It's amazing what can come out of a conversation that, only an hour before it happened, I wouldn't have dreamed could have taken place at all. It's not my habit to chat at all to 19-year-old men, let alone in such a relaxed and informal way.
It all started when my phone began to play up when transferring pictures to my computer some months ago. I could plug in the lead connecting the two devices, but the one wouldn't recognise the other, so no transfer was possible. I would unplug it, then plug it in again and be successful. Gradually this phenomenon became more regular, and a second attempt would be followed by a third, and so on. On Tuesday this week, when I wanted to transfer something really important, five attempts - and a wasted half-hour I could ill afford - were required.
As I dealt with the important material once it had been transferred, I resolved that the time had come to change the phone, an idea I had toyed with for several months, but constantly deferred. Once the job was completed, I made my way to the phone shop. Here I was asked - as I had expected - many questions about usage and phone habits to which I couldn't provide adequate answers. In order to further the discussion more swiftly, the assistant gently held out his hand for the phone and asked "may I?" I was only too glad to let someone who knew what he was talking about take over.
He began rapidly clicking the keys, and commented, "Gosh, I haven't heard that sound for a long while." The phone is only five years old but in that time not only has technology moved on apace, but also the means of its delivery! By way of illustrating the fact that I understood his surprise, I spoke of my amazement when working briefly at an office in the USA in 2000, to find that the internet was constantly 'live' on the computer. Back home at that time, when you opened your browser (Did we use that term then? I really can't remember!) you could hear the dial-up modem whirring its familiar 'tune' inside the computer, as it made the connection down the phone line.
My new friend was amazed. While his fingers were nimbly transferring what he found on my phone to his computer terminal to determine the most suitable package to meet my requirements, his mind was trying to comprehend an environment without constant internet availability. "How did that work?" he asked. After I'd tried to explain, he told me, "I didn't know anything about that ... I wasn't born until 1999!"
We went on to talk about memory - a term he only understood in terms of megabytes - and I tapped my head to indicate that I meant the human kind, commenting about the way we're no longer able to retain such volumes of data in our mind as in days of yore. As I told him, I can still remember part numbers from an engineering works where I worked 45 years ago, because they were embedded into my mind for daily reference, to avoid looking them up when required. Ask me a phone number today, however, and I'd be lost. All my phone numbers are electronically stored in the list that he'd just copied in a flash from the old phone to the new one for which I had just signed a contract.
Data was another word that required some translation between us. I have only ever thought of it as an amount of information stored in some way for reference, or to be collected for research. In our conversation to establish what phone and what contract would be best for me, I found it being used to refer to the capacity for data that might or might not be required: the diameter of the pipe or size of the tank, if you will, rather than the actual volume of water that might flow through and fill these fittings.
Suffice to say that, after the time it would take a football match to proceed from kick-off to final whistle, I emerged into the twilight possessed of a new device that will revolutionise my daily life. Already it has brought new sounds to my desktop - the wooden one, as opposed to the picture on my computer screen! - and it's also threatening to make obsolete my tablet (electronic, rather than medicinal), because it is capable of so much more than its predecessor.
If my mind survives this technological revolution, there will be more news next week.
Friday 23 February 2018
Saturday 17 February 2018
Dipping a Toe in ...
... It's usually into the water, which in this case is only partially true. My original idea for a title this week was 'A dip into the past', but when I considered what I was going to write about, I changed my mind. It's going to be fairly one-track. I watched a DVD last night about East Anglia. I saw it on the shelf and, with little better to do - or was it feeling like a night off? - I thought I'd look at it again. The theme was a railway journey, but in the now well-established tradition of Michael Portillo (though it was nothing to do with him), there was a lot of 'while we're here, let's take a look at ...'. Some of the places featured I've seen, but a lot of them I haven't.
My mind raced back through the years and I found myself thinking about the seaside. Several resorts featured in the film, most of which I've visited at some time or another, but my favourite and the one with which I'm most familiar is Great Yarmouth. As the comics in the end-of-the-pier shows used to say, 'Dear old Yarmouth ... you can tell that by looking in the shops.' Goodness knows what they'd say now! But it remains a place that's dear in my recollections.
Of course all holiday memories are bathed in sunshine. As I watched those pictures, I thought, 'Yes, it would be lovely to go there ... and there ... but two things crossed my mind. One was the difficulty of travel: on the one hand parking the car; on the other the paucity of public transport - one train every two hours on the East Suffolk line! - and the second thing was the weather. It's no good getting off a train or out of the car, into the pouring rain and expecting to enjoy a casual wander around the town - life just doesn't work that way!
Holidays for me, as I think I've said before, meant the seaside ... up to teenage, at least. There was a taxi to get from home to the station - a mile out of town, thanks to a Victorian landowner who put his foot down when the railway was being built - and another at the end of the journey to get to the boarding house. It was fun to watch some of the local youngsters struggling with their handcarts as they pushed people's luggage while their 'customers' walked in leisurely fashion behind. I expect that would have been a lot cheaper than the taxi, but mum and dad probably thought it less secure. I wonder how many of those boys grew up to be taxi-drivers!
In Yarmouth, there was plenty to occupy our time for the week. Several shows to book for in the evenings, and usually the Hippodrome Circus one afternoon. Along the promenade were people who would record your weight, writing it on a card for you to keep. They used a big balance, and we would watch the weights being piled on the plate, counting up the 'hidden truth'. There were also photographers, who would snap people walking along, and hand out a slip of paper, so you could go along to their stall later and buy the prints, and order extra copies for your friends if they were good ones. There were horses and carriages, in which the more well-to-do would parade their finery as they drove along the seafront.
If we didn't go to a show, there might be an evening walk along the waterfront or down the promenade, and a portion of chips - in newspaper! - to munch on the way back to our lodging. Some mornings mum might have shopping to do, leaving dad and me to wander; often we would sit on the quay and watch the activity on the boats that seemed to come from far and wide to what was still a thriving port. As I grew older, I was trusted to go around on my own, and I delighted in the doughnuts (before they were lazily called 'donuts') that were 6d each or 3 for 1/- from the stalls on the front.
Another treat in later years was to go on one of the coach tours that could be booked from a kiosk on the prom. Some would go as far as Sandringham, but there were others that only went for a few hours around some of the Broadland villages, places we wouldn't otherwise have seen. It was on one of these excursions that I first visited Reedham. This was one of the places featured on last night's DVD, where there is a unique chain ferry to cross the Yare - the only river crossing below Norwich. There's been a ferry there for centuries, saving people a 30-mile road trip, and today it's a family business, led by David Archer ... and he doesn't commute from Ambridge!
My mind raced back through the years and I found myself thinking about the seaside. Several resorts featured in the film, most of which I've visited at some time or another, but my favourite and the one with which I'm most familiar is Great Yarmouth. As the comics in the end-of-the-pier shows used to say, 'Dear old Yarmouth ... you can tell that by looking in the shops.' Goodness knows what they'd say now! But it remains a place that's dear in my recollections.
Of course all holiday memories are bathed in sunshine. As I watched those pictures, I thought, 'Yes, it would be lovely to go there ... and there ... but two things crossed my mind. One was the difficulty of travel: on the one hand parking the car; on the other the paucity of public transport - one train every two hours on the East Suffolk line! - and the second thing was the weather. It's no good getting off a train or out of the car, into the pouring rain and expecting to enjoy a casual wander around the town - life just doesn't work that way!
Holidays for me, as I think I've said before, meant the seaside ... up to teenage, at least. There was a taxi to get from home to the station - a mile out of town, thanks to a Victorian landowner who put his foot down when the railway was being built - and another at the end of the journey to get to the boarding house. It was fun to watch some of the local youngsters struggling with their handcarts as they pushed people's luggage while their 'customers' walked in leisurely fashion behind. I expect that would have been a lot cheaper than the taxi, but mum and dad probably thought it less secure. I wonder how many of those boys grew up to be taxi-drivers!
In Yarmouth, there was plenty to occupy our time for the week. Several shows to book for in the evenings, and usually the Hippodrome Circus one afternoon. Along the promenade were people who would record your weight, writing it on a card for you to keep. They used a big balance, and we would watch the weights being piled on the plate, counting up the 'hidden truth'. There were also photographers, who would snap people walking along, and hand out a slip of paper, so you could go along to their stall later and buy the prints, and order extra copies for your friends if they were good ones. There were horses and carriages, in which the more well-to-do would parade their finery as they drove along the seafront.
If we didn't go to a show, there might be an evening walk along the waterfront or down the promenade, and a portion of chips - in newspaper! - to munch on the way back to our lodging. Some mornings mum might have shopping to do, leaving dad and me to wander; often we would sit on the quay and watch the activity on the boats that seemed to come from far and wide to what was still a thriving port. As I grew older, I was trusted to go around on my own, and I delighted in the doughnuts (before they were lazily called 'donuts') that were 6d each or 3 for 1/- from the stalls on the front.
Another treat in later years was to go on one of the coach tours that could be booked from a kiosk on the prom. Some would go as far as Sandringham, but there were others that only went for a few hours around some of the Broadland villages, places we wouldn't otherwise have seen. It was on one of these excursions that I first visited Reedham. This was one of the places featured on last night's DVD, where there is a unique chain ferry to cross the Yare - the only river crossing below Norwich. There's been a ferry there for centuries, saving people a 30-mile road trip, and today it's a family business, led by David Archer ... and he doesn't commute from Ambridge!
Friday 9 February 2018
Old Folks, Old Music and Old Courtesies
I suppose it's an offshoot of growing up - or more particularly one's family roots being - in a fairly compact rural area, that the same names crop up time and again as one's research progresses. My first awareness of the surname Francis, for example, came at a young age when I discovered that this was the married name of my father's eldest sister. I've since discovered it in the family of my maternal grandfather, and a year or so ago that it also occurs among the ancestors of my cousin's husband. Indeed these two latter families lived for some while only streets apart in the same village!
This week I've been researching another family whose name figures more than once in our story. My aforementioned maternal grandfather was the great-grandson of a man who was illegitimate and, down the years, had alternately used both his mother's name (the one that we knew as we grew up) and that of his putative father, Kerridge (someone as yet unidentified!) My searches last year included my cousin's husband's Kerridge forbears, but this week I've been looking into the Kerridge family into which one of my maternal grandmother's great-great-aunt married in the early years of the 19th Century.
Much of the information I'd collected some years ago came from a couple of distant cousins, and had lain unsubstantiated among my papers ever since. I decided it was time I did something about checking it out. Many of the records are available on line, of course - many more now than was the case when I collected those details - but many Suffolk records have yet to be added to that resource. So it was that, yesterday, I took a trip to the record office in Bury St Edmunds, and collected details of a number of Kerridge baptism, marriages and burials, which over the weekend I shall add to my growing picture of that family.
The only downside to the trip was a near miss on the way home, when someone misjudged my approaching speed and pulled out in front of me. Luckily the reactions of both me and the driver of the car following me were quick enough to prevent an accident. This week is an active time for the car. Last autumn we were blessed to host a performance of Messiah in our church, by a novel and very professional company called Merry Opera. In an outburst of enthusiasm, having enjoyed this immensely, I discovered that the nearest point to my home in their current tour is a visit to the newly refurbished Corn Hall in my former home town. Tomorrow evening, therefore, I'm heading back in that same direction to see The Marriage of Figaro.
It seemed appropriate, therefore, to 'take the car for a walk' this morning to pass through the car wash and fill up with fuel. I also had the tyre pressures checked, where the chatty mechanic observed, 'You're not working today, then?' 'Not working?!' I replied with mock horror. 'You're retired now, then?' he rejoined with some surprise. 'Two years and more,' I told him, adding quickly, 'but thanks for the compliment!' He smiled, the check completed, and wished me well as I went on my way. It's good to be recognised as a familiar face, even though my visits there are far fewer these days, and less profitable for them into the bargain.
This week I've been researching another family whose name figures more than once in our story. My aforementioned maternal grandfather was the great-grandson of a man who was illegitimate and, down the years, had alternately used both his mother's name (the one that we knew as we grew up) and that of his putative father, Kerridge (someone as yet unidentified!) My searches last year included my cousin's husband's Kerridge forbears, but this week I've been looking into the Kerridge family into which one of my maternal grandmother's great-great-aunt married in the early years of the 19th Century.
Much of the information I'd collected some years ago came from a couple of distant cousins, and had lain unsubstantiated among my papers ever since. I decided it was time I did something about checking it out. Many of the records are available on line, of course - many more now than was the case when I collected those details - but many Suffolk records have yet to be added to that resource. So it was that, yesterday, I took a trip to the record office in Bury St Edmunds, and collected details of a number of Kerridge baptism, marriages and burials, which over the weekend I shall add to my growing picture of that family.
The only downside to the trip was a near miss on the way home, when someone misjudged my approaching speed and pulled out in front of me. Luckily the reactions of both me and the driver of the car following me were quick enough to prevent an accident. This week is an active time for the car. Last autumn we were blessed to host a performance of Messiah in our church, by a novel and very professional company called Merry Opera. In an outburst of enthusiasm, having enjoyed this immensely, I discovered that the nearest point to my home in their current tour is a visit to the newly refurbished Corn Hall in my former home town. Tomorrow evening, therefore, I'm heading back in that same direction to see The Marriage of Figaro.
It seemed appropriate, therefore, to 'take the car for a walk' this morning to pass through the car wash and fill up with fuel. I also had the tyre pressures checked, where the chatty mechanic observed, 'You're not working today, then?' 'Not working?!' I replied with mock horror. 'You're retired now, then?' he rejoined with some surprise. 'Two years and more,' I told him, adding quickly, 'but thanks for the compliment!' He smiled, the check completed, and wished me well as I went on my way. It's good to be recognised as a familiar face, even though my visits there are far fewer these days, and less profitable for them into the bargain.
Friday 2 February 2018
The Other Half
I was asked the other day, "How do we go about reconciliation: how can I be reconciled to someone whose views are so diametrically opposed to my own?" I had to say that I have no direct answer to that thoughtful and probing enquiry ... but maybe what I had already decided that I would write about this weekend will throw out a pointer.
Earlier this week, I spent an afternoon and two mornings delivering letters. Given the nature of the task, one of the few comments that I received - though unnecessary, given my casual clothing - was certainly not out of place: "You're not the usual postman, are you?" Quite apart from the physical exercise that this gave me, I found myself walking in new ways. I trod paths that - despite having now lived in this town for nineteen years - I had not trodden before, and viewed scenes upon which my eyes had not previously gazed.
I discovered anew what a variety of dwellings there are within only a few hundred yards of my home. There were small cottages that possibly had seen little maintenance since they were built shortly after the First World War. There were suburban semi-detached houses from the 1930s, each pair subtly different from its neighbour, thanks to either the architect's whim or modifications made by one owner or another down the years. And at the other end of the spectrum, there were properties big enough to boast a driveway with separate 'in' and 'out' gateways. As I walked up to the door of one of them, I realised that I couldn't even afford a mortgage for the deposit on such a home!
Perhaps these last illustrate best the point I want to make. They are not palatial edifices standing in parkland at the end of a private road; they stand perhaps 30 or 40 yards from the public highway, one after another down a road that begins not five minutes' walk from the town centre. They are well-built, substantial dwellings inhabited, not by the lesser nobility, but by ordinary people who happen to have progressed through life and are now 'comfortably off'. At one such door, as I fought against the brushes inside the letterbox, I became aware of a sympathetic tug at the other end of the envelope. I looked beyond my reflection through the window beside the door, and saw the lady of the house assisting me in my endeavours. The task done, we went our separate ways with a cheery smile and a wave.
I grew up on a local authority housing estate, and then lived in a succession of small cottages before the sequence of flats that have accommodated me in recent years. It's not surprising, therefore, that I have what might be described as a traditional 'lower class' social attitude, one that is often marked by a jealous lack of understanding of those who appear to be privileged and who live in the sort of homes I have just been describing.
As I made my way round, not for the first time coming up close and personal with a small copse by the side of a shingled drive, I pondered what might be involved in looking after such properties. The nearest thing I could imagine in my own history would be the wooden gate that had rotted, or a door needing a new coat of paint. These places, it seemed to me, require at least some idea of estate management! The owner would need either the time and variety of skills to effect all the necessary work himself, or at least the knowledge of what tradesmen would be required to perform the tasks commercially.
I realised how blessed I am, to be able to sit at my computer most of the time, doing a minimal amount of housework, and not have to worry about keeping the garden tidy, mending a broken fence or, as one of my friends had to tackle last year, having a leaking roof re-tiled! Gone are my envious feelings about the owners of large houses. I realise that, if I were suddenly to be wealthy enough to afford such a place, I wouldn't have the first idea of running it; couldn't imagine what might require regular attention, or have the inclination to do anything about it. Such concerns would definitely interfere with the things I want to do with my life! It's surely a case of 'horses for courses'. While an early start might provide sufficient experience and an appropriate awareness, it seems to me that there's a certain intuitive preparedness for such a lifestyle that is inborn.
I need hardly explain the nature of the letters I was delivering. These were an early salvo in the campaign leading to the local elections in May. While I have no envy of people who live in big houses, I would like them to espouse my views of tolerance, openness and equality of opportunity, and to use their social 'clout' for the benefit of their fellow citizens, many of whom are less able to provide for themselves.
Such views will also explain the unscheduled 'extra' post on this blog yesterday, as I join the campaign to achieve the long overdue reform to our electoral system. Enough said.
Earlier this week, I spent an afternoon and two mornings delivering letters. Given the nature of the task, one of the few comments that I received - though unnecessary, given my casual clothing - was certainly not out of place: "You're not the usual postman, are you?" Quite apart from the physical exercise that this gave me, I found myself walking in new ways. I trod paths that - despite having now lived in this town for nineteen years - I had not trodden before, and viewed scenes upon which my eyes had not previously gazed.
I discovered anew what a variety of dwellings there are within only a few hundred yards of my home. There were small cottages that possibly had seen little maintenance since they were built shortly after the First World War. There were suburban semi-detached houses from the 1930s, each pair subtly different from its neighbour, thanks to either the architect's whim or modifications made by one owner or another down the years. And at the other end of the spectrum, there were properties big enough to boast a driveway with separate 'in' and 'out' gateways. As I walked up to the door of one of them, I realised that I couldn't even afford a mortgage for the deposit on such a home!
Perhaps these last illustrate best the point I want to make. They are not palatial edifices standing in parkland at the end of a private road; they stand perhaps 30 or 40 yards from the public highway, one after another down a road that begins not five minutes' walk from the town centre. They are well-built, substantial dwellings inhabited, not by the lesser nobility, but by ordinary people who happen to have progressed through life and are now 'comfortably off'. At one such door, as I fought against the brushes inside the letterbox, I became aware of a sympathetic tug at the other end of the envelope. I looked beyond my reflection through the window beside the door, and saw the lady of the house assisting me in my endeavours. The task done, we went our separate ways with a cheery smile and a wave.
I grew up on a local authority housing estate, and then lived in a succession of small cottages before the sequence of flats that have accommodated me in recent years. It's not surprising, therefore, that I have what might be described as a traditional 'lower class' social attitude, one that is often marked by a jealous lack of understanding of those who appear to be privileged and who live in the sort of homes I have just been describing.
As I made my way round, not for the first time coming up close and personal with a small copse by the side of a shingled drive, I pondered what might be involved in looking after such properties. The nearest thing I could imagine in my own history would be the wooden gate that had rotted, or a door needing a new coat of paint. These places, it seemed to me, require at least some idea of estate management! The owner would need either the time and variety of skills to effect all the necessary work himself, or at least the knowledge of what tradesmen would be required to perform the tasks commercially.
I realised how blessed I am, to be able to sit at my computer most of the time, doing a minimal amount of housework, and not have to worry about keeping the garden tidy, mending a broken fence or, as one of my friends had to tackle last year, having a leaking roof re-tiled! Gone are my envious feelings about the owners of large houses. I realise that, if I were suddenly to be wealthy enough to afford such a place, I wouldn't have the first idea of running it; couldn't imagine what might require regular attention, or have the inclination to do anything about it. Such concerns would definitely interfere with the things I want to do with my life! It's surely a case of 'horses for courses'. While an early start might provide sufficient experience and an appropriate awareness, it seems to me that there's a certain intuitive preparedness for such a lifestyle that is inborn.
I need hardly explain the nature of the letters I was delivering. These were an early salvo in the campaign leading to the local elections in May. While I have no envy of people who live in big houses, I would like them to espouse my views of tolerance, openness and equality of opportunity, and to use their social 'clout' for the benefit of their fellow citizens, many of whom are less able to provide for themselves.
Such views will also explain the unscheduled 'extra' post on this blog yesterday, as I join the campaign to achieve the long overdue reform to our electoral system. Enough said.
Thursday 1 February 2018
#Hungry4Democracy
Next Tuesday, 6th February, will mark 100 years
since (some) women in this country were allowed to vote in parliamentary
elections. Many who fought for decades
to achieve this would be amazed at the fault lines in our democracy 100 years
on.
In 2015, the Lib Dems, Greens and UKIP, collectively,
got over 24% of the votes, but won only 1.5% of the seats. In 2017, those who hold power received only
43% of the votes. First-past-the-post
ensures that a large swathe of seats never change hands; thousands of voters
can be born, live and die feeling their vote is completely worthless. Dorset West, for example, has not changed
hands in the last 100 years! This is a
situation that leads to apathy on one hand and complacency on the other.
The solution is electoral reform, and a change to a
proportional voting system. This would
also help to achieve the equality that those suffragettes and suffragists were
fighting for a century ago. Every
country (including Scotland and Wales) with more than 40% female MPs uses PR.
(Culled from a longer original by Baroness Sal Brinton, President of the Liberal Democrats.)
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