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.
Friday, 9 February 2018
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.)
Saturday, 27 January 2018
Balls and Bells
I greatly admire the skill of the people who write apps for computers. The snooker app I have on my tablet is so lifelike because it's fallible. I mean, there are times when my opponent tries a very fine cut ... and misses completely! This is my aid to relaxation most evenings.
I've been thinking this week of my teenage years when, with two or three friends, I would venture twice a week to the old schoolroom behind the air-raid shelter at the corner of the churchyard and play snooker on a real table. One evening, I was alone; the older men greeted me, "Your friends not come tonight? You better come and play with us, then." So I was made welcome at their table. The speed of their game was noticeably slower and more thoughtful than the 'hit-and-hope' style I was used to. As a result, I learned such a lot playing with them.
Sometimes it was at my own expense. "Just a little top spin on that shot ..." and, of course, my cue ball followed the red into the pocket, "4 away!" and laughter followed. There was good advice, too, though; often it came through listening to the comments of one man to another. The man who encouraged me most, Eric, was probably the oldest there, already in his seventies, I'd guess. I remember his comment when an opponent had tried a particularly difficult manoeuvre. "Well done, Jack. You've got perfect position on the black there ... pity you didn't pot the red, though!" The red was left in the jaws of the pocket, and Eric clipped it in effortlessly while still laughing.
So much of that game is mathematical, both in the geometry of the angles and in the degree to which energy is absorbed by the cushion, thus changing the direction in which the ball will leave after bouncing off. The speed of a stroke is also critical: too soft, and it won't reach its destination, but too hard and the ball will bounce out of the pocket again instead of sinking and allowing you another shot.
My other teenage interest - unlike snooker, one that I've carried down to the present day - was bell-ringing. It's another hobby in which precision is important, in this case precision of timing, which depends on being familiar with a bell and its peculiarities. With experience, a ringer can quickly become aware of how to control a bell, in a similar way to driving a strange car.
Of course it's very much a team effort ... indeed, it's not something that can be done alone, since each bell requires a ringer! No one person can make success of a piece of ringing, although one bad ringer in a team can make success difficult to achieve. Since no one is perfect, most ringing consists of allowing for the slight variations of each other ringer in the team from one stroke to the next, perhaps in pulling a little too heavily or lightly, perhaps in mis-remembering the method.
Ringing, like snooker, was something I learned from people who'd had many years' experience: the man who taught me to handle a bell rang his first peal in 1923. Many others in that band were of about the same age. For a fair-sized market town, we had few native ringers, but the bells were good, had an excellent tone and were a joy to ring so, although we could only muster five or six on a Sunday, practice nights regularly attracted well over a dozen, to ring the eight bells. For weddings or other special occasions, we would draw in help from the nearby villages.
One who came regularly from about six miles away was Albert. He had an interesting technique, which I find I have adopted, although not consciously copying him. If he found he was about to pull too quickly after the bell before him, his hands would vibrate forward and back, but at that same level, not making the downward movement until just that second or so later, so as to be in time with the rest. I don't pretend to understand the science of that, and I don't suppose Albert did either. Surely such a movement won't slow the bell down; it certainly doesn't change its direction. My guess is that it simply gives the hands something to do until the right moment to make the downward pull.
Two old men, both long gone now but not forgotten, who played a part in shaping my leisure.
I've been thinking this week of my teenage years when, with two or three friends, I would venture twice a week to the old schoolroom behind the air-raid shelter at the corner of the churchyard and play snooker on a real table. One evening, I was alone; the older men greeted me, "Your friends not come tonight? You better come and play with us, then." So I was made welcome at their table. The speed of their game was noticeably slower and more thoughtful than the 'hit-and-hope' style I was used to. As a result, I learned such a lot playing with them.
Sometimes it was at my own expense. "Just a little top spin on that shot ..." and, of course, my cue ball followed the red into the pocket, "4 away!" and laughter followed. There was good advice, too, though; often it came through listening to the comments of one man to another. The man who encouraged me most, Eric, was probably the oldest there, already in his seventies, I'd guess. I remember his comment when an opponent had tried a particularly difficult manoeuvre. "Well done, Jack. You've got perfect position on the black there ... pity you didn't pot the red, though!" The red was left in the jaws of the pocket, and Eric clipped it in effortlessly while still laughing.
So much of that game is mathematical, both in the geometry of the angles and in the degree to which energy is absorbed by the cushion, thus changing the direction in which the ball will leave after bouncing off. The speed of a stroke is also critical: too soft, and it won't reach its destination, but too hard and the ball will bounce out of the pocket again instead of sinking and allowing you another shot.
My other teenage interest - unlike snooker, one that I've carried down to the present day - was bell-ringing. It's another hobby in which precision is important, in this case precision of timing, which depends on being familiar with a bell and its peculiarities. With experience, a ringer can quickly become aware of how to control a bell, in a similar way to driving a strange car.
Of course it's very much a team effort ... indeed, it's not something that can be done alone, since each bell requires a ringer! No one person can make success of a piece of ringing, although one bad ringer in a team can make success difficult to achieve. Since no one is perfect, most ringing consists of allowing for the slight variations of each other ringer in the team from one stroke to the next, perhaps in pulling a little too heavily or lightly, perhaps in mis-remembering the method.
Ringing, like snooker, was something I learned from people who'd had many years' experience: the man who taught me to handle a bell rang his first peal in 1923. Many others in that band were of about the same age. For a fair-sized market town, we had few native ringers, but the bells were good, had an excellent tone and were a joy to ring so, although we could only muster five or six on a Sunday, practice nights regularly attracted well over a dozen, to ring the eight bells. For weddings or other special occasions, we would draw in help from the nearby villages.
One who came regularly from about six miles away was Albert. He had an interesting technique, which I find I have adopted, although not consciously copying him. If he found he was about to pull too quickly after the bell before him, his hands would vibrate forward and back, but at that same level, not making the downward movement until just that second or so later, so as to be in time with the rest. I don't pretend to understand the science of that, and I don't suppose Albert did either. Surely such a movement won't slow the bell down; it certainly doesn't change its direction. My guess is that it simply gives the hands something to do until the right moment to make the downward pull.
Two old men, both long gone now but not forgotten, who played a part in shaping my leisure.
Friday, 19 January 2018
Flashbacks kill Christmas!
According to modern tradition, the Monday of this week is 'Blue' Monday. It's supposed to be when all sorts of negative forces coincide, such as the weather; the realisation of how hard Christmas has hit our credit cards, versus how little funds there are to pay off the debt; the recent failures to keep New Year resolutions, and so on.
In the very simple life of my retirement, the way it plays out is this. I'm on the brink of finishing up all the excessive amounts of stuff that I bought up before Christmas. Many years ago, it used to be a treat for a poor family to have a chicken for Christmas dinner, but I live on chicken in one form or another several times a week. Instead of chicken these days, there is turkey or goose for Christmas; and the shops are full of all manner of tasty treats and sweetmeats that only appear at this season.
My mind goes back to years soon after I'd left home. Many a mother finds this problem as the children go their own ways in life: you're still cooking meals for four or more when there's only the two of you. Well, in this instance, my mother still got a large Christmas cake (I don't think she made her own ... although in the earlier years she might have), even though she could only eat a little bit because of her diet. It became a regular occurrence in February or March to be offered a slice of Christmas cake when paying a duty visit on a Sunday afternoon!
It's very difficult - and often quite a bit more expensive - when living alone, to buy just sufficient of everything to provide exactly for the feast days and no more. So I've cleared up all the special food items from the holiday, and now have to revert to normal living: oat 'nobblies' in the biscuit barrel instead of the box of chocolate assortment on the shelf and lemon drizzle slices instead of stollen bites in the cake box.
My normal pattern at breakfast is to put jam on my toast one morning and marmalade the next - I know, I'm very fortunate that I have this choice! Maybe the bright sunshine this morning confused me, but it wasn't until the marmalade was on the toast that I remembered I'd had marmalade yesterday. My reaction to this catastrophe was benign, 'well, never mind, there can be jam tomorrow'. It was no big deal.
Another memory from childhood came to mind. It was summer and, as often happened on a sunny day, blankets had been stretched over the various structures in our small garden to provide a 'play house', where I could play in the warm fresh air and still be out of the direct sunlight. It was such a nice afternoon that mum had brought me my tea in the garden. I took one bite of the sandwich ... and set up such an almighty tantrum that I can still remember it over sixty years later! For whatever reason, I had expected jam in the sandwich; instead, as a special treat, mum had filled it with baked apple, which she knew I liked. My love for the apple was superceded by the surprise that it wasn't the jam I'd expected, and I let fly.
Goodness knows what the neighbours thought ... let alone my poor mother! But, having drifted so far from Christmas into mid-summer, I think it's time I stopped drivelling until next week.
In the very simple life of my retirement, the way it plays out is this. I'm on the brink of finishing up all the excessive amounts of stuff that I bought up before Christmas. Many years ago, it used to be a treat for a poor family to have a chicken for Christmas dinner, but I live on chicken in one form or another several times a week. Instead of chicken these days, there is turkey or goose for Christmas; and the shops are full of all manner of tasty treats and sweetmeats that only appear at this season.
My mind goes back to years soon after I'd left home. Many a mother finds this problem as the children go their own ways in life: you're still cooking meals for four or more when there's only the two of you. Well, in this instance, my mother still got a large Christmas cake (I don't think she made her own ... although in the earlier years she might have), even though she could only eat a little bit because of her diet. It became a regular occurrence in February or March to be offered a slice of Christmas cake when paying a duty visit on a Sunday afternoon!
It's very difficult - and often quite a bit more expensive - when living alone, to buy just sufficient of everything to provide exactly for the feast days and no more. So I've cleared up all the special food items from the holiday, and now have to revert to normal living: oat 'nobblies' in the biscuit barrel instead of the box of chocolate assortment on the shelf and lemon drizzle slices instead of stollen bites in the cake box.
My normal pattern at breakfast is to put jam on my toast one morning and marmalade the next - I know, I'm very fortunate that I have this choice! Maybe the bright sunshine this morning confused me, but it wasn't until the marmalade was on the toast that I remembered I'd had marmalade yesterday. My reaction to this catastrophe was benign, 'well, never mind, there can be jam tomorrow'. It was no big deal.
Another memory from childhood came to mind. It was summer and, as often happened on a sunny day, blankets had been stretched over the various structures in our small garden to provide a 'play house', where I could play in the warm fresh air and still be out of the direct sunlight. It was such a nice afternoon that mum had brought me my tea in the garden. I took one bite of the sandwich ... and set up such an almighty tantrum that I can still remember it over sixty years later! For whatever reason, I had expected jam in the sandwich; instead, as a special treat, mum had filled it with baked apple, which she knew I liked. My love for the apple was superceded by the surprise that it wasn't the jam I'd expected, and I let fly.
Goodness knows what the neighbours thought ... let alone my poor mother! But, having drifted so far from Christmas into mid-summer, I think it's time I stopped drivelling until next week.
Friday, 12 January 2018
Resolution Activated
Last week I grudgingly allowed myself to persuade me (how schizophrenic is that?) to make a New Year's Resolution - not to waste time. I'm pleased to report that, a whole week and more into the year, I'm keeping to it. This has been a really positive week, not only in how much I've fitted into it, but also in plans that have been made for the future, as well as in my general attitude to life.
The weekend was fairly normal, with the resumption of the coffee morning at church on the first Saturday of the month, when we were treated this month to a video of the Northern Lights (Aurora Borealis) as well as the usual background music, provided by a volunteer pianist. Later I skipped a chilling afternoon at a ringing meeting in favour of updating the background data for my regular investment analysis exercise.
Sunday's regular monthly duty may soon be coming to an end. The old lady whom I've been taking to church on a rota basis is looking to begin driving again, and enquired of me where I get my car serviced. In preference to explaining where the place was, I decided it was just as easy to drive round on our way home. It was only a mile or so out of my way, but she was pleased as punch when she realised how convenient it would be to get to. Now all that remains is to see whether she will act on the information.
Last Friday I had made my two-yearly visit to the opticians, where it was decided that I would need a new pair of reading specs. Easiest and cheapest would be to replace the lenses in the pair I already have and, to my amazement, I had a call on Monday afternoon to say they were ready! At the time I was in the middle of following up some matters decided upon at a Health & Safety meeting in the morning, so elected to collect them the following day.
As well as collecting the glasses, I reacted to the arrival of a catalogue in Tuesday's post to order some new clothes and, perhaps providentially, a parallel occurrence on Wednesday led to me following up an advert in a magazine that arrived, the outcome of which was that, after the first home-group meeting of the new year, I made a booking for a coach holiday. I had a choice of May or September, and chose the former; I hope the weather will be kind. I couldn't face waiting all through the summer months for a late holiday after the schools have resumed. That doesn't affect me directly, of course, but it's sign that winter is on its way, and - in my mind at least - that the holiday season is past.
Yesterday's plans were comprehensively upset, and I was pleased with the way I coped with that. Thursday is usually the day for monitoring my pension investments. (That fund may not be large, but it's very lovingly looked after!) The operation usually takes less than an hour, but as I went through the first stages this week, I noticed something wrong. A little less haste, and a bit of digging, revealed that, although the process itself was working, it was churning out rubbish because of a few minor but quite significant changes to the names of some of the funds - one of which had evaded detection in mid-December!
By the time I'd worked out what was happening, decided how best to remedy the situation, overcome a computer crash, and put things right, it took nearer six hours rather than the one I'd expected. However, all is now well, and vigilance against the recurrence of such sabotage is heightened!
Other achievements yesterday included the production of a batch of meals to re-stock the freezer and stop me going hungry for a few more weeks (it's not really that serious, but it sounds good!), and also making bookings for some theatre visits near and far in the coming months, following the arrival of yet another tempting item of post!
I recalled this morning a friendship long ago which taught me so much. One day, as we sat watching TV, I asked if I might put my arm around her. She said, in effect, 'If there's something you want to do, try it. The worst that can happen is that I say no, or not now, and explain why not.' I put my arm around her, and it wasn't rejected. That lesson has stayed with me ... although, I confess, I've sometimes strayed into the byways of 'can't do' and 'wouldn't get away with'. This week has prompted awareness of things I can do - some noted here, and others besides - and has brought with it happiness and a sense of achievement. Long may it continue!
The weekend was fairly normal, with the resumption of the coffee morning at church on the first Saturday of the month, when we were treated this month to a video of the Northern Lights (Aurora Borealis) as well as the usual background music, provided by a volunteer pianist. Later I skipped a chilling afternoon at a ringing meeting in favour of updating the background data for my regular investment analysis exercise.
Sunday's regular monthly duty may soon be coming to an end. The old lady whom I've been taking to church on a rota basis is looking to begin driving again, and enquired of me where I get my car serviced. In preference to explaining where the place was, I decided it was just as easy to drive round on our way home. It was only a mile or so out of my way, but she was pleased as punch when she realised how convenient it would be to get to. Now all that remains is to see whether she will act on the information.
Last Friday I had made my two-yearly visit to the opticians, where it was decided that I would need a new pair of reading specs. Easiest and cheapest would be to replace the lenses in the pair I already have and, to my amazement, I had a call on Monday afternoon to say they were ready! At the time I was in the middle of following up some matters decided upon at a Health & Safety meeting in the morning, so elected to collect them the following day.
As well as collecting the glasses, I reacted to the arrival of a catalogue in Tuesday's post to order some new clothes and, perhaps providentially, a parallel occurrence on Wednesday led to me following up an advert in a magazine that arrived, the outcome of which was that, after the first home-group meeting of the new year, I made a booking for a coach holiday. I had a choice of May or September, and chose the former; I hope the weather will be kind. I couldn't face waiting all through the summer months for a late holiday after the schools have resumed. That doesn't affect me directly, of course, but it's sign that winter is on its way, and - in my mind at least - that the holiday season is past.
Yesterday's plans were comprehensively upset, and I was pleased with the way I coped with that. Thursday is usually the day for monitoring my pension investments. (That fund may not be large, but it's very lovingly looked after!) The operation usually takes less than an hour, but as I went through the first stages this week, I noticed something wrong. A little less haste, and a bit of digging, revealed that, although the process itself was working, it was churning out rubbish because of a few minor but quite significant changes to the names of some of the funds - one of which had evaded detection in mid-December!
By the time I'd worked out what was happening, decided how best to remedy the situation, overcome a computer crash, and put things right, it took nearer six hours rather than the one I'd expected. However, all is now well, and vigilance against the recurrence of such sabotage is heightened!
Other achievements yesterday included the production of a batch of meals to re-stock the freezer and stop me going hungry for a few more weeks (it's not really that serious, but it sounds good!), and also making bookings for some theatre visits near and far in the coming months, following the arrival of yet another tempting item of post!
I recalled this morning a friendship long ago which taught me so much. One day, as we sat watching TV, I asked if I might put my arm around her. She said, in effect, 'If there's something you want to do, try it. The worst that can happen is that I say no, or not now, and explain why not.' I put my arm around her, and it wasn't rejected. That lesson has stayed with me ... although, I confess, I've sometimes strayed into the byways of 'can't do' and 'wouldn't get away with'. This week has prompted awareness of things I can do - some noted here, and others besides - and has brought with it happiness and a sense of achievement. Long may it continue!
Friday, 5 January 2018
Going Home
For many years in my late teens and early married life, I sang in a mixed choir in my home town. Occasionally the standard 4-part harmonies would give way to 3- or 4-part male-voice arrangements, and one of the earliest that I learned was a negro spiritual called Going Home. The words, by William Arms Fisher, are set to the largo from Anton Dvořák's New World Symphony. To my shame, I hadn't realised until refreshing my memory this week that it was in fact a funeral hymn, telling of finding familiar faces in Heaven. However, I have always associated it with feelings of peace.
All of this makes even more strange an experience I had on Tuesday afternoon. As readers will know from last week's post, I had been visiting my cousin over the new year, and I was on my way home from there. The visit had been a very pleasant one but it had come to its natural end and I was comfortable about leaving to come home. During the journey, my thoughts kept going back to a time some nineteen years ago, when I was also returning home after a winter holiday. It was the last week of December and, although I have no wish to dig up the past, suffice to say that it had been one of the least happy Christmases of my entire life.
On that occasion my return journey had been by air and train; this time I was driving. Then I was coming home after an uncomfortable holiday to face trauma and upheaval; this time couldn't be more of a contrast. Why then, should my mind link the two? And why should that tune, with its feeling of peace come to mind alongside such an opposing recollection? I shared some of these puzzles with a friend yesterday, but we got no further than agreeing that memory is a very strange phenomenon, and gives us more surprises the older we get.
So, after the puzzles of the journey, I'm now picking up one by one the threads of life back home in the First Garden City. Wednesday morning was very much routine, with the midweek church service followed by shopping and, on this occasion, other errands in the town as well. Yesterday I was volunteering at the inter-church project to help the homeless and vulnerable people in our community. On the home front, all the main strings to my life are being taken up again, and in many ways life will be fully back to normal by this time next week.
The one remaining question is New Year Resolutions. I don't normally make any ... they're usually only too easy to break! However, if I'm forced to pledge myself to something in that line, I would say that I'm planning to reduce wasted time, whether that be spending time on activities or disciplines that are not worthwhile or don't bring some benefit, or simply wandering about the flat wondering what to do next. Generally, to be more active and efficient than previously.
All of this makes even more strange an experience I had on Tuesday afternoon. As readers will know from last week's post, I had been visiting my cousin over the new year, and I was on my way home from there. The visit had been a very pleasant one but it had come to its natural end and I was comfortable about leaving to come home. During the journey, my thoughts kept going back to a time some nineteen years ago, when I was also returning home after a winter holiday. It was the last week of December and, although I have no wish to dig up the past, suffice to say that it had been one of the least happy Christmases of my entire life.
On that occasion my return journey had been by air and train; this time I was driving. Then I was coming home after an uncomfortable holiday to face trauma and upheaval; this time couldn't be more of a contrast. Why then, should my mind link the two? And why should that tune, with its feeling of peace come to mind alongside such an opposing recollection? I shared some of these puzzles with a friend yesterday, but we got no further than agreeing that memory is a very strange phenomenon, and gives us more surprises the older we get.
So, after the puzzles of the journey, I'm now picking up one by one the threads of life back home in the First Garden City. Wednesday morning was very much routine, with the midweek church service followed by shopping and, on this occasion, other errands in the town as well. Yesterday I was volunteering at the inter-church project to help the homeless and vulnerable people in our community. On the home front, all the main strings to my life are being taken up again, and in many ways life will be fully back to normal by this time next week.
The one remaining question is New Year Resolutions. I don't normally make any ... they're usually only too easy to break! However, if I'm forced to pledge myself to something in that line, I would say that I'm planning to reduce wasted time, whether that be spending time on activities or disciplines that are not worthwhile or don't bring some benefit, or simply wandering about the flat wondering what to do next. Generally, to be more active and efficient than previously.
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