I've written here many a time and oft about that Repeating Genie, that takes one back again shortly to somewhere not visited for ages. Last Friday afternoon I delivered to a shopping centre in Gloucester; On Monday, after a couple of local jobs in the morning, I was sent to the Royal Hospital in that same city, which I last visited in August, but my records show that prior to that I last went there in October 2009 - when again it was twice in six days! On this occasion, I was asked to go on to Hereford, to the home of an engineer whom I have visited twice previously this year, making Monday a very good day.
This was as well, since the next day the phone was completely quiet.
Wednesday found me off to the south coast with two slabs of granite: to Portslade, which my atlas told me was to the west of Brighton. I stopped on the way for another delivery in Hayes, not far from Heathrow airport. When I phoned in to announce my return in the afternoon, I was invited to go to the same customer next morning, where I collected one smaller piece of granite to go to Seaford, between Brighton and Eastbourne. This was accompanied by a canvas bag which I collected in north London on the way, and took to a firm in Crawley.
And that genie wasn't going to let go of me easily. Friday began with another local job, which in a small way echoed last week's dips into my own history, for I found myself parked to load beside a small industrial silo manufactured by a firm I worked for in the '70s, and my attention was diverted for a few seconds as I reminisced about the differing hole patterns that could be punched in sheets of steel 1220 x 2440 mm, in a variety of nine different thicknesses .... my memory still drifts easily back to the days of the 'three-day week'.
Recovering from that reverie, I was quickly sent off on a sequence of three jobs that finished with a collection from a conference in ... Eastbourne!
In these last few weeks, I have noted that there have been several mentions of the fiftieth anniversary of the Cuban missile crisis, and my few personal recollections of that time included my dad tossing the daily paper aside in despair saying, "There could be a war any time!" Mum remonstrated, "Don't say things like that." "That's right, though," returned dad, "We could all be blown to smithereens!"
With this conversation ringing in my ears down half a century, I began to wonder this week where that word 'smithereens' came from. A bit of quick research on the internet this morning confirms my 21st century suspicions that it's of Irish origin, coming from smiodar, the Irish word for fragment. I now wonder where my father got it from, for this was certainly not the only time I'd heard him use it. I've been thinking much in recent months - and have mentioned before, here and here - my great uncle George, whom I tracked down after several years' searching, in Ireland. Curiosity has raised the question of whether he had any contact with the rest of the family after his 'migration', since I never heard any mention of him in my childhood. This latest recollection suggests that maybe he did, although I have little hope of tracing to what extent.
So, where will next week take me? Answers after the event!
Saturday 27 October 2012
Tuesday 23 October 2012
Paucity and a Piece of Past
Last week was typical. It was a bit of a 'parson's egg', i.e. good in parts. It provided some surprises, and brought blessings too. Monday and Tuesday were both slow, with an empty trip to King's Lynn on Monday to collect some brackets for a building site in St Albans, and the delivery of a tender to Bexhill-on-Sea on Tuesday.
A couple of weeks ago, I finally made the decision to invest in a Dart-tag, making it easier to pass through the tolls at the QEII Bridge, and bringing with it a small discount on the charge. This was largely prompted by the increase in the toll fee from £2.00 to £2.50 each way. With the tag I only pay £2.19. When the tag arrived, the accompanying instructions said to install it behind the rear-view mirror; this puzzled me a little, since I don't have one in the van. They went on to refer to a protective coating at the top of the windscreen and, thinking that the black patch at the top of my windscreen (where the mirror would have been) would come into this category, I avoided this and stuck the tag below the sun visor.
Reflecting upon this decision, I wondered whether this would in fact still be within this 'protected area', and to be on the safe side I called the Dart people to make sure. I was told, yes, it would be in the protected area, and I ought to have stuck it in the blackened section, because that was not subject to the protective coating, which interferes with the recognition technology. However, when I answered the question of what van I have, I learned that this might be OK, since the protective coating on Vauxhalls isn't as impenetrable as some other models.
Now, since fitting the tag I hadn't needed to use the crossing so there had been no opportunity to try it out, until the visit to Bexhill on Tuesday. I chose a pay-lane, and drove cautiously up to the barrier, with money to hand in case it didn't work. Nothing happened, and I reached the point where payment would have to be made. My hand reached to the window winder to open it ... and then 'beep', the barrier lifted, and the display changed from 'Van - £2.50' to 'Dart-tag Thank you.' It had worked after all. I enjoyed a similar, but a little more confident, experience a couple of hours later when I returned, my delivery made.
Wednesday brought a 'blast from the past'. I was sent to a firm just by the A1 at Huntingdon with some electronic equipment. It's a job I've done several times before and I knew that, despite the high level of security, it's a doddle. This time, however, there were two additional items that had to be taken to their sister operation near Eye, Suffolk. The last time I was at that particular site was some 24 years ago when, as a wannabe spreadsheet consultant, I'd secured a six-week assignment to stand in for an ex-employee to help in the completion of their annual budget. It had been my first introduction to the wonders of the Lotus Symphony program.
But that wasn't to be my only dip into the past that day. After a delivery in the centre of Norwich, I was sent to the outskirts of the city to collect some 'dead' computer equipment. When I arrived, I realised that the property was adjacent to a factory where I had had a job interview in 1985! On that occasion I didn't get the job, but last week I did get the computers - thirteen boxes and a few bits and pieces, that filled my van, and stayed there until the next morning when I could deliver them to a recycling operation quite close to our office.
Being so close, and with a magazine overdue to be read, I decided to spend Thursday's waiting time at the office, instead of coming home again. It was an eye-opening reminder of how blessed I am under this new régime to spend such a good time at home. My family history work has progressed remarkably over the summer months, at the cost of keeping up to date with reading matter. I was also reminded how boring it was waiting at the office; there are only so many pages that can be read at a sitting, and the mind seeks other diversions. I was very glad at 11.30 to be sent out on a job. In fact, it was not one job, but two, and went a great way towards balancing out the shortage of work earlier in the week. I left home turf with two small boxes, one for the centre of Birmingham, the other for a dentist in Warrington, and was home about 9.30pm.
Friday was similarly balanced. I wasn't called until 2.30pm, but the job was far better than I'd expected so late in the day, and necessitated taking a box of components to a shopping centre in the middle of Gloucester. By the time I'd beaten the traffic, the site staff had all gone home, but a phone call had advised me to leave the goods with the security staff, who readily accepted them. I was glad not to be too late home, because I knew I had an early start the following morning.
My plan for Saturday was to visit the Suffolk Family History Fair at Needham Market, and it began quite successfully. I arrived about ten minutes before opening time, but this didn't hinder my access for, along with a number of other early-birds, I was allowed to move freely around the stalls from the off. There were talks in an adjacent room, too. The first speaker had written the story of her Suffolk family, and prepared it as an illustrated book to give to her present day family, many of whom live far from this area, and to whom it would all be a 'different place'. The second 'talk' was, in fact, a dramatic performance of a number of Suffolk tales and legends, some of which have parallels in many other places. It was both interesting and amusing, and received much well-deserved applause at the end.
After lunch, my week took a different course from my plans. In order to see round the rest of the Fair and make some purchases, I had skipped the Society's AGM, which was being held in the same room where the talks had taken place. When I arrived once more for the afternoon talk, the only empty seat was one by the door, with a poor view of the screen. This made little difference, however, because the speaker was one I'd heard before, and his delivery quite uninspiring. I found myself nodding off, realised that there were better uses for my time, and prepared to leave, glad that I was seated near the door. As I packed up my things as quietly as possible, I noticed that I had awoken the lady next to me!
Thus it was that, after the journey home, there was time to fulfil a number of essential chores before bedtime, and leave Sunday that oasis of tranquility that it's supposed to be and, thankfully for me, usually is. Now to execute what that complacency has left behind!
A couple of weeks ago, I finally made the decision to invest in a Dart-tag, making it easier to pass through the tolls at the QEII Bridge, and bringing with it a small discount on the charge. This was largely prompted by the increase in the toll fee from £2.00 to £2.50 each way. With the tag I only pay £2.19. When the tag arrived, the accompanying instructions said to install it behind the rear-view mirror; this puzzled me a little, since I don't have one in the van. They went on to refer to a protective coating at the top of the windscreen and, thinking that the black patch at the top of my windscreen (where the mirror would have been) would come into this category, I avoided this and stuck the tag below the sun visor.
Reflecting upon this decision, I wondered whether this would in fact still be within this 'protected area', and to be on the safe side I called the Dart people to make sure. I was told, yes, it would be in the protected area, and I ought to have stuck it in the blackened section, because that was not subject to the protective coating, which interferes with the recognition technology. However, when I answered the question of what van I have, I learned that this might be OK, since the protective coating on Vauxhalls isn't as impenetrable as some other models.
Now, since fitting the tag I hadn't needed to use the crossing so there had been no opportunity to try it out, until the visit to Bexhill on Tuesday. I chose a pay-lane, and drove cautiously up to the barrier, with money to hand in case it didn't work. Nothing happened, and I reached the point where payment would have to be made. My hand reached to the window winder to open it ... and then 'beep', the barrier lifted, and the display changed from 'Van - £2.50' to 'Dart-tag Thank you.' It had worked after all. I enjoyed a similar, but a little more confident, experience a couple of hours later when I returned, my delivery made.
Wednesday brought a 'blast from the past'. I was sent to a firm just by the A1 at Huntingdon with some electronic equipment. It's a job I've done several times before and I knew that, despite the high level of security, it's a doddle. This time, however, there were two additional items that had to be taken to their sister operation near Eye, Suffolk. The last time I was at that particular site was some 24 years ago when, as a wannabe spreadsheet consultant, I'd secured a six-week assignment to stand in for an ex-employee to help in the completion of their annual budget. It had been my first introduction to the wonders of the Lotus Symphony program.
But that wasn't to be my only dip into the past that day. After a delivery in the centre of Norwich, I was sent to the outskirts of the city to collect some 'dead' computer equipment. When I arrived, I realised that the property was adjacent to a factory where I had had a job interview in 1985! On that occasion I didn't get the job, but last week I did get the computers - thirteen boxes and a few bits and pieces, that filled my van, and stayed there until the next morning when I could deliver them to a recycling operation quite close to our office.
Being so close, and with a magazine overdue to be read, I decided to spend Thursday's waiting time at the office, instead of coming home again. It was an eye-opening reminder of how blessed I am under this new régime to spend such a good time at home. My family history work has progressed remarkably over the summer months, at the cost of keeping up to date with reading matter. I was also reminded how boring it was waiting at the office; there are only so many pages that can be read at a sitting, and the mind seeks other diversions. I was very glad at 11.30 to be sent out on a job. In fact, it was not one job, but two, and went a great way towards balancing out the shortage of work earlier in the week. I left home turf with two small boxes, one for the centre of Birmingham, the other for a dentist in Warrington, and was home about 9.30pm.
Friday was similarly balanced. I wasn't called until 2.30pm, but the job was far better than I'd expected so late in the day, and necessitated taking a box of components to a shopping centre in the middle of Gloucester. By the time I'd beaten the traffic, the site staff had all gone home, but a phone call had advised me to leave the goods with the security staff, who readily accepted them. I was glad not to be too late home, because I knew I had an early start the following morning.
My plan for Saturday was to visit the Suffolk Family History Fair at Needham Market, and it began quite successfully. I arrived about ten minutes before opening time, but this didn't hinder my access for, along with a number of other early-birds, I was allowed to move freely around the stalls from the off. There were talks in an adjacent room, too. The first speaker had written the story of her Suffolk family, and prepared it as an illustrated book to give to her present day family, many of whom live far from this area, and to whom it would all be a 'different place'. The second 'talk' was, in fact, a dramatic performance of a number of Suffolk tales and legends, some of which have parallels in many other places. It was both interesting and amusing, and received much well-deserved applause at the end.
After lunch, my week took a different course from my plans. In order to see round the rest of the Fair and make some purchases, I had skipped the Society's AGM, which was being held in the same room where the talks had taken place. When I arrived once more for the afternoon talk, the only empty seat was one by the door, with a poor view of the screen. This made little difference, however, because the speaker was one I'd heard before, and his delivery quite uninspiring. I found myself nodding off, realised that there were better uses for my time, and prepared to leave, glad that I was seated near the door. As I packed up my things as quietly as possible, I noticed that I had awoken the lady next to me!
Thus it was that, after the journey home, there was time to fulfil a number of essential chores before bedtime, and leave Sunday that oasis of tranquility that it's supposed to be and, thankfully for me, usually is. Now to execute what that complacency has left behind!
Sunday 14 October 2012
A Family Affair, but ...
Last Monday evening, upon my arrival at bellringing practice, I announced that I was there only as a result of the financial crisis in the health service - I like being melodramatic on occasions. Asked how this was, I explained that I ought by then to have been driving north to catch the 0400 ferry from Cairnryan to deliver something medical (I knew not what) at Queen's Hospital, Belfast in the morning. However, when I left the office the job had yet to be confirmed, and I later had a call to say that it wouldn't be happening - their budget wouldn't extend to a courier delivery, however urgent it might be. I later discovered that I'd got the name wrong anyway - it's actually the Royal Victoria Hospital, but that's irrelevant to my tale.
This is only the latest of a number of recent episodes that are in keeping with an interest I've developed over the last half dozen years or so in all things Irish. Last weekend saw the return for the winter months to the airwaves of RTÉ Radio 1 of The History Show. One of the features of the first programme in the series, which I listened to as a podcast during the week, focussed on the Famine of the 1840s and included a graphic description of the sort of hovels in which the poorest people of rural Ireland were living at the time. There was also a mention of various centenaries that will be marked in coming years, and of the recent centenary celebrations in Belfast of the signing in September 1912 of the Ulster Covenant. These included a surprisingly peaceful march through Belfast by about 30,000 Unionists, to the accompaniment of several marching bands. That event even made the national news bulletins on the day.
As I'd tracked my father's family through the 19th century, I had noted the absence of my great-uncle George from among them. For many years I had assumed that he had died and that I simply hadn't picked up his death in the records. Last year I discovered what had happened him. In one last push to try to settle the mystery, I found that he'd joined the army, and had been discharged because of injury in 1876, to settle in Enniskillen, Co. Fermanagh. In recent months I've been tracing the lives of some of his nine children, although this is difficult without easy access to the General Record Office of Northern Ireland (GRONI) in Belfast. Last weekend I discovered that two of his sons (my father's cousins) had died in World War I, one on the first day of the Battle of the Somme in 1916, the other in northern France some thirteen months previously.
In one of my earliest blogs (you can re-read it here), I wrote about a perceived unfairness regarding Northern Ireland and its being part of the United Kingdom. Perhaps one of the most public expressions of this - and it's my guess one of the least recognised - was seen this summer in connection with the Olympic Games. What was 'our' team called? 'Team GB'. And what do those letters stand for? Great Britain, which is the name of the larger of these two islands off the north-west coast of Europe. The other is Lesser Britain, or more commonly Ireland. The country being represented by Team GB is the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. So why wasn't it called Team UK?
Going back to the Ulster Covenant ... how many UK citizens are aware of it, I wonder. And yet, only just beyond living memory, this was one of the key events in a schism that has shaped our country as it is today, and gave birth to one of the few countries of Europe that has known continuous peace for almost ninety years. I don't propose to turn this blog into a history lesson - let those readers who are interested research it for themselves. Suffice to say that it's a wonder to me why the Unionist majority in Northern Ireland remain so steadfast about being part of the UK, when those this side of the North Channel seem consistently to ignore them, rarely include their affairs in our news bulletins, and I suspect that if truth were told, would rather they just weren't there to embarrass us.
As I've researched what I must call the 'Irish branch' of my family, I've found myself wondering about their feelings, their attitudes to what was going on around them. How Irish were they? What did they reckon to the possibility of being governed by a parliament in Dublin? I've now discovered that at least two followed their father into the Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers (although when he was under arms it was still known as the 27th Regiment of Foot). Their mother was born in Fermanagh (probably in Enniskillen) only years after the worst of the famine, and all the children were born in Enniskillen. But still I ask, how Irish were they? Three of the four eldest girls married men who had been born in England, one in Battersea, one in Liverpool (although of an Irish family), and one a soldier born in Hampshire.
My great-aunt died in 1906, and when I couldn't find her husband in the 1911 census, I concluded that he and at least the two younger children might have travelled to England and become lost in the hundreds of Evanses recorded here. As I wondered how to segregate these individuals from the host, I now find that the records for the two sons killed in the war show that - on enlistment, at least - their father was still living in Enniskillen. There are clearly many questions still to be answered, and as many if not more that will never be answered, but that won't stop me wondering!
This is only the latest of a number of recent episodes that are in keeping with an interest I've developed over the last half dozen years or so in all things Irish. Last weekend saw the return for the winter months to the airwaves of RTÉ Radio 1 of The History Show. One of the features of the first programme in the series, which I listened to as a podcast during the week, focussed on the Famine of the 1840s and included a graphic description of the sort of hovels in which the poorest people of rural Ireland were living at the time. There was also a mention of various centenaries that will be marked in coming years, and of the recent centenary celebrations in Belfast of the signing in September 1912 of the Ulster Covenant. These included a surprisingly peaceful march through Belfast by about 30,000 Unionists, to the accompaniment of several marching bands. That event even made the national news bulletins on the day.
As I'd tracked my father's family through the 19th century, I had noted the absence of my great-uncle George from among them. For many years I had assumed that he had died and that I simply hadn't picked up his death in the records. Last year I discovered what had happened him. In one last push to try to settle the mystery, I found that he'd joined the army, and had been discharged because of injury in 1876, to settle in Enniskillen, Co. Fermanagh. In recent months I've been tracing the lives of some of his nine children, although this is difficult without easy access to the General Record Office of Northern Ireland (GRONI) in Belfast. Last weekend I discovered that two of his sons (my father's cousins) had died in World War I, one on the first day of the Battle of the Somme in 1916, the other in northern France some thirteen months previously.
In one of my earliest blogs (you can re-read it here), I wrote about a perceived unfairness regarding Northern Ireland and its being part of the United Kingdom. Perhaps one of the most public expressions of this - and it's my guess one of the least recognised - was seen this summer in connection with the Olympic Games. What was 'our' team called? 'Team GB'. And what do those letters stand for? Great Britain, which is the name of the larger of these two islands off the north-west coast of Europe. The other is Lesser Britain, or more commonly Ireland. The country being represented by Team GB is the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. So why wasn't it called Team UK?
Going back to the Ulster Covenant ... how many UK citizens are aware of it, I wonder. And yet, only just beyond living memory, this was one of the key events in a schism that has shaped our country as it is today, and gave birth to one of the few countries of Europe that has known continuous peace for almost ninety years. I don't propose to turn this blog into a history lesson - let those readers who are interested research it for themselves. Suffice to say that it's a wonder to me why the Unionist majority in Northern Ireland remain so steadfast about being part of the UK, when those this side of the North Channel seem consistently to ignore them, rarely include their affairs in our news bulletins, and I suspect that if truth were told, would rather they just weren't there to embarrass us.
As I've researched what I must call the 'Irish branch' of my family, I've found myself wondering about their feelings, their attitudes to what was going on around them. How Irish were they? What did they reckon to the possibility of being governed by a parliament in Dublin? I've now discovered that at least two followed their father into the Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers (although when he was under arms it was still known as the 27th Regiment of Foot). Their mother was born in Fermanagh (probably in Enniskillen) only years after the worst of the famine, and all the children were born in Enniskillen. But still I ask, how Irish were they? Three of the four eldest girls married men who had been born in England, one in Battersea, one in Liverpool (although of an Irish family), and one a soldier born in Hampshire.
My great-aunt died in 1906, and when I couldn't find her husband in the 1911 census, I concluded that he and at least the two younger children might have travelled to England and become lost in the hundreds of Evanses recorded here. As I wondered how to segregate these individuals from the host, I now find that the records for the two sons killed in the war show that - on enlistment, at least - their father was still living in Enniskillen. There are clearly many questions still to be answered, and as many if not more that will never be answered, but that won't stop me wondering!
Friday 5 October 2012
Beginnings and Endings
The other weekend I took myself off to Great Yarmouth, firstly to do some research and take some pictures in connection with the family history project I mentioned a few weeks ago, and secondly to watch a football match, the local FA Vase derby match between Yarmouth and Gorleston. The football ground is quite close to the seafront, and an attraction built during that 'other' depression in the 1930s to give the unemployed something to occupy their time and talents, the Venetian Waterways. After the match, I took time out to wander down memory lane and get some photos of this tourist feature that, I realised, had played a significant part in my childhood.
It seemed that, every time I've been to Yarmouth in recent years, my wanderings have taken me past the Waterways. This, though, was the first time I'd actually set foot inside the gate for several decades. I felt a sense of peace and happiness there, thinking of the boats that had carried holidaymakers around the site, and the illuminated figures that once adorned the banks. It was fun to cruise past these in the dark evenings, watching with some excitement another boatload going down the opposite stretch of the layout, which consists of a sort of double figure-8. On each island between these canals was a neat shelter, within which adults took their ease, courting couples delighted in each other's company, and children could scamper to their delight and to the annoyance of everyone else.
The shelters are still there, and seem to be well cared for. It was with a tinge of sadness, however, that I noted that there were no signs of either the boats or the bank-side figures. When I got home, I found that there is a facebook page for the Waterways, and that it is still an operating feature of the resort - it just happened to be closed that afternoon. The people running it now have even restored boats to the waters, too!
On my journey home, I gave some thought to the question, just what was it about the Waterways that I found so poignantly personal, and that gave me such happiness? Eventually I came to some conclusions; we used to come for a week to Yarmouth every summer from my fourth to fourteenth year at least, and probably before and after as well, if truth be told. And somehow, it's these summer holidays that remind me specially of my father. As a farm worker, dad worked a 48-hour week in those days; during my earlier years, at certain seasons, I saw little of him at all, because I would be in bed before he got home from work. When he was at home, he was always busy, usually outside on the garden, where I was forbidden to go for fear of either getting dirty or trampling on the growing vegetables ... or both!
At holiday times, dad was released from both work and garden; like it or not, he was ours, mum's and mine! I could enjoy his presence, chatter to him about my world, and he seemed to take it all in, and paid attention to me. Any other time he would be distracted by the day to day 'stuff' that adults always seemed to put first. But for that one week in the year we were a proper family, and it wasn't until now, looking back, that I realised just how important that was to me.
Turning to the other end of life, I'm hoping not to end my days in the flat - nice though it is - where I'm living now. I've yet to find the ideal home of my dreams (maybe never will), but I believe it will be in a village or small town. Today, I delivered in a part of a town not far from here that I'd not seen before, and as I began my return journey, I spotted a row of four bungalows. If possible, you should read the rest of this with the Welsh accent that suddenly, and inexplicably, came to my mind as I thought these words. Perhaps it was something of my unknown future echoing my undiscovered heritage!?
"These almshouses are lovely and quiet. The neighbours are near enough to be handy when you want, and there's a school across the road to give you a bit of young life to look at ... so long as they behave themselves. There's a nice broad avenue to walk down, and a little shop for your essentials. It's all very convenient; and there's a chapel down at the end of the road. Primitive Methodist, it says it is - built in 1910 - not old enough to be falling down, but old enough to have been refurbished: comfortable."
And that last word, quietly satisfied, had four evenly-stressed syllables.
It seemed that, every time I've been to Yarmouth in recent years, my wanderings have taken me past the Waterways. This, though, was the first time I'd actually set foot inside the gate for several decades. I felt a sense of peace and happiness there, thinking of the boats that had carried holidaymakers around the site, and the illuminated figures that once adorned the banks. It was fun to cruise past these in the dark evenings, watching with some excitement another boatload going down the opposite stretch of the layout, which consists of a sort of double figure-8. On each island between these canals was a neat shelter, within which adults took their ease, courting couples delighted in each other's company, and children could scamper to their delight and to the annoyance of everyone else.
The shelters are still there, and seem to be well cared for. It was with a tinge of sadness, however, that I noted that there were no signs of either the boats or the bank-side figures. When I got home, I found that there is a facebook page for the Waterways, and that it is still an operating feature of the resort - it just happened to be closed that afternoon. The people running it now have even restored boats to the waters, too!On my journey home, I gave some thought to the question, just what was it about the Waterways that I found so poignantly personal, and that gave me such happiness? Eventually I came to some conclusions; we used to come for a week to Yarmouth every summer from my fourth to fourteenth year at least, and probably before and after as well, if truth be told. And somehow, it's these summer holidays that remind me specially of my father. As a farm worker, dad worked a 48-hour week in those days; during my earlier years, at certain seasons, I saw little of him at all, because I would be in bed before he got home from work. When he was at home, he was always busy, usually outside on the garden, where I was forbidden to go for fear of either getting dirty or trampling on the growing vegetables ... or both!
At holiday times, dad was released from both work and garden; like it or not, he was ours, mum's and mine! I could enjoy his presence, chatter to him about my world, and he seemed to take it all in, and paid attention to me. Any other time he would be distracted by the day to day 'stuff' that adults always seemed to put first. But for that one week in the year we were a proper family, and it wasn't until now, looking back, that I realised just how important that was to me.
Turning to the other end of life, I'm hoping not to end my days in the flat - nice though it is - where I'm living now. I've yet to find the ideal home of my dreams (maybe never will), but I believe it will be in a village or small town. Today, I delivered in a part of a town not far from here that I'd not seen before, and as I began my return journey, I spotted a row of four bungalows. If possible, you should read the rest of this with the Welsh accent that suddenly, and inexplicably, came to my mind as I thought these words. Perhaps it was something of my unknown future echoing my undiscovered heritage!?
"These almshouses are lovely and quiet. The neighbours are near enough to be handy when you want, and there's a school across the road to give you a bit of young life to look at ... so long as they behave themselves. There's a nice broad avenue to walk down, and a little shop for your essentials. It's all very convenient; and there's a chapel down at the end of the road. Primitive Methodist, it says it is - built in 1910 - not old enough to be falling down, but old enough to have been refurbished: comfortable."
And that last word, quietly satisfied, had four evenly-stressed syllables.
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