant it was.

We decided to head straight back to the house, but this time the Royal Hotel bar distracted us for a pit stop.

We had access to a minibus owned by the dive centre, and some of us Sdecided to take it into Kirkwall for food in the evening. This minibus was a top of the range brand spanking new effort at a mere twenty years old, and completely fully functioning. Apart from the speedo not working. And the doors not closing. And bits of the body work falling off. And the oil burning. And the tyres weren’t fully flat yet. And there was the ominous squeak from somewhere under the flat spare tyre. And who needs a fuel gauge anyway? But the lights worked well, and the brakes worked in a limited fashion.

In Kirkwall, we followed diversion signs that didn’t lead anywhere, yet managed to give us a highly educational tour of the place, and challenged Steve’s abilities to squeak the minibus around very tight corners without taking out any walls. We headed for the local Indian Restaurant where much laughter was had. Mostly at the expense of those who weren’t there, naturally.

Nicola and Daniella opted to go to the Italian church instead. Which closed about thirty seconds before they arrived. Dameon didn’t like Indian and decided on a fish supper instead back at the house. Dameon’s unfortunate flatulence was still continuing and seemed to be contagious, with, according to unnamed sources, Chris, Richard, Joss and Adrian joining him in a most unholy chorus. Dameon also suffered from unfounded rumours concocted over curry and beer.

We survived the trip back, thanks to Steve’s driving, and parked the bus more or less in a parking box. We took an executive decision that two wheels out of four in the box were sufficient.

We woke up this morning to find it pissing down. Marlene cooked us a full breakfast with porridge on the side which was lovely. After helping Marlene clear away, we ambled the entire four hundred yards through the rain down to the boat, the John L, under skipper James and crewman Andrew (not Andy).


Upon arrival, we were informed that the first dive was a nice easy one on the Dresden. This came with the polite request that we keep an eye out for some kit that belonged to the deceased diver.

The weather did not improve as we went out into Scapa Flow, and we glared a lot at both sea and sky. Nevertheless, we jumped in and descended the shot line to the Dresden. And just... wow. The visibility was just stunning. So I whipped camera out and took a lot of pictures that really aren’t interesting to anyone else but me. We mooched along the hull, turned around mooched along the hull the other way before returning to the surface.

Where it was flipping cold.

Fortunately, Adrian, who hadn’t dived, had the kettle on for much welcomed cuppa teas and Joss was everyone’s best friend as he’d brought vast quantities of Twixes.

We moored up at an isolated museum/cafe randomly located on an island next to some dry fish pens. Lyness pier apparently. Unfortunately it did not allow customers in wet or drysuits, and as it was still pissing down, few people decided to get out of their nice warm and slightly soggy suits.

Second dive of the day we had to queue up for, as there were three other boats already on the wreck. This was the F-2 and the YC51 barge. When we eventually got in the water and down, we found that stunning wildlife abounded, and I was slowly starting to get the hang of my camera. We met Steve and Phil coming the other way under the bow of the barge, and later encountered Steff hanging on the bottom of her DSMB while Jon rummaged in the wreckage for his lost glove.

When the boat moored in the harbour, some of us were a little dismayed at the very long and very vertical and very seaweed covered iron ladder we had to climb to get off. But we all made it up without incident. The showers were calling, but as we passed the pub that called louder, so a pit stop was spontaneously had.

The evening meal was enjoyed at the Ferry Inn, although stock seemed somewhat limited. No orange juice, no pink wine, no steak and ale pie, no mackerel, no... well quite a lot of other things. But what there was, was lovely.

Dameon, we discovered, should not have been allowed beans at Carlisle. He was very good from there to Scrabster, but having suffered for so long, the moment the bus stopped long enough for us to decant at Scrabster, he just had to let go. And go, and go.


Having arrived at 3.30am, with the ferry leaving at 8.45am, we went for a short walk around the dock in order to stretch knees and de-numb bums. Or perhaps that latter part was just me.

Four stayed outside and admired the sunrise whilst five of us tried to catch forty winks inside the bus, with Dameon still loudly suffering.

At around five thirty we woke/gave up pretending to sleep, and began to amuse ourselves any way we could. From the car park where we were, we observed a car arrive and put itself first in the non-existent queue for the ferry, taking bets on how long it would take them to realise they weren’t going anywhere and turn their engine off.

A seagull came and joined the queue, second in line and waiting very patiently. Eventually, the seagull revealed its true colours; it was an undercover Customs officer, which became all too clear as it strutted up to car that was at front of queue and thoroughly inspected it, being sure to check for unauthorised sausages under the wheel arches, up the exhaust pipe and what seemed to be inside the bumper. It failed to find anything, but must have been suspicious as it ordered three of its mates to stand guard on a nearby building, keeping eagle eyed and paranoia inducing watch.

Photos of me in compromising positions had allegedly been taken. As the only girlie in the cast at this point, I was suspecting a conspiracy...

We observed an unmarked lorry entering the port, backing up to another lorry and decanting *stuff*. We speculated on what that stuff might be, but concluded that, whatever it was, the sniper seagulls had it well in hand.

Then it was time for the Chris and Joss Gay Blokes Show. With both Chris and Joss being of the over six foot two and six foot seven well built varieties, this was a show that was somewhat larger than life in a very small bus, with both being worryingly believable. Although Chris managed the body language incredibly well too. Which scared the natives.

Check-in finally open, Chris drove us in and decided to start the day with a joke, politely asking the check in man where the Seafrance ferry was. From the daggers the check-in man glared, he had clearly been born without any sense of humour whatsoever. Oops.

We parked up in our assigned lane and some of us wandered off to find breakfast. Very nice lady at the Fisherman’s Mission whipped up four fried breakfasts and five large mugs of tea faster than the speed of light and for not very much money. She was a diver and recognised us for what we were without us saying a word, rambling on at length in a surprisingly mellow accent about the local diving. She gave us the bad news that there had been some patches of bad visibility and upon enquiring about her definition of bad visibility, we were rather pleased to find that she was referring to just fifteen feet or so. Fifteen feet?! We should be so lucky on a good day in the Channel!

The ferry, MV Hamnavoe was just like a Dover Calais Ro-Ro. However, with porpoises and seals playing in the sea around the ship, the Old Man of Hoy, and a good deal less diesel in the water, it was a much nicer crossing.

I may have been a little optimistic on weather in packing though. It’s cold up here!

Upon arrival, we met one of the managers, Dougie. And we met our cook/cleaners, Marlene and ah, thingy (Di) who is a very flamboyant red head. Our introduction to Marlene began with her opening the front door and crying out ‘Oh, shit!’

Chris and Joss brought out the Gay Blokes Show and managed to scare them too. We retired to the pub, had some lunch and switched off for a couple of hours snoozle. Jon (not to be confused with Little John) and Steff (another girlie, Yay!) arrived to join the cast list, having taken a week to do the same journey we’d just done, but B&B-ing and diving their way up the country. Jealous, much?

Later, some of us headed out for fish and chips, (from chippie van run by Marlene) which involved a half hour queue in light summer rain, and calling out to fellow group members headed in opposite direction only to have them ignore us whilst those all around stared at us like we’d escaped from the local asylum. Marlene expressed delight at seeing a woman on Chris’ arm (me), as she’d got a bit worried earlier. She still wasn’t sure about Joss.

Dried off in pub and retired back to house for early night.

At around 10pm, the final two cast members joined us, Nicola (a bloke) and Daniella (not speaking so good with the English), a couple from Italy.

First impressions of Stromness? Very clean, incredibly friendly, virtually no crime and no one seems to know what a locked door is. Oh yeah, and there are no problems with pedestrians belonging on pavements and cars belonging on roads, as the pavements er, *are* the roads. Or is it the other way around?

It was noted in the evening that several lifeboats were in port. It transpired that a diver had died diving the Dresden.

Off to Scapa Flow!

(This blog of Scapa Flow is not meant as a tourist guide, and factual accuracy is not guaranteed, in fact it is often mislaid.)
D-Day! And we lay in bed drinking coffee and contemplating the seventeen hour drive ahead of us with mounting anxiety as the radio news hammered on about all the accidents on the M25.

At 10.30, nine of us plus dive kit, clothes and kitchen sink all crammed into a minibus and set off on our grand adventure. Cast members at this point were as follows; Adrian (or Ade), Chris, me (Lynn), Phil W (henceforth known as Phil), Little John (the only non-diver and Steve’s dad), Steve (with his nice mid-English accent), Dameon, Richard and Phil J (henceforth known as Joss so as not to get confused with Phil).

Traffic wasn’t even considerate enough to let us get onto the M25 unhindered. The instant we hit the M2 we were nose to tail in our first traffic jam; getting onto the M25. Then there was the M25 itself and pretty much every motorway right up until we reached the Penrith/Carlisle sort of area.

The one nice thing about service stations is that they are all exactly the same. Which means if you see this really, really snugly travel pillow thing in one, if you still want it three hours down the road at the next, you can get it.

The second half of the journey was smooth sailing and the drivers, Adrian and Chris, both did incredibly well throughout, especially through the twisty turny roads and roundabouts of the wilds of northern Scotland, to our interim destination of Scrabster. It was a smooth ride, aside from one small incident involving mass suicidal rabbits, and Adrian being headlined as the Bunny Murderer (one bunny, both front and rear tyres). Oh yeah. And the roundabout that pounced out of nowhere and required a bit of gas before the brakes were located.

Various boobs

A short missive to bring us up to date before we set off on our expedition to the wilds of Scapa Flow. We should be setting out from Rochester Friday morning and driving the full lengths of both England and Scotland to catch the ferry from the very north east over to the Orkney Islands. We will be on proper explorer rations (mint humbugs and Pringles), and hacking our way through the jungles of the M1.

Last Monday week, discovered the butterscotch loveliness that is Starbuck’s Crème Caramel (with cream) and decided that this was a treat to be had very occasionally. Ended up doing nowt at club due to baby diver having a conflicting schedule. Instead gossiped over a pint at the bar and got home at a decent time. Newsletter went out, tentative possible proposal for me to join the committee in November maybe, details for Scapa discussed, impromptu dive at the lakes planned for Saturday, and conducted impromptu lecture on burning discs and the difference between CD-R’s and CD-RW’s

Tuesday decided that a crème caramel was deserved as it was bound to be a bad day, being a Tuesday and all.

Wednesday held Diana’s hand as she wanted to go get her boob measurements checked at M&S. She’s always worn what her mum told her she was when she was a teenager, and now that she’s in her forties with a creeping suspicion that she’s not what she was when she was younger - especially after bearing two children, she decided it was time to check. But wasn’t brave enough. So I took her and went in first. And found to my total and utter dismay that my happiness at 34D with the odd delusion of 34C was, well. Half wrong. 34 is correct, no doubt. But I wasn’t expecting the DD proclamation.

Having now got appropriate lingerie, things are admittedly more comfortable, and I can’t believe I have something that a lot of women pay vast fortune’s to have. However, I now feel justified in being cranky 21 days out of 28. Chris, by the way, is extremely happy and felt the need to share this news with all of his male colleagues, all of whom I’m told were extremely jealous.
Diana as it turns out is in fact a C cup where she had always thought she was a B. She is very happy and plans to continue swimming every day with the goal of achieving a D cup. With the amount of running she does too, she clearly doesn’t believe me when I say that anything over a C cup will seriously curtail her running. Celebrated revelations with a Crème Caramel.

Thursday Mr PacificBlue Client came in with his arm in a sling and announced that he had been assaulted. He was grinning manically as he told us this. He gleefully informed as that he’d been cycling with a group of others through the woods and spotted a narrow gap through the trees where the others were taking a big gap. The gap was not too narrow, he insisted, his judgement was perfect and his cycling prowess beyond reproach, however he admitted to failing to consider the baby oak that leapt out and assaulted him as he was passing through said narrow gap. He tried to arrest the baby oak, but as the handcuffs wouldn’t fit, he went to the pub instead. Had a mad dash down to Dover to get stuff sorted for when I go on holiday, and by the time I got back to Ashford, was so dehydrated that I decided to have a Crème Caramel.

Friday got very mildly pissed at lunchtime. Slight sticky point when I returned after lunch to receive a call from Mr Pernickety Client who wanted to go over all our processes and procedures in minute detail as they related to his specific case. I know at one point I invited him to come in and read our four inch Quality Manual. After two hours, two mugs of caffeine and reassuring noises from Julia, Mr Client remarked that I had been incredibly helpful thank you and goodbye. Joy. Thoroughly deserved the Crème Caramel I went out for afterwards.

Chris cooked me pork roast dinner. Yum! :O)

Saturday went to the lakes. Had very pleasant dive testing out all backup kit to ensure it was all still functional in low visibility due to kicked up silt by trainee divers. Had air cylinder filled for Sunday’s dive.

Sunday morning was beautiful. Checked kit, and found airfill was 140 bar. 100 bar less than it should have been. In other words, I had just over half a cylinder’s worth of air; not nearly enough to do a thirty metre dive; not unless I change my name to Tanya Streeter, anyway. Many phone calls, beggings and pleading, and managed to source another *full* cylinder.

Went out to the White Rose off St Margaret’s bay. Flat water, visibility looked good, and slack was on it’s way. With slack almost there, we kitted up. And my finstrap broke. And no one had a spare instrap. So I had to stay in the boat and sulk. Moo.

On Monday, popped dive kit in boot of car and drove to dive club in Chatham as per usual. Once there, swapped stuff around various car boots. Locked keys in boot. Screamed. Sent Chris down to Ashford to get spare keys.

Got club dive kit and took very nervous student in. She did very well, and her confidence increased. Felt much better about taking her this time. Still can’t get past mask clearing though. Chris was at bar when returned to club, having opened car up and found keys trapped in car. Big hugs.

Thursday packed for holiday. Chris picked me up to stay at Rochester overnight. Halfway up M20 realised I’d forgotten dive computer. Turned around and went back to get it. Eventually got to Rochester. Chris burned dinner. Then rescued it. Big hugs.

So. Tomorrow we embark on our grand adventure.

Wish us luck.