Rice milk

“What do you have on your porridge?” The police family liaison officer inquired, his uniform carefully pressed and his black shoes buffed to a high shine. The three of us waited in the foyer of the crown court for the Dartmoor based judge, who learns French and wears a flat cap, to start proceedings. It was the sentencing of the teenage boy racer found guilty of death by dangerous driving. He killed his girlfriend when the car he was driving left the road, flipped over and smashed into a tree. Floral tributes swamped the spot near the blind bend and other parents, who had also suffered losses there, campaigned for speed cameras and lamented the loss of another young life. Two of us sat on the bright green chairs and the FLO stood up. The slightly older sergeant talked animatedly about his position as a firearms officer and the impossible fitness test that saw him pitted against much younger recruits. He had been at the scene of the accident when the driver shouted “I think I've killed my girlfriend”. Wrapped up in a high visibility coat and gloves he had been at the same spot more than a year later when the jury visited the crash site. “So what do you have on your porridge?” The conversation brought about a light hearted relief from the reality of the situation and once again we were on the same team. “Rice milk,” I laughed. A few moments later the the teenagers name was read out and we hurriedly gathered our professions about us and walked into court room one.

Whisky Mac

The ninety five year old from Surrey set a new backstroke world record. Mr Harrison swum to victory despite having undergone two spinal operations in four years, the last of which was six months ago. The fastest elderly swimmer to compete in the race, he puts his speedy sportsmanship down to Whisky Mac. Two thirds whisky and one third green ginger wine. I'm not quite sure how the regular warming tipple helps Mr Harrison's coordination but no doubt it eases any age related aches and pains. I was introduced to Whisky Mac whilst on a Dartmoor escape. Moorland gave way to woodland as the path narrowed and steepened. A stream ran through the trees and daffodils had randomly set down roots in amongst the ferns. We spotted the fire from the stone cottage before we saw it - breakfast cereals and milk were laid out on the wooden table in the late morning sunshine adding to the feeling of escapism. “Hello, hello” we shouted as we entered the dark cottage, our enthusiasm momentarily shattering the peace. The others had arrived the night before and lit the fire, left a pile of walking boots in the porch and unpacked boxes of food delivered to the door by wheelbarrow. After an outdoor breakfast we headed towards the moor. Dry bracken cracked beneath our feet as we followed our own path up the hill. Reaching the top we drank in the view suddenly appreciating what was on our doorstep. Reclined against rocks at the foot of Bowman's Nose in the early afternoon sunshine, our faces up to the sun, we passed the home made cocktail around as, resting in a comfortable silence between bursts of walking.