Switching on the radio in the kitchen at twenty past six this morning, I deduced from the fact that the news was covering a story about the failure of US policy to support job creating businesses, that the riots had not escalated overnight. Watching last night's live TV cover of the flames spreading through the Croydon furniture store, with never a fire engine in sight as the fire ran out of control, was quite surreal. Though for students of London history the only true novelty was the real-time aerial view. Amanda Vickery's fascinating programme of tales from the Old Bailey looked at rioting just a couple of weeks ago. The mob ye have always with ye. Human nature doesn't change that quickly, even if the young nowadays do possess more electronics than put the first man on the moon, and believe that potatoes grow on trees.
Yesterday's wind had dried things out considerably at work, and meant that we couldn't run any of the automatic irrigation overnight. There were a lot of fallen pots to pick up this morning, and only two of us working in the plant centre, and we hadn't quite finished the watering by the time the first customers arrived. Two of them very nearly got soaked when the automatics in the herbaceous section started up, but fortunately managed to skip out of the way in time. The fact that we were a lot wetter than they were also mollified them.
The gardener has been removing trees this week that have succumbed to honey fungus. This disease is a risk to any garden, and in one that has been in cultivation for over a hundred years is probably almost bound to strike somewhere. The boss is admirably philosophical about it, saying it's a pity to lose them, but it's a chance to plant new things and he'll try something fungus resistant in their place. Styrax was mentioned. Two of the casualties are good sized acers, a snakebark and a nice specimen of A. vitifolium which I always liked, but it can't be helped.
The boss has an odd habit of meeing suppliers and contractors in the back of the shop, instead of the house. Yesterday's visitor was a salesman the boss knew, who has recently moved to a new firm dealing in pet supplies including bird food. They spent most of the time actually talking about chickens, discussing breeds, auto-sexing chicks, methods of hatching eggs, and treatments for scaly leg. Today it was somebody who must be allowed to shoot muntjac on the farm, and the talk was of deer routes, where to put towers on which to watch and wait, gun in hand, the difficulties of stopping children playing on the towers, and the impracticability of shooting deer from horseback. It was all timeless and oddly soothing. Generations of Suffolk men have sat discussing poultry and hunting (though not muntjac given they were only introduced to the UK in 1925).
We were given the pet food literature to compare margins with those on bird food from our existing supplier. The new firm's leaflet didn't make it clear which prices were inc. and which ex. VAT, and when I rang them up the person who answered the phone didn't know, and by close of play nobody had rung me back. I found out the answer (or at least an answer) by calling the salesman on his mobile. The potential new supplier offers lower prices to us, and suggests lower selling prices which would give us a lower percentage margin and smaller absolute mark-up. This might or might not work to our disadvantage depending on the price elasticity of bird food.
Travelling home, the drawback of having to cross the main railway line was again brought home to me as the underpass was shut, leaving all traffic to go over the level crossing. Between trains. The queue had backed up a good mile across the marshes, and I began to wish that I hadn't not bothered to stop for petrol the previous evening, as the Skoda's indicated range was down to 55 miles. The tank and gauge seem curiously non-linear in slow traffic, and 55 miles can drop down to 20 in a lot less than 35 miles. I was caught at the top of the ramp to cross the line by the barriers going down again. Once they lifted and I switched the engine back on I revved it ostentatiously (which is unlike me) to reassure myself that it would lift me up the last few feet and over the line without stalling on the tracks.
Addendum The Systems Administrator has an idea for controlling rioters, which is to spray them with pig slurry. Not high pressure water cannon that knock people off their feet, just hoses of stinking ordure. The theory is that you exploit the Yuk factor, since once rioters and looters have slurry dripping down their faces, running around throwing missiles at the police or anything else won't seem fun, and anything you steal will be ruined, not to mention unsellable. Detection ought to be easier for the next couple of days as well. The S.A. is a fan of the Goon Show, and this idea does seem to owe something to Rice Puddings Shot from Catapults. It is almost a joke, except that it might even work.
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