For weeks, it seems, my life has been spent indoors - apart from essential outings, like ringing, singing and shopping - and it's suffered as a result. It has revolved around my desk, dealing with a succession of either repetitive or never-ending interests, sometimes in a constant sequence from breakfast, via only short breaks for lunch and dinner, to bedtime.
When I first retired for good, almost a year ago now, I resolved to walk at least twice a week. Sadly this resolution - like so many - has been broken, so when I had to collect a prescription the other day, I decided to walk into the town for the exercise instead of taking the car.
I live in what was originally the industrial area of town. When I first lived here, in the 'First Garden City', it was on the site of a former pram factory; my present home, I have been reliably informed, replaces a factory where refuse collection vehicles were produced: a claim to fame not everyone can equal! One principle upon which the Garden City was established was to keep the living areas separate from industry. Since many industrial premises created unpleasant fumes or smoke from fires, they were sited to the east of the town, downwind of the housing areas, since the prevailing winds are from the west. Processes have change in the century since the town was created, and this unsavoury aspect of industry is no longer the case. Hence, the segregation of the town into work and housing no longer applies, and a derelict factory provides an ideal brownfield site for new homes. Almost directly opposite my home is a factory making parts for the motor industry that has produced neither fumes nor noise, so far as I've noticed in the last thirteen years.
As I walked out the other day, I was reminded of industrial streets in city centres where I've walked not too long ago. Maybe this week's damp conditions underfoot contributed to this. I thought in particular of Sheffield some twenty years ago and, more recently, Nottingham. In both cities I saw industrial buildings of Victorian vintage, or possibly earlier, some of which were in use but others no longer occupied. Whether awaiting re-use or demolition, or simply protected by being listed as of historical importance, they have a definite aura. Some have been given new life as flats; some, alas, have broken windows and weeds several feet high growing up the walls.
Maybe it was a product of the afore-mentioned lack of exercise, but I not only enjoyed the discovery of bus routes that I hadn't used before - at least in that way - but also the ensuing journey from one end of the town to the other, in order to complete the range of errands upon which I'd set out.
I'm now looking forward to another reminder of those early days when walking was firmly on my 'to-do' list. I've just signed up to deliver church Christmas cards next week. It will be interesting to notice as, by choice, I cover the same roads as I did last year, what thoughts and observations cross my mind as I do so. I'm not guaranteeing that they'll find their way here ... but watch this space!
Friday, 25 November 2016
Friday, 11 November 2016
A Political Week
Well, of course it was, but I'm neither Trump-eting about Hillary, nor Hillary-ous about Trump. Other things have kept me busy. Towards the end of last week I had a phone call from someone I met at Witney last month. He lives in the next town to me, where there was a local council by-election yesterday, and he asked me whether I would be prepared to give any help. After considering over the weekend, I advised him that I would deliver some letters on Tuesday morning. When he brought them round on Monday, our conversation revealed that we have many interests and experiences in common ... not all of which I revealed to him: it's good to keep some things to oneself!
Tuesday's experience went smoothly, in chilly sunshine, and I'm sure the exercise did me good. It was complemented in the evening by my attendance at the local party's AGM, This, too, was a first-time experience for me, and I made several new acquaintances. My new friend had also asked if I would take a turn as a Teller at the election itself. The name itself defines one who counts votes, but in practice it refers to one who notes who has voted - as I described it the other day, "one of those annoying people who ask for your number when you go to cast your vote". It has no connection at all to how you voted, merely to record the fact that you have done so. The effect is to spare one who has performed this civic duty from the attentions of enthusiastic canvassers later in the day.
Realistically at this level, little is achieved beyond maintaining a presence at the polling station, and seeing that all is done in a fair and orderly manner, although the teller has no authority to enforce this. I had been asked to undertake a similar duty at Witney, but declined. Looking back, my only reason for doing so was fear. I was unwilling to confront people. This time I decided that I must face this reticence head-on, so I said I would oblige and was allocated an hour slot during the mid-morning. Between the arrangement being made and its discharge, my imagination was working overtime conjuring up all manner of hazards and problems I might face, and it was with no little apprehension that I eventually presented myself for duty.
I recently wrote about this difficulty in my other blog; you can read about it here. I suggested that the solution to the condition is being given some external authority for this confrontation. As I now reflect on my experience yesterday, I can see that same truth in action. When I arrived at the polling station, I was greeted by the man whom I was relieving, and presented with a pen, a pad of recording sheets ... and a party rosette. Once I was wearing the rosette, I was no longer the timid and reluctant individual, but an officially accredited party worker. I moulded with the representatives of the other parties in a team, all focused on the same task, some with more devotion to the detail than others.
An hour later, when a lady came in and announced that she was relieving me, I confidently handed over my badge of authority and the 'tools of the trade', like a hardened professional ... albeit after only one hour's experience.
As I wrote that last sentence, I found my mind drifting to pilots flying Spitfires and Hurricanes, and wondering how few flying hours they might have clocked up before finding themselves in a dog-fight with Heinkels and Messerschmitts. I think the day has finally caught up with me. It's still referred to as Armistice Day, despite that being 98 years ago, and the fact that today the theme is the commemoration of the dead of all wars.
Although the official commemorations will take place on Sunday - some years on the previous Sunday - many people still stopped what they were doing this morning and remembered. I confess that, although I had intended to do so, I forgot. I recall that when I was driving, with the radio on, there was a silence before the hourly news bulletin.
On the first anniversary of '9-11', I was driving in the Cambridgeshire countryside and saw traffic coming to a halt in the early afternoon on the adjacent road, so I and many others did the same. Even so, it's hard to imagine - as is reported - the whole country stopping all activity in response to the King's call on the first anniversary in 1919. How times have changed ... in many ways, rightly so. However, the important thing is the remembering, the giving of thanks, and the commitment for the future. If this can only be fulfilled by ceasing all else, then so be it.
Tuesday's experience went smoothly, in chilly sunshine, and I'm sure the exercise did me good. It was complemented in the evening by my attendance at the local party's AGM, This, too, was a first-time experience for me, and I made several new acquaintances. My new friend had also asked if I would take a turn as a Teller at the election itself. The name itself defines one who counts votes, but in practice it refers to one who notes who has voted - as I described it the other day, "one of those annoying people who ask for your number when you go to cast your vote". It has no connection at all to how you voted, merely to record the fact that you have done so. The effect is to spare one who has performed this civic duty from the attentions of enthusiastic canvassers later in the day.
Realistically at this level, little is achieved beyond maintaining a presence at the polling station, and seeing that all is done in a fair and orderly manner, although the teller has no authority to enforce this. I had been asked to undertake a similar duty at Witney, but declined. Looking back, my only reason for doing so was fear. I was unwilling to confront people. This time I decided that I must face this reticence head-on, so I said I would oblige and was allocated an hour slot during the mid-morning. Between the arrangement being made and its discharge, my imagination was working overtime conjuring up all manner of hazards and problems I might face, and it was with no little apprehension that I eventually presented myself for duty.
I recently wrote about this difficulty in my other blog; you can read about it here. I suggested that the solution to the condition is being given some external authority for this confrontation. As I now reflect on my experience yesterday, I can see that same truth in action. When I arrived at the polling station, I was greeted by the man whom I was relieving, and presented with a pen, a pad of recording sheets ... and a party rosette. Once I was wearing the rosette, I was no longer the timid and reluctant individual, but an officially accredited party worker. I moulded with the representatives of the other parties in a team, all focused on the same task, some with more devotion to the detail than others.
An hour later, when a lady came in and announced that she was relieving me, I confidently handed over my badge of authority and the 'tools of the trade', like a hardened professional ... albeit after only one hour's experience.
As I wrote that last sentence, I found my mind drifting to pilots flying Spitfires and Hurricanes, and wondering how few flying hours they might have clocked up before finding themselves in a dog-fight with Heinkels and Messerschmitts. I think the day has finally caught up with me. It's still referred to as Armistice Day, despite that being 98 years ago, and the fact that today the theme is the commemoration of the dead of all wars.
Although the official commemorations will take place on Sunday - some years on the previous Sunday - many people still stopped what they were doing this morning and remembered. I confess that, although I had intended to do so, I forgot. I recall that when I was driving, with the radio on, there was a silence before the hourly news bulletin.
On the first anniversary of '9-11', I was driving in the Cambridgeshire countryside and saw traffic coming to a halt in the early afternoon on the adjacent road, so I and many others did the same. Even so, it's hard to imagine - as is reported - the whole country stopping all activity in response to the King's call on the first anniversary in 1919. How times have changed ... in many ways, rightly so. However, the important thing is the remembering, the giving of thanks, and the commitment for the future. If this can only be fulfilled by ceasing all else, then so be it.
Friday, 4 November 2016
Where Dove and Trent Collide
I've had an interesting week ... or put it another way, the week has been busy and it's unearthed an interesting story. As you will be aware, for several months now - as time has permitted - I've been researching the families of two of my aunts, the wives of my father's two eldest brothers. The elder of these uncles lived for many years in Derbyshire and I never met his wife, who died when I was only two. It's her trail that led to this week's discoveries.
Let me take you to the village of Marston Montgomery. As the ninteenth-century crow would have flown, it lies about one third of the way from Uttoxeter to Ashbourne. There, in the late summer of 1842, 29-year old Alice Nash presented her husband, nearly twenty years her senior, with their first son, Henry, the 'good guy' in my story. By 1871, he was one of a team of five farm servants at Eaton Dovedale, a large farm in Doveridge. Three years later, Henry married Elizabeth Gotheridge from nearby Church Broughton, and settled there. Soon she was expecting their first child and all seemed to be rosy for Henry. Their euphoria didn't last, however, for Elizabeth died during or soon after the birth of little William. She was 29 (as his mother had been when he was born) and Henry was clearly distraught, for he gave the little boy his mother's maiden name in tribute.
Meanwhile, in Egginton, just a few miles down the Dove valley, Ann Britton (or Brittan) had been growing up, the fifth child and third daughter of John and Elizabeth's family of ten. The last of her siblings was born when she was eleven in 1859 and, at some point in the next ten years, Ann struck out on her own. In 1871 she was some 70 miles away, on the far side of what is now known as the Peak District National Park, at Heckmondwike, where she was the general servant of Edmund John Dent, an iron and metal agent. Mr. Dent's household consisted of his wife and himself, three sons and a daughter, his mother-in-law and two sisters-in-law, so Ann was probably kept very busy.
Whether as a result of willing diversion or unwelcome attention, of course remains unknown, but the following summer found Ann the mother of a little girl, and during the next few years she made her way back to her native Derbyshire. She and the mourning widower Henry met and were married in the spring of 1876. At the next census in 1881, they were living in Egginton with their two children, Ann's daughter Priscilla Britton and Henry's son William Gotheridge Nash. They also had Ann's five-year-old niece Lizzie Britton living with them; Lizzie, too, was born out of wedlock and at that time her mother, Eliza, was a housemaid at a farm in the next village, Marston-upon-Dove. I've been unable to trace Eliza any further.
Our attention now turns to Priscilla. Did she inherit her mother's taste for travel? I found her in 1891 the servant to the harbour master in Morecombe, Lancs. It was perhaps after this adventure, or maybe during a visit home, that she met George Fern. In 1881, George had been a brewer's labourer in his native Burton upon Trent, where he lived with his family in the area known as Stapenhill. Perhaps he had been impressed by her stories of Lancashire; maybe she was attracted by the contrast, as it may have seemed, of returning to the normal pattern of village life. They were married in the summer of 1897 and when the new King came to the throne, they were living in Egginton with their eighteen-month-old son William. George was still travelling to Burton for work.
Priscilla's entry in the 1911 census was something of a mystery. By then Henry, 'our hero', had died and Priscilla was living with her widowed mother in Egginton. They were both employed by the Burton-upon-Trent corporation, earning a living as osier-peelers, in other words they stripped the bark from willow-wands for use in basketry. This was probably something they could do at home, for Priscilla was now accompanied by her 9-year-old daughter, also called Priscilla, as well as William, now 11. The mystery was that Priscilla described herself on the census form as 'married for 13 years', although there was no sign of George (about to be revealed as 'the bad guy' of the tale).
After some effort I found a George Edward Fern living in Coventry. His birthplace, Burton-upon-Trent, was good enough to correspond to what had earlier been described as Stapenhill (the part of Burton sitting in Derbyshire), and his age was now two years more. I couldn't believe what I thought I'd found, so I looked for this George in 1901. The only candidate was a coal-hewer living in Rosliston and born in Coton-in-the-Elms, these being neighbouring villages to the south of Burton, but he was in the same place, and doing the same job, in 1911.
George had moved some 45 miles away, and formed a new relationship. He had married Emily Holloway - rather precipitantly, we must disclose - in the June quarter of 1903, just weeks before she gave birth to their daughter, whom they called Annie Rosa, to be followed in 1905 by a son George Herbert. However George had explained himself, it seems that he was acceptd by Emily's folks. She was the eldest daughter in a family of ten; in 1911 her father was a cycle and motor filer. When Emily was born he was already a cycle fitter and, at 15, she was working as a plater in the cycle trade. By 1911, one of her brothers was making cycle wheels, another was a cycle builder, and two sisters were making leather bags for cycles. Little surprise then, that George had been found a job as 'stores clerk, cycle industry'.
And what links these events to me? That five-year-old Lizzie, living with Ann and Henry in 1881 was my aunt's mother. After her own exciting life, which I may relate here one day, Lizzie's daughter married my uncle in 1921.
Let me take you to the village of Marston Montgomery. As the ninteenth-century crow would have flown, it lies about one third of the way from Uttoxeter to Ashbourne. There, in the late summer of 1842, 29-year old Alice Nash presented her husband, nearly twenty years her senior, with their first son, Henry, the 'good guy' in my story. By 1871, he was one of a team of five farm servants at Eaton Dovedale, a large farm in Doveridge. Three years later, Henry married Elizabeth Gotheridge from nearby Church Broughton, and settled there. Soon she was expecting their first child and all seemed to be rosy for Henry. Their euphoria didn't last, however, for Elizabeth died during or soon after the birth of little William. She was 29 (as his mother had been when he was born) and Henry was clearly distraught, for he gave the little boy his mother's maiden name in tribute.
Meanwhile, in Egginton, just a few miles down the Dove valley, Ann Britton (or Brittan) had been growing up, the fifth child and third daughter of John and Elizabeth's family of ten. The last of her siblings was born when she was eleven in 1859 and, at some point in the next ten years, Ann struck out on her own. In 1871 she was some 70 miles away, on the far side of what is now known as the Peak District National Park, at Heckmondwike, where she was the general servant of Edmund John Dent, an iron and metal agent. Mr. Dent's household consisted of his wife and himself, three sons and a daughter, his mother-in-law and two sisters-in-law, so Ann was probably kept very busy.
Whether as a result of willing diversion or unwelcome attention, of course remains unknown, but the following summer found Ann the mother of a little girl, and during the next few years she made her way back to her native Derbyshire. She and the mourning widower Henry met and were married in the spring of 1876. At the next census in 1881, they were living in Egginton with their two children, Ann's daughter Priscilla Britton and Henry's son William Gotheridge Nash. They also had Ann's five-year-old niece Lizzie Britton living with them; Lizzie, too, was born out of wedlock and at that time her mother, Eliza, was a housemaid at a farm in the next village, Marston-upon-Dove. I've been unable to trace Eliza any further.
Our attention now turns to Priscilla. Did she inherit her mother's taste for travel? I found her in 1891 the servant to the harbour master in Morecombe, Lancs. It was perhaps after this adventure, or maybe during a visit home, that she met George Fern. In 1881, George had been a brewer's labourer in his native Burton upon Trent, where he lived with his family in the area known as Stapenhill. Perhaps he had been impressed by her stories of Lancashire; maybe she was attracted by the contrast, as it may have seemed, of returning to the normal pattern of village life. They were married in the summer of 1897 and when the new King came to the throne, they were living in Egginton with their eighteen-month-old son William. George was still travelling to Burton for work.
Priscilla's entry in the 1911 census was something of a mystery. By then Henry, 'our hero', had died and Priscilla was living with her widowed mother in Egginton. They were both employed by the Burton-upon-Trent corporation, earning a living as osier-peelers, in other words they stripped the bark from willow-wands for use in basketry. This was probably something they could do at home, for Priscilla was now accompanied by her 9-year-old daughter, also called Priscilla, as well as William, now 11. The mystery was that Priscilla described herself on the census form as 'married for 13 years', although there was no sign of George (about to be revealed as 'the bad guy' of the tale).
After some effort I found a George Edward Fern living in Coventry. His birthplace, Burton-upon-Trent, was good enough to correspond to what had earlier been described as Stapenhill (the part of Burton sitting in Derbyshire), and his age was now two years more. I couldn't believe what I thought I'd found, so I looked for this George in 1901. The only candidate was a coal-hewer living in Rosliston and born in Coton-in-the-Elms, these being neighbouring villages to the south of Burton, but he was in the same place, and doing the same job, in 1911.
George had moved some 45 miles away, and formed a new relationship. He had married Emily Holloway - rather precipitantly, we must disclose - in the June quarter of 1903, just weeks before she gave birth to their daughter, whom they called Annie Rosa, to be followed in 1905 by a son George Herbert. However George had explained himself, it seems that he was acceptd by Emily's folks. She was the eldest daughter in a family of ten; in 1911 her father was a cycle and motor filer. When Emily was born he was already a cycle fitter and, at 15, she was working as a plater in the cycle trade. By 1911, one of her brothers was making cycle wheels, another was a cycle builder, and two sisters were making leather bags for cycles. Little surprise then, that George had been found a job as 'stores clerk, cycle industry'.
And what links these events to me? That five-year-old Lizzie, living with Ann and Henry in 1881 was my aunt's mother. After her own exciting life, which I may relate here one day, Lizzie's daughter married my uncle in 1921.
Saturday, 29 October 2016
The Minutiae of Normal Life
The week began with the annual autumn outing of the bellringers. Last Saturday's travels took us around six churches in rural Bedfordshire, a total of 55 miles, during which (as a team) we rang a total of 39 bells - three sixes, two eights and a five. Some were easy to ring, some sounded wonderful but were hard work and one, where the ceiling of the ringing room was quite low, demanded skills that some of us could only achieve intermittently! It was a tiring, if enjoyable, day and I noticed that our organiser, who is expecting her second child in the new year, wasn't in church the next day. I later verified that she had simply felt in need of a (well-deserved) rest!
Talking of babies, one who was on parade last Sunday - at the age of only a week! - was the son of another bellringer. Having been a 'lapsed' ringer for many years, she told me earlier in the year that she would like to join us after her confinement. In view of her account of long-ago achievements, that's a day we are looking forward to!
It's nice to try something new, even if there are uncertainties about its success, right up to the moment. Wednesday brought such an occasion to my life. For many years, formerly in Norfolk, and more recently with my present church, I have enjoyed the fellowship and mutual support structure of a home group. In Norfolk we always met in the home of a single mum who had a large lounge and welcoming open fire. The group here meets in rotation in the homes of several members, and I had felt the frustration of not being able to host a meeting because of the limited size of my flat.
This week is half-term, when usually there is no meeting because many are unable to attend. Knowing that any gathering would be smaller than usual, I seized the opportunity and offered to lead a small group at mine. The usual source of materials is provided as a follow up to recent sermons, and since last Sunday was Bible Sunday, it had been agreed that this would be our theme. However, plans had been changed, and a different topic chosen for the sermon, so ... what to do? Luckily, our sister parish had follwed this theme, their sermon had been recorded as usual and was published on their website. It was the ideal basis, and our meeting - of only four including myself - was a success.
The week has drifted to a close, it seems, with a couple of full but untiring days. Thursday brought the announcement of the laying of an Early Day Motion in the House of Commons regarding the introduction of proportional representation - the UK is the only country in Europe that doesn't enjoy this privilege - and I wrote to my MP to urge his support. Sadly, but unsurprisingly, I received a prompt and polite reply declining his support because his views differ from mine ... the very purpose for which I have supported this cause for many years!
Over the last couple of months, I've been nibbling away at a transcription of the 1871 census for several north Suffolk parishes under the auspices of FreeCEN, and this also figured in the activities of these last days, bringing my personal contribution so far to this effort to 1,944 individuals, from 88 pages, covering two whole villages and most of a third.
Yesterday, as the last Friday of the month, was our day of prayer and fasting, which added another dimension to an otherwise unbroken spell at the desk/screen. It's good to meet up with friends like this and, at the same time, have the opportunity to catch up with other aspects of our common life that have escaped us during the week. Our churchwarden brought with her a notice, which she later posted on the inside of the church's outer door, requesting that it shouldn't be banged. The reason for this is not for silence, since it is normally only closed when the place is empty. Apparently it had been getting more difficult to close, so those locking it had applied increasing force. Now a carpenter has rectified this, after identifying the cause. The frame had shifted ... possibly because of people banging the door!
Talking of babies, one who was on parade last Sunday - at the age of only a week! - was the son of another bellringer. Having been a 'lapsed' ringer for many years, she told me earlier in the year that she would like to join us after her confinement. In view of her account of long-ago achievements, that's a day we are looking forward to!
It's nice to try something new, even if there are uncertainties about its success, right up to the moment. Wednesday brought such an occasion to my life. For many years, formerly in Norfolk, and more recently with my present church, I have enjoyed the fellowship and mutual support structure of a home group. In Norfolk we always met in the home of a single mum who had a large lounge and welcoming open fire. The group here meets in rotation in the homes of several members, and I had felt the frustration of not being able to host a meeting because of the limited size of my flat.
This week is half-term, when usually there is no meeting because many are unable to attend. Knowing that any gathering would be smaller than usual, I seized the opportunity and offered to lead a small group at mine. The usual source of materials is provided as a follow up to recent sermons, and since last Sunday was Bible Sunday, it had been agreed that this would be our theme. However, plans had been changed, and a different topic chosen for the sermon, so ... what to do? Luckily, our sister parish had follwed this theme, their sermon had been recorded as usual and was published on their website. It was the ideal basis, and our meeting - of only four including myself - was a success.
The week has drifted to a close, it seems, with a couple of full but untiring days. Thursday brought the announcement of the laying of an Early Day Motion in the House of Commons regarding the introduction of proportional representation - the UK is the only country in Europe that doesn't enjoy this privilege - and I wrote to my MP to urge his support. Sadly, but unsurprisingly, I received a prompt and polite reply declining his support because his views differ from mine ... the very purpose for which I have supported this cause for many years!
Over the last couple of months, I've been nibbling away at a transcription of the 1871 census for several north Suffolk parishes under the auspices of FreeCEN, and this also figured in the activities of these last days, bringing my personal contribution so far to this effort to 1,944 individuals, from 88 pages, covering two whole villages and most of a third.
Yesterday, as the last Friday of the month, was our day of prayer and fasting, which added another dimension to an otherwise unbroken spell at the desk/screen. It's good to meet up with friends like this and, at the same time, have the opportunity to catch up with other aspects of our common life that have escaped us during the week. Our churchwarden brought with her a notice, which she later posted on the inside of the church's outer door, requesting that it shouldn't be banged. The reason for this is not for silence, since it is normally only closed when the place is empty. Apparently it had been getting more difficult to close, so those locking it had applied increasing force. Now a carpenter has rectified this, after identifying the cause. The frame had shifted ... possibly because of people banging the door!
Friday, 21 October 2016
Follow up and Follow Through!
Retirement is such a busy life, I'm not sure how I will cope with it. Much of this week has been a follow up of last week; very little new ground has been trodden. Starting my narrative where last week's ended, I enjoyed my time at the Liberal Democrats' Regional Conference. It began with coffee and croissants for new members so that we could be given a brief introduction to the Party. I could have done with a bit more historic/structural info, but I realise that's not everyone's cup of tea.
As I was getting my coffee I heard a familiar accent; I looked up and saw that the woman standing opposite me - who had just replied to her husband - bore a label 'South Norfolk'. A pleasant, if brief, exchange followed in which each of us discovered that the other was from Diss. As well as the inevitable minutiae of constitutional amendments, the day also included some interesting speakers, including the elected Mayor of Bedford, who outlined some of the achievements he has pioneered for his community whilst holding a post of which he personally disapproves!
At the conference, a collection was made to support the concluding phase of the by-election campaign in Witney, to which I also referred last week. The combination of this collection and news of the campaign still passing my eyes via Facebook, was beginning to create doubts in my mind: guilt that perhaps the declaration that my involvement was complete had been a bit premature. Then on Monday evening (while I was taking a night off from bellringing practice because of a slight stomach upset) came a phone call, thanking me for my efforts and asking if I would possibly be able to help on polling day. Having ascertained that, contrary to my intuitive expectations, there would be some clerical activity with which I could engage, I determined to go along yesterday after all.
It was a long day, partly because I'd left home earlier in the morning than last week, but then, after getting home, I'd felt unwilling to leave my computer screen and go to bed until well beyond the close of the polls, still reading the various posts about what was going on there. I won't bore you with the details (readily available elsewhere), save to say that our candidate came second with a 19.3% swing, the greatest for about twenty years, I believe.
Today's adventure was the recovery of my motorhome after securing a trouble-free MOT certificate and undergoing a habitation service. I began by repeating the double bus journey I'd rehearsed last week. As the sun began to shine, I enjoyed the ride, and my mind began to wander back through the years. Seated high above the road, and without the need to focus my attention on where I was going, I could admire little facets of the experience unique to that mode of travel, or that I would miss in the car: the lake that, until last week I didn't know existed and a charming thatched cottage by the edge of a now cleared cornfield.
The passengers, too, were interesting. One in particular I recalled from last week's exploratory trip. He was only going as far as the next town but, in this short journey, spoke courteously and profusely to each passenger in turn, using the same expressions over and over. I could imagine that, for some people, this journey might be the highlight of their week - an image based, I admit, on the recollection of aunts and uncles who used to visit my mother in my childhood, coming into town from the outlying villages on market day, the only day there was a bus service.
The two bus journeys took me to Bedford, where I walked comfortably from bus station to train station. Then came problems. Convinced that I'd missed the first alternative albeit only by a minute or two, I followed signs for the second. This train was bound for Brighton, whence I would alight after only two stops, to be collected by the engineer whose depot is about a mile away. I made my way over the footbridge to platform 3 as indicated and waited while other trains came and went. Then came an announcement that this service would today leave from platform 1.
I trudged back over the footbridge, and smartly onto the waiting train. The doors closed and safety announcements were made. There was no movement. A hesitant driver then announced that he had just been told that the Brighton train would now leave from platform 3 after all. We all trooped back, boarded the train that was now there and were soon speeding through the countryside. It all went just that bit too smoothly, though, as first one, then two stations were passed through, and then a third, too, before we stopped in Luton. I emerged somewhat bewildered and explained to a member of staff what was happening. He took this quite calmly and indicated that the train now approaching from the opposite direction would take me where I wanted to be. I was the first of quite a few with the same problem, it seemed.
Thereafter there were no further hold-ups, and I was back home by lunchtime and could begin to pick up the threads of 'normal' life after a day and a half 'out of the office'. One aspect of that normality, going back to my opening remarks about newly trodden ground, is the start of work on the crocheted chair cover. While I don't intent to bore my readers with a weekly report of progress, let me simply announce the completion of the first six of over 400 little squares.
As I was getting my coffee I heard a familiar accent; I looked up and saw that the woman standing opposite me - who had just replied to her husband - bore a label 'South Norfolk'. A pleasant, if brief, exchange followed in which each of us discovered that the other was from Diss. As well as the inevitable minutiae of constitutional amendments, the day also included some interesting speakers, including the elected Mayor of Bedford, who outlined some of the achievements he has pioneered for his community whilst holding a post of which he personally disapproves!
At the conference, a collection was made to support the concluding phase of the by-election campaign in Witney, to which I also referred last week. The combination of this collection and news of the campaign still passing my eyes via Facebook, was beginning to create doubts in my mind: guilt that perhaps the declaration that my involvement was complete had been a bit premature. Then on Monday evening (while I was taking a night off from bellringing practice because of a slight stomach upset) came a phone call, thanking me for my efforts and asking if I would possibly be able to help on polling day. Having ascertained that, contrary to my intuitive expectations, there would be some clerical activity with which I could engage, I determined to go along yesterday after all.
It was a long day, partly because I'd left home earlier in the morning than last week, but then, after getting home, I'd felt unwilling to leave my computer screen and go to bed until well beyond the close of the polls, still reading the various posts about what was going on there. I won't bore you with the details (readily available elsewhere), save to say that our candidate came second with a 19.3% swing, the greatest for about twenty years, I believe.
Today's adventure was the recovery of my motorhome after securing a trouble-free MOT certificate and undergoing a habitation service. I began by repeating the double bus journey I'd rehearsed last week. As the sun began to shine, I enjoyed the ride, and my mind began to wander back through the years. Seated high above the road, and without the need to focus my attention on where I was going, I could admire little facets of the experience unique to that mode of travel, or that I would miss in the car: the lake that, until last week I didn't know existed and a charming thatched cottage by the edge of a now cleared cornfield.
The passengers, too, were interesting. One in particular I recalled from last week's exploratory trip. He was only going as far as the next town but, in this short journey, spoke courteously and profusely to each passenger in turn, using the same expressions over and over. I could imagine that, for some people, this journey might be the highlight of their week - an image based, I admit, on the recollection of aunts and uncles who used to visit my mother in my childhood, coming into town from the outlying villages on market day, the only day there was a bus service.
The two bus journeys took me to Bedford, where I walked comfortably from bus station to train station. Then came problems. Convinced that I'd missed the first alternative albeit only by a minute or two, I followed signs for the second. This train was bound for Brighton, whence I would alight after only two stops, to be collected by the engineer whose depot is about a mile away. I made my way over the footbridge to platform 3 as indicated and waited while other trains came and went. Then came an announcement that this service would today leave from platform 1.
I trudged back over the footbridge, and smartly onto the waiting train. The doors closed and safety announcements were made. There was no movement. A hesitant driver then announced that he had just been told that the Brighton train would now leave from platform 3 after all. We all trooped back, boarded the train that was now there and were soon speeding through the countryside. It all went just that bit too smoothly, though, as first one, then two stations were passed through, and then a third, too, before we stopped in Luton. I emerged somewhat bewildered and explained to a member of staff what was happening. He took this quite calmly and indicated that the train now approaching from the opposite direction would take me where I wanted to be. I was the first of quite a few with the same problem, it seemed.
Thereafter there were no further hold-ups, and I was back home by lunchtime and could begin to pick up the threads of 'normal' life after a day and a half 'out of the office'. One aspect of that normality, going back to my opening remarks about newly trodden ground, is the start of work on the crocheted chair cover. While I don't intent to bore my readers with a weekly report of progress, let me simply announce the completion of the first six of over 400 little squares.
Friday, 14 October 2016
Looking Back and Looking Forward
Looking for some structure upon which to base my weekly review, I realise that this week has been a bit 'Janus-like', looking backwards - in some cases quite a way into the past - but also looking forward, too.
Whilst doing a bit of tidying up last weekend, I came across an old book of prayer notes dated 2014 that had been surplus to requirements, but which hadn't been re-cycled at the time. Before finally consigning this to the bin, I flicked through it and realised that it contained a Bible-reading list that could be fairly easily adapted for 2017. A few hours with a spreadsheet turned inspiration into achievement, neatly knocking something off the (as yet unwritten) New Year to-do list.
Another constructive idea last weekend features my handicraft skills, so little-used these days as to be virtually atrophied. My armchair is in need of being re-vitalised, and I had the idea of making it a cover. This was inspired by my cousin, who recently completed a blanket for her spare bed made of knitted squares (Well done, Jean!). Although I was taught to knit as an infant, my ability in that direction is severely limited, and for this purpose, I decided to re-kindle a skill I must have learned in early adulthood, although I can't for the life of me remember where or who from: that of crochet.
I remember making something - what actually it was now escapes me - when I was first living alone in the 1980s, comprising what are commonly known as 'granny squares' - one of the simplest crochet techniques - and I shall use this principle to make the chair cover. I sought advice from my daughter about materials and sources, but got far more than I bargained for! Not only did she remember the crochet of my past, she told me where it was that I had kept my wool and hooks, and also revealed that it was I who, in those days, had shown her how to crochet! The expression 'the biter bit' came to mind, and in a further exchange I likened this to my teaching her to drive. She had a story to tell me about that, too, of which I had no recollection. And they say that age improves memory?
One thing that's very much in the news at the moment is the question of Britain's proposed exit from the European Union ... the so-called 'Brexit'. Some great new revelation on the subject is in the news each day it seems; how it will all end - and when - is anybody's guess. Some definite and alarming effects are already being felt at the mere announcement of it, never mind when it actually happens. With the value of sterling falling, bizarrely, the investment markets have risen and, as I monitored the value of my pension fund, I began skimming off some of the biggest increases and re-investing them. It occurred to me this week to compare the performance of these new investments with the measure of how they would have performed if I'd left them where they were. It says something for my market-awareness - or lack of it - when I discovered that, in over £5,000 of such trading, I'm now actually worse off, although only by £33!
As mentioned last week, I spent this Tuesday once more in the Liberal Democrats' by-election campaign HQ in Witney, addressing envelopes. At the end of this, I felt that I had given sufficient support to the cause to express my solidarity and that, with everything else going on in my life, I wouldn't be going there any more ... although I shall still follow the campaign on social media. However, tomorrow I dip my toe a little further into the world of politics by attending the party's Regional Conference, which will take place in Peterborough, only an hour or so's drive from home. Given the discovery above of the effectiveness (!) of my prowess in a field with which I am - to a limited extent - familiar, I'm treating tomorrow's excursion most definitely as a time of learning, so don't go looking for me on the hustings any time soon ... if ever.
Today, I took advantage of a bright, if cool, morning to explore the bus services to Bedford in readiness for a similar journey in earnest some time next week. This will be to collect Mary the motorhome following her extended stay at the repair shop for the annual MOT test and at the same time the advisory habitation checks. Now I know the best way to get that far, all that will remain will be securing a seat on the last leg of the journey, by train. When I did this in the opposite direction the other week, I had the whole carriage to myself ... such luxury!
Whilst doing a bit of tidying up last weekend, I came across an old book of prayer notes dated 2014 that had been surplus to requirements, but which hadn't been re-cycled at the time. Before finally consigning this to the bin, I flicked through it and realised that it contained a Bible-reading list that could be fairly easily adapted for 2017. A few hours with a spreadsheet turned inspiration into achievement, neatly knocking something off the (as yet unwritten) New Year to-do list.
Another constructive idea last weekend features my handicraft skills, so little-used these days as to be virtually atrophied. My armchair is in need of being re-vitalised, and I had the idea of making it a cover. This was inspired by my cousin, who recently completed a blanket for her spare bed made of knitted squares (Well done, Jean!). Although I was taught to knit as an infant, my ability in that direction is severely limited, and for this purpose, I decided to re-kindle a skill I must have learned in early adulthood, although I can't for the life of me remember where or who from: that of crochet.
I remember making something - what actually it was now escapes me - when I was first living alone in the 1980s, comprising what are commonly known as 'granny squares' - one of the simplest crochet techniques - and I shall use this principle to make the chair cover. I sought advice from my daughter about materials and sources, but got far more than I bargained for! Not only did she remember the crochet of my past, she told me where it was that I had kept my wool and hooks, and also revealed that it was I who, in those days, had shown her how to crochet! The expression 'the biter bit' came to mind, and in a further exchange I likened this to my teaching her to drive. She had a story to tell me about that, too, of which I had no recollection. And they say that age improves memory?
One thing that's very much in the news at the moment is the question of Britain's proposed exit from the European Union ... the so-called 'Brexit'. Some great new revelation on the subject is in the news each day it seems; how it will all end - and when - is anybody's guess. Some definite and alarming effects are already being felt at the mere announcement of it, never mind when it actually happens. With the value of sterling falling, bizarrely, the investment markets have risen and, as I monitored the value of my pension fund, I began skimming off some of the biggest increases and re-investing them. It occurred to me this week to compare the performance of these new investments with the measure of how they would have performed if I'd left them where they were. It says something for my market-awareness - or lack of it - when I discovered that, in over £5,000 of such trading, I'm now actually worse off, although only by £33!
As mentioned last week, I spent this Tuesday once more in the Liberal Democrats' by-election campaign HQ in Witney, addressing envelopes. At the end of this, I felt that I had given sufficient support to the cause to express my solidarity and that, with everything else going on in my life, I wouldn't be going there any more ... although I shall still follow the campaign on social media. However, tomorrow I dip my toe a little further into the world of politics by attending the party's Regional Conference, which will take place in Peterborough, only an hour or so's drive from home. Given the discovery above of the effectiveness (!) of my prowess in a field with which I am - to a limited extent - familiar, I'm treating tomorrow's excursion most definitely as a time of learning, so don't go looking for me on the hustings any time soon ... if ever.
Today, I took advantage of a bright, if cool, morning to explore the bus services to Bedford in readiness for a similar journey in earnest some time next week. This will be to collect Mary the motorhome following her extended stay at the repair shop for the annual MOT test and at the same time the advisory habitation checks. Now I know the best way to get that far, all that will remain will be securing a seat on the last leg of the journey, by train. When I did this in the opposite direction the other week, I had the whole carriage to myself ... such luxury!
Friday, 7 October 2016
Falling off a Cliff!
The other day, I had an e-mail reminding me that my courier insurance had expired. It hadn't actually expired, of course, because I cancelled it last December when I retired and then secured the welcome refund of a fairly large unexpired premium. Some systems, however, are so efficient they cannot be 'killed'. Thinking to correct this apparent oversight, I followed the 'contact' link, and found myself logged into the driver web-pages where I had previously collected my weekly invoice. For interest's sake, I looked at the last couple, and found it exhausting just seeing how far I'd driven in those last two weeks. In my present, fairly mixed, range of journeys, I would have to go back into February to amass that many miles!
I remember describing occasions when a week or two of intense work had been followed by a spell of virtually nothing. Some things don't change. As I've written here before, it seems always to have been a pattern of my life that I have a 'project' on the go. If your life shapes up that way, then you will know the feeling of emptiness - even disorientation - that can follow the completion of such an exercise. This week began with not one, but two such projects; not lengthy and time-consuming as some are, but intense nonetheless.
It wasn't exactly a decision, but by last Thursday evening, I was convinced that this Monday and Tuesday I would make a pilgrimage to Witney in Oxfordshire, to help with the parliamentary by-election campaign. (I have chosen my words carefully; I didn't go to knock on doors or to deliver leaflets - such things are better done by others who have greater confidence on the one hand and better local knowledge and walking ability on the other - but to assist with clerical aspects of the campaign: the 'addressers and stuffers' brigade.) I realised last year that, instead of simply following the political world in the media as I have for many years, the time had come to play an active part. Having now joined a political party, I felt the need to express that membership in a practical way.
After making the necessary personal plans, and spending not a little time finding a night's accommodation somewhere nearby that didn't involve driving half-way home again, by Sunday evening I was all set and left directly after the usual church breakfast on Monday morning. I experienced a number of incidents - what I term 'blessings' - that told me I was doing the right thing and, by Tuesday evening when I made my way home (by way of a previously unknown KFC outlet!), I had collated, stuffed and sealed at least 1,400 official election communication envelopes, as well as addressing and filling a good many smaller items.
Though repetitive, the work was straightforward and afforded ample opportunity for conversation with, laughter at, and often simply listening to and learning from a variety of other people. Only two of them did I already know, and many had, like me, driven quite long distances to lend a hand. It was interesting to see the party leader, who visited the office later in the week, portrayed on facebook sitting at the very table where I had been working only days before. I enjoyed myself so much, and felt it to be so worthwhile, that I shall be returning - for a single day this time - next week.
Immediately following this adventure came another; totally different but equally novel and demanding. Having successfully had a couple of manitenance jobs done on my motorhome recently at a large motorhome depot some twenty miles or so from home, I had made arrangements for the annual MOT test to be carried out there, combining this with the recommended (although not mandatory) habitation checks. Of necessity, not least because of an intervening national exhibition, these require the vehicle to be kept for some while instead of - as previously - needing me to wait an hour with coffee and a book. So the need now was to arrange transport home, and this, too, had occupied part of last weekend.
In the event - and, I admit, to my surprise - the whole plan went like clockwork. The engineer gave me a lift from the depot to the nearby railway station, where I had to wait only a quarter of an hour in the sunshine for a train into Bedford. A pleasant walk across town to the bus station allowed me a similar wait for a bus to Hitchin, and a second bus took me to the centre of Letchworth, where I had a few errands to perform before walking home. In all the journey took a little over three hours and I'm now wondering how easy it will be to undertake in reverse in a couple of weeks' time.
With these two major exercises over, the last two days have been a bit 'flat' and I've spent some while wandering about the flat, tidying this and tweaking that. There are many things to which I could turn my hand, some that I know I ought to do, but none that are so desperate that they have to be done this week. As I look back once more to those work records, I'm very glad to be retired now, so that I can have 'adventures' as well as tackle odd jobs.
I remember describing occasions when a week or two of intense work had been followed by a spell of virtually nothing. Some things don't change. As I've written here before, it seems always to have been a pattern of my life that I have a 'project' on the go. If your life shapes up that way, then you will know the feeling of emptiness - even disorientation - that can follow the completion of such an exercise. This week began with not one, but two such projects; not lengthy and time-consuming as some are, but intense nonetheless.
It wasn't exactly a decision, but by last Thursday evening, I was convinced that this Monday and Tuesday I would make a pilgrimage to Witney in Oxfordshire, to help with the parliamentary by-election campaign. (I have chosen my words carefully; I didn't go to knock on doors or to deliver leaflets - such things are better done by others who have greater confidence on the one hand and better local knowledge and walking ability on the other - but to assist with clerical aspects of the campaign: the 'addressers and stuffers' brigade.) I realised last year that, instead of simply following the political world in the media as I have for many years, the time had come to play an active part. Having now joined a political party, I felt the need to express that membership in a practical way.
After making the necessary personal plans, and spending not a little time finding a night's accommodation somewhere nearby that didn't involve driving half-way home again, by Sunday evening I was all set and left directly after the usual church breakfast on Monday morning. I experienced a number of incidents - what I term 'blessings' - that told me I was doing the right thing and, by Tuesday evening when I made my way home (by way of a previously unknown KFC outlet!), I had collated, stuffed and sealed at least 1,400 official election communication envelopes, as well as addressing and filling a good many smaller items.
Though repetitive, the work was straightforward and afforded ample opportunity for conversation with, laughter at, and often simply listening to and learning from a variety of other people. Only two of them did I already know, and many had, like me, driven quite long distances to lend a hand. It was interesting to see the party leader, who visited the office later in the week, portrayed on facebook sitting at the very table where I had been working only days before. I enjoyed myself so much, and felt it to be so worthwhile, that I shall be returning - for a single day this time - next week.
Immediately following this adventure came another; totally different but equally novel and demanding. Having successfully had a couple of manitenance jobs done on my motorhome recently at a large motorhome depot some twenty miles or so from home, I had made arrangements for the annual MOT test to be carried out there, combining this with the recommended (although not mandatory) habitation checks. Of necessity, not least because of an intervening national exhibition, these require the vehicle to be kept for some while instead of - as previously - needing me to wait an hour with coffee and a book. So the need now was to arrange transport home, and this, too, had occupied part of last weekend.
In the event - and, I admit, to my surprise - the whole plan went like clockwork. The engineer gave me a lift from the depot to the nearby railway station, where I had to wait only a quarter of an hour in the sunshine for a train into Bedford. A pleasant walk across town to the bus station allowed me a similar wait for a bus to Hitchin, and a second bus took me to the centre of Letchworth, where I had a few errands to perform before walking home. In all the journey took a little over three hours and I'm now wondering how easy it will be to undertake in reverse in a couple of weeks' time.
With these two major exercises over, the last two days have been a bit 'flat' and I've spent some while wandering about the flat, tidying this and tweaking that. There are many things to which I could turn my hand, some that I know I ought to do, but none that are so desperate that they have to be done this week. As I look back once more to those work records, I'm very glad to be retired now, so that I can have 'adventures' as well as tackle odd jobs.
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