Peter Rhodes: Life without maths

I SUGGESTED a few days ago that the use of Nazi terms, like referring to a headmaster as the Gestapo, would not be heard in places which had endured German occupation, such as Jersey. A reader in Jersey puts me right: "Sadly this does happen in Jersey, even amongst those who are old enough to know better."

A READER writes: "Mr Rhodes, you sir have all the enlightened and sophisticated opinions of an over-indulged, ill-informed two-year-old from a degenerate family of inter-bred aristocrats, having a tantrum." Why, thank you. Mater and Pater would have been so proud.

I REVEALED recently that I failed maths O-level three times. A reader asks how I managed to land such a dazzling career. Simple. Back in the 1960s what we now call the media was not in the least fashionable. Journalism was regarded as an uncertain, insecure and rather dog-eared profession (or trade, as many of us prefer) and was one of the few careers that didn't demand a maths qualification. Anyway, it's amazing how your maths improves when you're working out your weekly expenses. Three lunches at five shillings and threepence? Dead easy.

THE only time not having maths was a seriously obstacle came seven years after leaving school when I applied for a commission in the Royal Corps of Signals. I was told that, even as a Territorial, I needed a formal maths qualification. The only way forward was to pass the army's basic trade test. So while my friends all have maths O-level certificates, I have a certificate showing I am a B3 combat radioman which is a far, far better thing.

I HAVE just had stern words with four kids who were scrumping our blackberries beside the private farm road. Now, I am fully aware that the terms "our blackberries" and "private road" have absolutely no legal status. However, there is no law preventing you from asking the scrumpers, equipped with plastic boxes and stripping the berries on an industrial scale, how they would feel if you strode up their drive and nicked their blackberries. Three of them went shame-faced and shuffled off. The fourth gave me some backchat on the lines of "is this road adopted or what?" but then slunk away, muttering darkly. All of the above is true apart from the ages. The scrumpers were not actually kids. They were all pensioners and the lippy one was at least 70. That's the trouble with the old of today. They have absolutely no respect for their youngers.

HOW household finance works. Monday: three small wins on premium bonds = £75. Tuesday: the cat develops a weepy, clogged-up eye. Vet's bill = £92.

IT has been a difficult time for the cat. We have been away and a succession of friends have been calling by to feed him and apply the eye lotion. So every time he meets a human being, they stick a finger in his eye and then give him a fishy treat. Very confusing.

MORE gardening mishaps. After years of worrying about cutting through the power cord, a reader has just bought a cordless hedge trimmer. On its first outing he managed to cut straight through his TV aerial cable.