Off to Alcatraz!

25/03/09

Today is the day I have booked myself and Ed to go to Alcatraz and I am excited – I’ve heard so much about it and hope it isn’t going to be just another jaded tourist trap. We breakfast (there are eggs involved – the family seem to do a good line in cheesy scrambled eggs for them as wants ‘em!) and then I play trains a bit with Thomas, and Ed joins in too – apparently Thomas isn’t an engine this morning, he’s the Fat Controller. Except, Ed says and Thomas agrees, that he couldn’t possibly be the Fat Controller, being only three and not fat at all. He is the Red Controller, because of his hair. So he controls all the trains on the tracks, including the ones Ed and I are driving, until it is time for them all to go away in their shed, which Thomas oversees.
Meg is off to work today, so she has headed off earlier, but Pilar arrives too and her quiet, friendly presence watches us from the sofa, where she occasionally and shyly murmurs encouragement to Thomas in Spanish. Not that he pays much attention to anything but the trains!
Ed and I get ready for going out and congregate in the kitchen. Thomas appears too and wonders if he should get his shoes. Ed and I exchange glances. Alcatraz is even going to be a big day for us, so doing it with Thomas is something that would have required a lot more preparation.
But he wants to come too.
The poor little chap is heartbroken when we tell him he must stay with Pilar and that we will see him later and will bring him something from Alcatraz but the howls of lonely disappointment still rend the air. I release Ed from any obligations and say I won’t mind if he stays behind as I will be less disappointed than Thomas if I am left to toddle around on my own!
I think it is rather touching that he is so attached to Ed, who has been spending a lot of time with him in his holidays. There are so many dads out there who barely get a second glance from their offspring when they leave the house. Though I suspect it may be something to do with the fact that there is something afoot to which he isn’t party!
Still, he needs to learn that he can’t always have the people he wants, unfortunately, and we, very reluctantly (I can see it tearing at the doting dad’s heartstrings, and mine too), leave him wailing at poor Pilar.
We make our way, by car (Meg has taken the MG so we can use the Merc and leave that at the station instead of Ed’s pride and joy!) to the station, in a somewhat sober frame of mind. I have a treat, though, as we drive along.
A condor!
Riding the wind, motionless in the high sun, hanging above the road like some harbinger of retribution.
It’s impressive…
We also pass various other interesting things, one of which Ed points out to me with a wry chuckle: ‘In N Out Burger’.
Apparently the burgers are very good, not too like MacDonald’s, but I can’t help thinking that it is an incredibly unfortunate name for anywhere that serves food, with such connotations as it has! Mind you, if the chain has survived with a moniker like that, it must be pretty good!
We arrive at Millbrae station and pay various machines for parking and travel. The ‘bart ba’ trains are rather like tube trains in appearance and the tickets are similar too.
As I pay, I come to the conclusion that money (£) here [sorry, "money ($)"] is rather daft. There are so many little bits – you can have a massive handful of gold and silver change and a roll of notes and both handfuls will still probably not come to more than about £5… Ditch the $1 note, it’s ridiculous!
It’s as ridiculous as having a 50p note, and is worth only marginally more!
To be fair, retailers rarely give them out if they can help it, preferring to issue the coins as change, which I can understand.
Unlike the tube trains, which this one resembles, it is fast, airy and mostly clean. However, it does make a host of all sorts of bizarre tweeting, piping noises. It is almost tuneful and decidedly eerie at some points. Ed suggests that perhaps it is some publicity by the local ‘tinnitus awareness group’!
We arrive in San Francisco and make our way to the ferry pick-up at Pier 33. We pass through the back of an office compound, which is green with fresh grass and budding trees, to the waterfront. The backs of the wharves are clearly still very industrial, though the enormous cream hangars they each sport are all clean and neat, glowing in the sun, bearing their numbers on the sides. It feels like rather a long way, and we clock-watch as we stride through the warm sun along the road behind the piers. It doesn’t take us too long to walk though and it is infinitely cheaper than hailing a cab – apparently, they are even more pricey than London ones, and more prone to unscrupulosityness. ;)
While we are walking, we are passed the other way by a lad on a skateboard, he skims down the pavement, off the edges of things and darts past us, clearly in control, though I am nervous at his proximity, despite his apparent skill.
We arrive at Pier 33 and immediately see that we are in the right place – there is a long, snaking queue, evidently a tourist trap from the foreign bleating and shell suits. I heave a sigh and we join the back of it – not that I expected this part to be easy or fun, but at least spaces are limited to what the ferries can carry over there! I haven’t yet needed my spare jumper I brought in case the ferry was cold and the balmy breeze coming in from the sea reassures me that maybe it won’t be as hideously chilly as I was anticipating – we shall see…
We have our tickets scanned and passports inspected (you have to show ID to go with the tickets) and we toodle on board. It is a spacious vessel, with snacks and drinks if you happen to have a spare arm and leg in your wallet. I decide I can spare a couple of fingers since neither of us has had lunch yet and acquire a couple of Danish pastry/Eccles cake things – we eat them at the back of the ferry, dropping the crumbs into the water for the fish (I thoroughly enjoy my raisins – I needed that!) We decided to stand at the back of the ferry so we can see SF as it recedes into the blue-hazy distance. The Golden Gate bridge sails and sweeps delicately over the Bay, tightroping from city to alternate shore. Our ferry’s sister ship follows us along, slipping over the glittering grey water in the spume behind.
I admire the waves falling behind us and the little white crests that form in an animated vee as we pass. It is still quite warm and we keep our patch by the rail upstairs, where we have a good view of the receding city of San Francisco, growing murky with distance. We don’t really see the ferry pull into Alcatraz, though we slink around the rail a little to catch glimpses and the ferry turns slightly as we arrive to side up to the pier.
Alcatraz looms.
There is no other word for it, rising huge, solid and forbidding over the tiny island it has engulfed. I am awed as we disembark and gaze up at the tall, slick walls with barely arrow-slit windows. We join the back of the crowd on the flat apron of concrete in front of the gates (I think that should probably read ‘Gates-dah-dah-DAHH) and listen to the lady in front without much enthusiasm.
Baaaaeh!
The guide lady is very much of the Mr Motivator school of tour guiding (remember him, the friendly black chap in the all-too-revealing, loud, skin-tight lycra jumpsuit on morning TV who bounced about being all healthy at you from inside your screen – she’s just like that, but squeaky) and leaps around in front of the crowd, loving her microphone and the crowd and apparently her job too. It’s rather frightening, being faced with quite so much squeaky, hysterical joy somewhere so daunting. Anyway, we tolerate her amiable madness and pick up one or two useful and interesting facts from our little miss motivator.
There is a free audio guide – I don’t usually think much of them, but if it’s free I can always ignore it.
The first thing we hit is going to be the shop – sigh.
Al Capone was here and whilst he served his time, he played the banjo.
The loo is behind us and to our left.
Little Miss Motivator begins to wind up her speech and we trot off to beat the rest of the crowd to number four…
Mission accomplished, and with the rest of the crowd largely dissipated, we head for the entrance. We pass a vintage fire engine on the way, which Ed and I stop to admire – it’s very shiny and clearly well-loved by someone.
Maybe it was used here in the early days, maybe it was a particularly well-behaved inmate’s project… We enter through a large gatehouse; all it lacks is a portcullis! The broad entrance has a high roof and various quirks and staircases. The thick walls and narrow windows betray the origins of Alcatraz; it was originally built as a military post to protect San Francisco and this can be seen from the stray heavy military equipment and in its very design.
We head out into daylight the other side. There is a good view over the Bay from here and a large cluster of seagulls all around.
I am hit by the smell of gum trees! Ah, gum trees… How I’ve missed that spicy scent that heralds warmth…
Speaking of which, I seem to have guaranteed glorious sunshine by bringing more jumpers than I can carry! Next, we are funnelled into the shop, where Ed acquires a tiny tee-shirt for Thomas and I a pin badge to prove I’ve been here. Next stop is a large, grey ante-chamber where we are issued with audio-guides. There is a distinct encouragement to have them and I sigh inwardly as I put it on, expecting the usual tourist-led, anodyne drivel.
I am extremely pleasantly surprised and the guide remains clamped to my head for the majority of the tour. Everyone files around in silence, listening intently; the guide is almost exclusively narrated by genuine ex-officers and ex-inmates. Their voices immerse us completely in the life of the prison and bring it to life as we walk around. You feel the chill in the air when they speak of the basics, the fear, the loneliness, the isolation… Alcatraz was very cut off from SF, despite being so close. The narrators begin their immortalised tales of horror with Broadway:
Broadway was the main entrance to Alcatraz and this chilly walk was carried out in your birthday suit to ensure no smuggling was taking place. Once locked in, the cell which the inmates called home was 5x9x7 with a toilet and bars. There was thus no privacy at all, so they felt like cockroaches in a matchbox, with hundreds of rules. There was a standard issue book of the things which the prisoners kept with their meagre items. Everything they owned had to be kept on their tiny shelf. Not that it needed to be a large shelf since they were not allowed their own belongings. Next to see were the ranks and ranks of high-rise rooms. Times Square was the nickname given to one section of corridor, there are many others, all nicknamed. The Recreation Yard is at the end of this corridor, and is very chilly, peering out of the high door down the steps to the yard below. Sometimes the inmates played games of bridge outside. The time outside was by no means a right though; it was a privilege. The rules and the obedience to them, were a choice made by an inmate. Time outside, books and other such amusements were treats to be earned by good behaviour and adherence to the rules. For those who were allowed outside, it was still cold and lonely – you can see the buzzing city of San Francisco from here, just out of reach…
Misbehaviour, on the other hand, was severely punished in the dreaded D Block. D Block was the ‘Treatment Unit’. An empty room with no human contact. This would be the inmates’ lot twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, except for washing and exercise, for as long as the management deemed it necessary to punish them. Robert Stroud, ‘The Bird Man’ pretty much lived here. He missed the birds and irritated everyone. He was alternately suicidal and homicidal; he was not safe to be among the others.
But for those who had been particularly badly-behaved there was an even worse punishment: ‘The Hole’. Some isolation here meant near-total sensory deprivation. There were only two of these cells. Ed and I trot carefully into one of the rooms when invited by a loitering ‘guard’. The door clangs heavily shut on about six of us, we hear the key turn in the lock and we are plunged into pitch black silence. A nervous half-scream escapes from a young teenage girl and we all begin to feel the chill dark creep into the space behind our eyes… I am relieved when the door is opened after only a matter of seconds, though it feels like hours. Time and mind make no sense in such blackness.
One inmate who spent regular time in ‘The Hole’ developed an interesting way of coping. He would drop a button in the bare, empty, black cell and hunt for it, just to keep himself from going crazy. These men must have been exceptionally strong of will and sturdy of mind to survive in there without becoming at least a little cracked. The light must have been so bright when they emerged. Even the tiniest hint of sunshine or sea air must have been as heady as wine, as rich as a chocolate truffle, as precious as life.
Not an experience to do more than once!
There were various well-known inmates, and their pictures are displayed proudly on one of the walls, most of them famous for their crimes or their time here. Mayer Cohen, Ellsworth Johnson, Robert Stroud (the Bird Man of Alcatraz), Alvin Karpavicz, George Kelly and Al Capone, who went insane whilst an inmate here because of syphilis.
After the photographs, we walk through the tall, bare corridor to the Library. After the stark sterility and bars of the rest of the building, this place seems like an oasis of sanity and peace. There are no books left here now Alcatraz has been decommissioned, but the smell of them lingers amongst the clean wooden shelves and my imagination provides a librarian and a few earnest criminals reading such magazines as they were allowed (they had to be approved by the management). The better-behaved inmates were allowed to do correspondence courses should they so wish and many of them did. The shelves were filled with serious literature; books of philosophy, classical novels, sturdy tomes which would educate and pass the time. I can’t imagine any of today’s prison yobs attempting such volumes as ‘War and Peace’ or ‘Wuthering Heights’! Mind you, I suppose Alcatraz was home to men who had managed to think their way to crimes of such magnitude that your average current prison yob wouldn’t have featured even as a fleetingly-hired hit man in one of their schemes.
The next stop is ‘Seedy Street’, so called because it is the junction of C Block and D Block. This is where the 1946 riot began. Started by Bernie Coy, it was quite an event. At this time, every convict was under a gun – there were enough guns and officers that every inmate could be shot at should the need arise. The officers in charge of these guns walked in a small-barred gallery above the prison floors, the Gun Gallery, which was also where the guns were kept.
The Keys were kept here too…
Coy had given some serious thought to this riot, escape attempt, whatever it was intended to be, and had made a home-made bar spreader. He managed to use this on the bars of the Gun Gallery before anyone noticed and, being rather slight of frame, managed to make a gap big enough to squeeze through. He threw guns and keys to his accomplices. Between them they knocked out several guards but no keys fitted. Officers were locked in cells.
However, the frustration of the escapees led to shootings and officers were shot at. The siren was sounded and mayhem ensued. One brave officer hid the master key by getting into a cell and dropping it down the loo. His heroic action in the face of the mob of prisoners, foiled their escape but led to his death; he was shot.
This last part of the riot became known as the Battle of Alcatraz. The Marines were called in and such was the situation that they took one look at the mayhem and decided to drop grenades into the section known as the Cutoff. The floor was packed and three prisoners and two officers died that day. The floor and walls in that section still bear deep pock-marked scars and cracks from where the grenades were dropped.
A sobering thought.
For those who were not plotting escape, this cell block was home for now. Seedy Street was the ‘des res’ of Alcatraz because it was south-facing and caught the sunlight. Each of the men had their own hobbies to keep them occupied. Al Capone’s escape was his watercolour painting, some of which he was allowed to display in his cell, and a few of them remain. Crochet was apparently also a very popular activity! In the 1950s radios were installed – each room had a brown Bakelite-style headset firmly attached to the wall. 18:30 to 19:30 was music hour – the inmates played harmonicas and other instruments, there was even a trombone. But even this could not have cheered the inmates on certain nights. Nights when the setting sun shone in the windows and tickled feelings of freedom and longing. Nights when the wind blew the sound of yacht club parties out over the bay. Night such as New Year’s Eve when the noises drifting over the cold sea to Alcatraz reminded the inmates of their isolation from the rest of humanity…
I spare a thought for the cold, lonely inmates, wasting their days on this God-forsaken rock, and we head on around the corner to the visitation and administrative areas. Visitations were allowed once a month and happened in an area known as the ‘Peekin’ Place’. This area was so called because it consisted of a tall, steel-blue wall with slits in it – just big enough to see someone’s face. It was clearly heavily locked down and must have been heartbreaking for the visitors to see their loved ones so caged. There were phones on each side too so that they could talk more easily.
The next section is Administration. There was quite a lot of this area, though the office is the section we see first. It is full of yellowing cards tucked into slots on walls; a typewriter with huge round keys lurks on a desk next to a Bakelite phone; a vertical Rolodex-style filing system lists every inmate, typewritten and stuck in with glue. I peer at it, trying to see around the corner of the pages hidden by the glass to any names that might look familiar – of friends or relatives. I suppose I should be glad I can’t spot any! I note with faintly remembered disgust that the smell in this area is familiar. It smells of socks, of stale alcohol, of old coffe and cabbages, of cleaning fluid, of half-scrubbed corners; just like the BASE hostel in Melbourne actually! The dark magnolia walls do nothing to lift its gloom and I feel a pang of pity for the officers who worked here. Some of them even called Alcatraz home for relatively long periods themselves. Others, particularly those with families, lived across the Bay in San Francisco itself. They came across on the early ferry every day. However, the community in Alcatraz did include wives and families too, to my surprise. There was a whole section, sealed off from the prisoners, where the officers lived – there were shops, homes, even a bowling alley. This was for the hand-picked officers who were good-enough and reliable enough to be on hand 24/7. On passing through to the officers’ section, I can see that it is lighter, airier, cleaner and altogether friendlier than the prisoners’ area. In fact, the head warden’s house, though basic and old-fashioned, is rather nice and we are told that the house had seen wardens play host to various stars of the day, including some famous Hollywood names. The last warden here had a daughter too, who, though rarely, if ever, seen by the prisoners, was well-considered by them.
In the 29 years that Alcatraz functioned as a prison, there were four wardens, beginning in 1934 with Johnstone, then Swope, then Madigan and finally Blackwell. They all seemed to be sober and thoughtful men, firm and fair but powerful enough of mind and spirit that they could manage a prison full of terrifying criminals. Not a job for a weak man. Each of them brought their family too, which must have been a worry, despite the heightened security. The Warden’s home overlooked the Bay, the view which showed the prisoners all that they’d lost. Today it is rather pretty. It is not cold and the sea is calm and steely-blue. Gulls wheel in the sun, their white wings slicing gracefully through the warming air. A strong breeze whips at my hair and I admire the clean blueness of it all. It does highlight the distance to freedom though, helpless on this barren rock…
During the 29 years Alcatraz was open, there were a fair number of escape attempts; it would not have been good for the reputation of the Warden when one was successful. However, in 1962, one was.
The ‘Dummy Head Escape’ must have taken absolutely ages to plan and carry out, little bit by little bit. There were two men who managed to secrete enough stuff in their rooms that they had made the beds look slept in whilst they crept away – they had made papier maché heads the same size, shape, colour and looks as their own, with which they had topped off the apparently slumbering bundle. These were good enough to fool the guard, sleepily doing his rounds to check that all were slumbering peacefully. While this fooled the guard, they had snuck out in dead of night through the vents below the sinks! These were small – too small for a man’s head – but they had enlarged them with spoons! Steel spoons though, which they had fashioned into solid drills. They escaped, the two of them, into the vent pipes and onto the roof. Even that must have been a moment of chilly, triumphant freedom. You can see how small the vent pipes were a little further around the tour; these men must have been so very slim and supple to even think of attempting this crazy escape. However, they attained their freedom and have never been seen since. This desperate attempt actually paid off!
History is silent on their actual net success though – since they have never been found then the chances are that they either deliberately leapt into the Bay as their only means of permanent freedom, or tried to swim home and died in the freezing waters in the attempt. I prefer to think, myself, that maybe they were washed ashore, teeth chattering and soaked to the bone, or picked up by a lost Mexican fisherman and are now living out their days in graceful and splendid dignity somewhere in South America.
Maybe.
9:30, which is when the Dummy Head Escape began, was lights-out time. This was a scary time for the convicts and the officers both as neither could really see the other. The convicts felt vulnerable in their little cages, and the officers felt vulnerable because, if anyone had made a mistake, just one mistake…
Alcatraz had its share of administrative disasters too. It was segregated, which I was unsurprised but mildly disgusted to discover, until the guide told us why. The management had tried it and had to stop it again as soon as it had begun because the hostile rednecks didn’t like the poor black guys and repeatedly tried to beat them to a pulp. For this same reason there were few black officers.
The last place we see before we are shuffled to the exit, is the dining hall. It is terrifyingly similar to the dining hall at my secondary school! I suppose all institutions are similar but the resemblance is uncanny, even down to the lingering smell of stale cabbage. Dinner was only twenty minutes long as cutlery was perceived as dangerous! The voice on the audio guide tells us, to my astonishment, that the things in the ceiling which look remarkably like fire extinguisher outlets are actually gas outlets. There are tear gas canisters tucked away in the roof with outlets to the canteen in case of a mass riot! The paranoia knows no bounds, though I suspect this may be a case of it only being paranoia if they aren’t all out to get you/kill you/escape/riot/mob the world… Every knife in the kitchen knife rack (which you can see if you crane over the counter or peer around a corner through a door) is outlined, as in a workshop, just to keep track of the sharp blades!
However, despite these security measures, it appeared that the institutional appearance stopped at the food. It was apparently very good. This may have been because of the potential outcome had it been distasteful. When you have a large room full of hungry men who are more than capable of turning over tables and rioting, it’s probably best to keep them well fed and watered if at all possible… On one occasion (presumably before they remembered that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach) the noodles which were served up were not to the liking of most of the diners, either because of their Italian roots or purely because they were just not very nice. A small riot broke out and tables were overturned. Mayhem ensued and control was only regained when an enterprising officer in the dining hall blew out three of the windows with a shotgun and silence reigned…
However, the grand and terrifying institution that was Alcatraz began its decline to obscurity in the 1960s with the rise of rehab, which was cheaper, simpler and allowed the criminals to remain in society rather than becoming institutionalised. So, in the 1960s Robert F Kennedy closed Alcatraz. The prisoners on the audio guide reminisce about the last day. Many of the inmates were ‘scared to death’ on leaving simply because they had no idea how to move with the world; they had become so used to the high security, rules and routine of the prison that the freedom was almost too much.
I am sober with the many things I have learnt through Alcatraz and Ed and I chat about what we have heard and seen as we leave this grand old rock. The edifice is even more terrifying when you see it with the knowledge of its old usage, the high stone walls seem all the more forbidding, the isolation more acute. But the sun is shining still, we have acquired souvenirs from a little shop on the way out and the freedom of the open sea and San Francisco beckons. The journey back across the Bay is uneventful but pretty, with the sun sparkling off the waves, the seagulls flying above and a few white sailing boats keeping pace with the big ferry like porpoises. We pull into the Pier back in SF and herd along with the others towards the exit.
The Windows shut-down noise suddenly twinkles from the many speakers on board as we exit and Ed and I stare at each other in startled disbelief and accelerate onto the jetty…
We meander back towards the station, Ed kindly letting me lead him a merry little dance down back streets where he knows things may interest me. A car passes us with one of California’s number plates. California is known as the Flower State and this number plate bears the legend, ‘The Earth Laughs in Flowers’ which I think is really rather nice. I ponder this for a moment and like the idea that every rosebud is a little chuckle, every daisy the whisper of a giggle...
(I wonder what the Earth was thinking when it popped out that enormous carnivorous meat-scented flower in the rainforest jungles – maybe a huge, full-throated belly laugh at some dirty joke we mere mortals haven’t seen yet…?)
As we meander through the backs of the Piers I realise that San Francisco has very few bad smells; it doesn’t pong as London does.
But I still love London’s great, big, grubby, ancient heart that beats with the vitality of thousand thousand lives.
I realise, on the way back, that I have drunk nothing since breakfast and am absolutely gasping. We keep our eyes peeled for anywhere which sells drinks, which is tricky down here. Eventually Ed spots a little snack shop, little more than a kiosk, and we wander in. I decide that, since I am in the USA, I should probably try Gatorade, since it seems to be so popular, and isotonic, which is supposed to be good for rehydrating. I take one sip and am profoundly unimpressed with the flavour. It’s revolting – kinda like washed-out Lucozade with half a Diareze sachet dropped in it.
Yuk.
And it’s really thick and sticky.
And yellow.
BRIGHT yellow.
I wonder what colour the output will be if I glug the lot…
:S
We trot, drinks in hand, back to the train stop and get the BART train back to Millbrae. My feet are happy to be sitting, as are my knees! I suspect Ed’s joints are equally thankful not to be walking any more. This would have been a very long day indeed for little Thomas…
There are a few neat commuters on this train. But I have fallen through into a different world whilst here, during my globe trot in general. I am in the world of the traveller, the visitor, the tourist. A specially-created, happy little bubble of things to do and see, squirreling away experiences and memories for the cold grey days, or just a cheering up… or to share and have fun with. J
There is a smart lady opposite us with huge hands and a St Christopher about her neck. She is dark-haired and slightly Latin-looking, reading a book by Dan Brown. A lady in a pink coat who looks as if she’s sucking a plum sits down next to her. Her lips match her coat.
My scrutiny of my fellow passengers ceases when we reach Millbrae and retrieve the car. We head off in the afternoon sunshine along largely empty highways through the pretty landscape. On our way I notice things:
1. A fat bloke with a big muscle motorcycle, possibly vintage, with what Ed refers to as ‘ape hanger’ handlebars. I chuckle and can see why.
2. A bus shelter smothered in plants – not grass but low-growing bedding plants with tiny white flowers.
3. A Hummer. A real one, not like the daft but fun stretch Hummers you get round our way, but a proper Hummer, driven for its Hum. It’s orange and looks a tad ridiculous, particularly as it is getting two flat tyres – doesn’t matter what you’re driving if it’s gone flat! Grr… Pillock. Ed shares my sentiment and we potter past, disapprovingly British. The Hummer reminds me of the chav mums back home who own big pink 4x4s or poorly-equipped but showy Suzukis and think they own the road – why can’t little Tiger-Apple Twinkle walk to school? They only live three minutes away and she’s practically spherical anyway and- Pleasedon’topenyourcardoorinfrontofmymovingcar!! THANK you!
;)
We arrive back to Portola Valley without incident. Thomas likes his t-shirt (Alcatraz by night, with a large picture of the Rock, with its forbidding building and twinkling lights) and I tuck my prizes away carefully in a rustling paper bag and my souvenirs box. Later on we have a spot of supper, including Thomas and the Alphabetas, which I’m picking up, slowly. I lip-read Granpa Ken each time just to keep up with the ones I haven’t managed to memorise. I think he might have noticed, but clearly doesn’t mind!
We are all rather too tired for stars tonight and it is beginning to cloud over, so bed calls instead…
‘Night!