It's the question of the season, isn't it? 'Did you have a good Christmas?' What's 'good' in this context? Lots of food, lots of booze, wonderful presents (begs the same question, 'what's wonderful?'), and how the usual permutation of 'who's going to whose house on which day?' finally played out. There's so much there that I'm happy not to be bothered with.
Christmas began for me on Saturday afternoon with the Christingle services at church. Mainly geared to children, this event is something of a headache for the organisers because of the dangerous combination of large numbers and lighted candles in children's hands. All reasonable precautions were taken, however, and it all went off smoothly. We have two services, two hours apart; the first one is always the more popular, and it's the one I attended. I followed my usual practice of sitting a couple of seats in from the aisle so that, as the church fills up, there's room for a couple to sit on the end. In this case, the two seats were occupied by a single mum with two children.
Then came the traditional midnight Communion Service, at which I had been asked to read one of the Scripture extracts. To bed, then, for a few hours' sleep and out as usual on a Sunday morning to ring bells at the church on the other side of the town. After our own service on Christmas morning, I was able to greet a few friends before making my way home to relax over an unhurried meal. Determined not to get involved in anything that, in my active retirement, I call work, I flitted from one amusement to another, reading, listening to music, and generally enjoying some time with no pressure - even self-imposed - to get something done.
By Monday afternoon, even I was beginning to get cabin fever, so went out to watch a football match in the next town, where - with justification, I thought - the home team lost 2-0. By then it was time to prepare for my planned trip to my cousin the next day. Two more relaxing days followed, albeit in a different location. The highlight was a brief visit by a family who were formerly involved in my cousin's church, but have now moved to a different part of the country with their two young daughters.
I set off for home in the fog and frost of Thursday evening, but conditions improved on the way and, using a different route from the outward journey up the motorway, I was home in time to unpack and tidy everything away before bedtime. This was as well, for I was quickly back into the routine of 'normal life', with a day of prayer and fasting yesterday, the last Friday of both month and year. With the cold weather and darkness morning and evening, few turned up for the triple gatherings in church, and the fast-breaking meal in the evening was even more welcome than usual.
What was, in many ways, the high point of my week also came yesterday, when I made a planned visit to the doctor's surgery. After the not unusual banter with another waiting patient over the possibility of my being Santa out of uniform (owing to a white beard in need of a trim), it was my turn to enter the inner sanctum. Here I discussed a problem that has troubled me for the past year in particular (and longer, on and off, albeit less seriously), but with a different doctor this time, who put it all into context with my long-standing asthma, as both being part of the same overall condition. Not only did he prescribe a suitable medication, but also gave me a few helpful guidelines for the overall strategy of coping with the situation, which I found very helpful.
Here I am, then, on the brink of a new year. It's over a year now since I finally stopped work and, while at times it scarcely seems a week or two and I remember fondly particular places where I've delivered or collected, and some of the journeys I enjoyed, at others I recall only too clearly the tiredness at the end of some days, the need to stop for a roadside nap, and the delight of an early return with no 'can you just do this?', which would mean another two or three hours before getting home. With the motor-home on the market and, hopefully, soon to be sold, I shall soon be planning some exploratory trips of a different dimension, aimed at filling some long-standing ambitions, seeing friends, and making good use of a National Trust membership I was persuaded to take out in the autumn.
I wish a happy and peaceful 2017 to all my readers.
Saturday, 31 December 2016
Friday, 23 December 2016
The Busiest Week ...?
The other day I read that this is the busiest week of the year and, looking at many of my friends, I can understand that this is so. However, for me, the reverse seems to have been the case. I likened my situation to the sequence of invading and conquering a city. There is an initial build up of arms, men and equipment, there is the lumbering approach to the city's boundaries, accompanied by an airborne assault, and finally comes the moment when the walls are breached.
For weeks now, there has been a big build up to Christmas, beginning at the very end of November with the event that we call 'Carols and Chips'. It's like a parish Christmas party. There are games, craft work and a tree to decorate, while those who wish gather around the piano to sing carols, and it all ends with fish and chips. The next step is the distribution of the official Christmas cards, hoping by the use of volunteers to get one through every letterbox in the parish. I wrote about my experiences helping with this a couple of weeks ago. Alongside all this has been a mammoth effort to fit in many practices of our choir to lead the singing at the annual carol service: many, because not everyone can make them all.
During this feverish activity there was a week when school parties visited the church to explore a series of tableaux entitled 'the Christmas Journey', and last week some schools have taken over the church for their own carol services and other celebrations. The carol service for which we had been practising finally took place on Sunday evening, with other music groups taking part in addition to the choir in which I sing.
I woke up on Monday morning feeling quite depressed. To return to my opening metaphor, the climax of the operation had been reached, the city walls had been breached and the city taken. Now I was walking along the deserted streets, looking at the open spaces and wondering what to do once I'd actually arrived. In practical terms, so far as they affect me, there was no men's breakfast on Monday, there was no home-group meeting during the week, and I was aware of other regular activities - that don't involve me - also having come to a halt, and not happening now until after the new year has begun. Apart from the midweek service on Wednesday, I've had nothing to be involved with.
Fortunately, my depression soon lifted as I found things to get on with at home. I even spent a morning tidying and dusting my bedroom, and clearing out lots of old magazines that had been stashed away for no useful purpose.
There were other shafts of brightness too. One was a card that arrived from a bereaved friend to thank me for a phone call and some sympathetic words that I'd sent by way of follow-up. More brightness came from sharing the work situation of a friend who this week faced the preparation of an important report virtually from scratch. I learned yesterday that this had been completed and sent off by Monday evening, although the absence of any response was still causing concern. For my part, I could tell of the completion of a big slice of my family tree that I had been working on for several weeks, now allowing me to do some almost casual tidying of loose ends in other areas.
And I woke up this morning with a silly story buzzing around my mind which I was able to share with a small selection of friends who would understand certain aspects of it and enjoy my amusement.
While many of my friends have been preparing festive food or keeping the children amused - one said she wasn't taking her son to see Santa a second time for fear he might be perceptive enough to point out that he had already divulged his wants when asked a couple of weeks ago! - I am looking forward to the simplicity of an almost normal weekend, after which I shall make what has become a regular post-festive visit to my cousin, where a different normality will surround us all, and relaxation can really triumph!
Friday, 16 December 2016
A Funny Thing Happened ...
I promised last week - having nothing specific in mind - that this post would be more light-hearted. And so it has worked out. A number of 'funny' things have happened this week, some in one sense, some in another.
It all began, I suppose, in church last weekend when a lady told me about an accident that had befallen her husband a couple of weeks ago. He had stepped awkwardly off a kerb, twisted and fallen and suffered a badly sprained ankle. At least I think that's what happened. The end result was that a flat-pack desk that had been bought for his newly-decorated study was in the garage and not where it was intended to be. I offered to help if required and a couple of days later after an exchange of text messages, arrived on their doorstep.
The erection of the desk went well; the main problem was the carrying of the pack into the study and man-handling the parts as necessary to effect the assembly. After coffee and a chat, I was easily persuaded to assist in the removal of a sofa from the lounge into the study. His wife and I got it onto its end and were manoeuvring it through the first of the two doorways when it lurched and pushed my knuckle into the door. I thought no more of it until the exercise was completed and I checked my knuckle for damage.
The knuckle itself was intact but, blood was oozing fairly freely from a cut on the inside of the joint, where the impact had forced the corner of the sofa into it. First aid was readily applied to my middle finger amidst the subdued mirth that the church's health and safety officer (me) had been injured and there was no accident book on hand in which to record the fact. I just had to be careful the following morning, when questioned as to its recovery, how I gestured that it hadn't fallen off overnight!
One of the relaxing amusements in my solo life is a snooker app on my tablet. I just wish I were as clever with cue and balls on a real table as I am electronically. The other night I hooted with laughter at my achievement. Being caught in a snooker, I realised that, not only could I just see the edge of the object ball but if I were to hit with sufficient energy the small edge I was offered, it should go into a pocket. Taking careful aim, I let fly with as much force as the app would allow. Crack! The object ball moved only a short distance, albeit in the right direction, while in a flash my cue ball had struck a cushion and belted directly into the far pocket!
For months, now, I have slept badly because of what had been diagnosed as maxillary sinusitis. During the summer I had been told that it is due to an allergy to pollen and that, as a 'Garden City', my home town is prone to this problem. One doctor advised with a smile, "For a cure, you would have to move ... South America would be effective!" Thanks to the prescribed medication, I enjoyed a few weeks' relief but, for the last couple of weeks, things have been just as bad as before. This morning, for example, I was awake at 4.15, finished the overnight washing run, set the resulting wet clothes to dry and went back to bed where, as if at night, I read until about 6.0 before settling down for sleep once more. When I eventually got up and finished breakfast about 9.30, it was with the washing all dry and ironing queuing up for attention when my errands were complete.
I ask you ... pollen? ... in December? I've just made an appointment to ask my doctor for a second opinion!
This morning, I made my annual pre-Christmas pilgrimage to my local Waitrose. My records tell me I didn't go last year; I must have been too preoccupied with my new car and the final onset of full retirement. One of my credit cards gives me vouchers that I can spend there and, while I was working I used it for the servicing of the van and for the biggest item of expenditure, its insurance. Hence a pile of vouchers has built up ... all amazingly with no expiry date! When I first enjoyed this benefit, I was like a kid in a sweet-shop, piling up my basket with luxury items I wouldn't otherwise feel justified in buying. It was noticeable this year, though - whether through retirement (and hence a much reduced likelihood of replenishing the stock of vouchers) or as a result of price increases following the summer's Brexit vote - that my shopping was more focused on things I would buy anyway, like bread, tea, spreads and spaghetti.
The week's final smile came when I returned to town this afternoon for a forgotten essential. I found a cheque - valid, and in date - laying on the pavement in front of me. I looked around to see if anyone showed signs of having dropped it but saw no likely candidate. I decided that my choice lay between putting it back where I'd found it - hoping that the owner would discover the loss and return before fate, wind or ill fortune should overtake it - and taking it to a bank. The bank upon which it was drawn has a branch in the town, only a few hundred yards away, so I took it there.
The cashier heard my tale with some incredulity and at first said there was nothing that could be done. I pointed out that it was made out to an individual, who would probably like this sum in her account for Christmas. I indicated that the cheque was drawn on this bank, and made the suggestion that its discovery could at least be reported to the drawer, so she consulted the manager. After what seemed a long while, she returned to thank me for bringing it in and reported the manager's opinion, which coincided with my own. Whether the cheque went straight into the bin as soon as my back was turned, I know not. My reward was the smug satisfaction of having done 'the right thing'.
So many 'funny things' ... and not a Forum in sight!
It all began, I suppose, in church last weekend when a lady told me about an accident that had befallen her husband a couple of weeks ago. He had stepped awkwardly off a kerb, twisted and fallen and suffered a badly sprained ankle. At least I think that's what happened. The end result was that a flat-pack desk that had been bought for his newly-decorated study was in the garage and not where it was intended to be. I offered to help if required and a couple of days later after an exchange of text messages, arrived on their doorstep.
The erection of the desk went well; the main problem was the carrying of the pack into the study and man-handling the parts as necessary to effect the assembly. After coffee and a chat, I was easily persuaded to assist in the removal of a sofa from the lounge into the study. His wife and I got it onto its end and were manoeuvring it through the first of the two doorways when it lurched and pushed my knuckle into the door. I thought no more of it until the exercise was completed and I checked my knuckle for damage.
The knuckle itself was intact but, blood was oozing fairly freely from a cut on the inside of the joint, where the impact had forced the corner of the sofa into it. First aid was readily applied to my middle finger amidst the subdued mirth that the church's health and safety officer (me) had been injured and there was no accident book on hand in which to record the fact. I just had to be careful the following morning, when questioned as to its recovery, how I gestured that it hadn't fallen off overnight!
One of the relaxing amusements in my solo life is a snooker app on my tablet. I just wish I were as clever with cue and balls on a real table as I am electronically. The other night I hooted with laughter at my achievement. Being caught in a snooker, I realised that, not only could I just see the edge of the object ball but if I were to hit with sufficient energy the small edge I was offered, it should go into a pocket. Taking careful aim, I let fly with as much force as the app would allow. Crack! The object ball moved only a short distance, albeit in the right direction, while in a flash my cue ball had struck a cushion and belted directly into the far pocket!
For months, now, I have slept badly because of what had been diagnosed as maxillary sinusitis. During the summer I had been told that it is due to an allergy to pollen and that, as a 'Garden City', my home town is prone to this problem. One doctor advised with a smile, "For a cure, you would have to move ... South America would be effective!" Thanks to the prescribed medication, I enjoyed a few weeks' relief but, for the last couple of weeks, things have been just as bad as before. This morning, for example, I was awake at 4.15, finished the overnight washing run, set the resulting wet clothes to dry and went back to bed where, as if at night, I read until about 6.0 before settling down for sleep once more. When I eventually got up and finished breakfast about 9.30, it was with the washing all dry and ironing queuing up for attention when my errands were complete.
I ask you ... pollen? ... in December? I've just made an appointment to ask my doctor for a second opinion!
This morning, I made my annual pre-Christmas pilgrimage to my local Waitrose. My records tell me I didn't go last year; I must have been too preoccupied with my new car and the final onset of full retirement. One of my credit cards gives me vouchers that I can spend there and, while I was working I used it for the servicing of the van and for the biggest item of expenditure, its insurance. Hence a pile of vouchers has built up ... all amazingly with no expiry date! When I first enjoyed this benefit, I was like a kid in a sweet-shop, piling up my basket with luxury items I wouldn't otherwise feel justified in buying. It was noticeable this year, though - whether through retirement (and hence a much reduced likelihood of replenishing the stock of vouchers) or as a result of price increases following the summer's Brexit vote - that my shopping was more focused on things I would buy anyway, like bread, tea, spreads and spaghetti.
The week's final smile came when I returned to town this afternoon for a forgotten essential. I found a cheque - valid, and in date - laying on the pavement in front of me. I looked around to see if anyone showed signs of having dropped it but saw no likely candidate. I decided that my choice lay between putting it back where I'd found it - hoping that the owner would discover the loss and return before fate, wind or ill fortune should overtake it - and taking it to a bank. The bank upon which it was drawn has a branch in the town, only a few hundred yards away, so I took it there.
The cashier heard my tale with some incredulity and at first said there was nothing that could be done. I pointed out that it was made out to an individual, who would probably like this sum in her account for Christmas. I indicated that the cheque was drawn on this bank, and made the suggestion that its discovery could at least be reported to the drawer, so she consulted the manager. After what seemed a long while, she returned to thank me for bringing it in and reported the manager's opinion, which coincided with my own. Whether the cheque went straight into the bin as soon as my back was turned, I know not. My reward was the smug satisfaction of having done 'the right thing'.
So many 'funny things' ... and not a Forum in sight!
Friday, 9 December 2016
More Friends
I began last week's post with the comment, 'I've been reflecting today on friendship'. So today I have to add 'still'. I'm still thinking about friends and my relationship to them. In my solitary life, most of my personal communication is by text messages, e-mail or social media: facebook or occasionally twitter. For the phone actually to ring is something of a rarity. This week it's been unusually busy.
Early in the week I had a Christmas card from a lady who is no blood relation to me, who had written a message inside - as people often do - opposite the greeting. This one read, "I'm really struggling with this time of year. Tony passed away suddenly on Easter Monday." I glanced again to the opposite side; she had put just her own name, without the usual '... and Tony'. I've only ever communicated with her, never her husband, and only by post. It was her husband, though, who was my relative. We were at opposite ends of two large generations. His great-great-grandmother was my grandfather's eldest sister. It seemed quite impossible until I remembered that my father was the youngest son of a family of twelve, and my grandfather was the youngest son of a family of ten.
I was saddened by her news and began to write a letter to express this. The longer I struggled with my words, the worse it got. I broke off for a meal and, before returning to it, discovered that I had a note of her phone no. The letter was abandoned and I rang her; there was no reply, so I left a brief message and after an hour or so she rang back. Eight months have passed, but she was still clearly devastated by her loss. She was pleased that I'd called and, although we'd never spoken before, it was as if we were old friends, and we chatted for quite a while ... that is, she chatted and I listened, making appropriate noises when necessary.
A couple of nights later, completely out of the blue, the phone rang again. The caller this time was a lady whom I knew from my native Norfolk, a former bell-ringer, whose husband died around the same time as Tony, but in this case I had learned of his death almost immediately and had responded at the time. His life had been linked to my own in many different ways down the years, beginning when I was still at primary school, so I felt I knew him very well. Instead of the usual bland expressions of condolence, I had written a 650-word tribute to someone whom I described as a 'genial, determined and loyal man, a true gentleman.' I was astonished at the response this drew from his widow. She phoned me to express her immediate gratitude while I was on holiday in Scotland, and I was the one who choked up.
This week's call began with those same thanks, and repeated a pledge she had made then to use my words in a public tribute to her late husband. Being now in her mid-eighties, I forgive her for having forgotten that I had already given my approval to the idea, but she has yet to get round to it, and it's one of a number of things that have been 'shunted' down the calendar since his death. Nevertheless, she sounded very positive, and something of a contrast to the younger woman I had listened to earlier.
Like the two women I wrote about last week, these two are so different, and yet so alike. One I spoke to this week for the first time; the other I've known for nearly 50 years. One who has got to know me through the annual exchange of Christmas cards and by reading the newsletters enclosed; the other who has seen my progression from teenager via husband and father to divorced status, and followed news of my life's path into retirement.
I ask, as I did last week, how close does someone have to be in order truly to be a friend. I'm not sure this comparison sheds any more light on that than last week's rambling narrative did. One thing I have learned, however, with all four of these ladies, in different ways. It's important to be willing and available when there's a need, whether it's foreseen or not. I suppose the case of unforeseen need is actually more important, because that's when availability is less guaranteed.
No conclusions here, just as there were none last week, and I suspect there never will be. There is just a warm feeling to have friends, both to turn to in one's own need, and to be there for in theirs.
With only a week to go before Christmas, I promise that next week's post will not be so deep as these two.
Early in the week I had a Christmas card from a lady who is no blood relation to me, who had written a message inside - as people often do - opposite the greeting. This one read, "I'm really struggling with this time of year. Tony passed away suddenly on Easter Monday." I glanced again to the opposite side; she had put just her own name, without the usual '... and Tony'. I've only ever communicated with her, never her husband, and only by post. It was her husband, though, who was my relative. We were at opposite ends of two large generations. His great-great-grandmother was my grandfather's eldest sister. It seemed quite impossible until I remembered that my father was the youngest son of a family of twelve, and my grandfather was the youngest son of a family of ten.
I was saddened by her news and began to write a letter to express this. The longer I struggled with my words, the worse it got. I broke off for a meal and, before returning to it, discovered that I had a note of her phone no. The letter was abandoned and I rang her; there was no reply, so I left a brief message and after an hour or so she rang back. Eight months have passed, but she was still clearly devastated by her loss. She was pleased that I'd called and, although we'd never spoken before, it was as if we were old friends, and we chatted for quite a while ... that is, she chatted and I listened, making appropriate noises when necessary.
A couple of nights later, completely out of the blue, the phone rang again. The caller this time was a lady whom I knew from my native Norfolk, a former bell-ringer, whose husband died around the same time as Tony, but in this case I had learned of his death almost immediately and had responded at the time. His life had been linked to my own in many different ways down the years, beginning when I was still at primary school, so I felt I knew him very well. Instead of the usual bland expressions of condolence, I had written a 650-word tribute to someone whom I described as a 'genial, determined and loyal man, a true gentleman.' I was astonished at the response this drew from his widow. She phoned me to express her immediate gratitude while I was on holiday in Scotland, and I was the one who choked up.
This week's call began with those same thanks, and repeated a pledge she had made then to use my words in a public tribute to her late husband. Being now in her mid-eighties, I forgive her for having forgotten that I had already given my approval to the idea, but she has yet to get round to it, and it's one of a number of things that have been 'shunted' down the calendar since his death. Nevertheless, she sounded very positive, and something of a contrast to the younger woman I had listened to earlier.
Like the two women I wrote about last week, these two are so different, and yet so alike. One I spoke to this week for the first time; the other I've known for nearly 50 years. One who has got to know me through the annual exchange of Christmas cards and by reading the newsletters enclosed; the other who has seen my progression from teenager via husband and father to divorced status, and followed news of my life's path into retirement.
I ask, as I did last week, how close does someone have to be in order truly to be a friend. I'm not sure this comparison sheds any more light on that than last week's rambling narrative did. One thing I have learned, however, with all four of these ladies, in different ways. It's important to be willing and available when there's a need, whether it's foreseen or not. I suppose the case of unforeseen need is actually more important, because that's when availability is less guaranteed.
No conclusions here, just as there were none last week, and I suspect there never will be. There is just a warm feeling to have friends, both to turn to in one's own need, and to be there for in theirs.
With only a week to go before Christmas, I promise that next week's post will not be so deep as these two.
Friday, 2 December 2016
Hey, You! Get off ...
If you're a Rolling Stones fan, the significance of my title will become a little less obscure as you read on. I've been reflecting today on friendship.
I've had encounters this week with two particular friends. One was on line, the other face to face. I have no wish to embarrass either, so 'no names, no pack drill'. The first encounter was spread over a number of days, with messages flowing to and fro via social media. The topic is a common one at this time of year: 'what are you doing for Christmas?' It was quickly established that, if things stayed as they were at that moment, each of us would be 'home alone'. The exchanges then became more nuanced than forthright in both directions and it was only eventually that a proposition was made that we should meet for some hours during Christmas day. This was turned down, and apologies were exchanged each for misleading the other. It was all rather messy in a distant sort of way.
The second encounter took place in the street. This week, our church has seen the annual burst of community activity to acquaint some 4,000 parishioners with details of our Christmas services by means of a special church Christmas card delivered through every door. As one of the active newly-retired, I have enjoyed taking part in the campaign, since it gave me a good deal of exercise with more motive than just the exercise itself. I readily admit, however, that - in contrast to my usual walking habits - these walks were topped and tailed by a car journey from my home in the neighbouring parish.
I had just finished my deliveries in one road and was almost at the point of getting back into the car, when a familiar figure rounded the corner. I walked over to exchange a greeting, and was met by the question, "What are you doing on my patch?" By way of response I gestured to the remaining cards in my hand. In some consternation, the ensuing conversation revealed that we had each delivered cards, within the space of only a few hours, to the same 31 houses. Having determined how this had come about, through no fault of either of us, we parted company. As I walked to my car I heard a shout of mock anger from across the road, "Now, get off my turf!"
That final word has been rolling around my mind. It's one I've only heard before in connection with horse racing ... with one exception. A few weeks ago, I spent some time helping in the Liberal Democrat campaign office at the Witney by-election, where I found that the software with which they were monitoring the canvassing uses this word 'turf' to specify a particular street or area where printed materials are to be delivered. My friend had engaged to deliver cards to all the roads on her estate, and so was using the word in exactly the same context.
Yesterday, another by-election took place in Richmond Park, Surrey. Up to this point, I have felt much more distant from this campaign than the one at Witney. I quickly decided that, although this constituency is closer to my home than Witney, the fact of having far more to do on the home front as Christmas approaches, together with the unwelcome thought of the journey there - whether through or round London - made helping there a non-starter. It wasn't until I saw a picture on line this afternoon of yesterday's winning candidate surrounded by some of her campaign team, and recognised two faces as having been at Witney, that I had considered any of the folks I'd met there as 'friends' ... and I suppose, on the strength of only twenty or thirty hours, that term is still a little closer than would be accurate. Nevertheless, it was warming to see those familiar faces once more.
But, continuing my line of thought, I ask myself how close someone has to be in order truly to be a friend. In the case of those two encounters I described at the start, I've known the first lady some fourteen years and the other little more than one. One I haven't seen for some years now, and our recent contact has been by the annual exchange of Christmas cards and on line, while the other I probably see two or three times a month, and we exchange a few words on about half of those occasions. Over all, I suppose my level of intimacy is the same with both. And yet, I fear, the need for that exchange of apologies has slightly damaged one friendship, while the apparently harsh dismissal that ended the other encounter has, if anything, deepened that one.
Many years ago, I met the new Rector of my village church for the first time outside the church door on a weekday morning. As he struggled with his key in the lock, I chided the clumsiness of his unfamiliarity, got out my keys and let us in. In the following years we became firm friends, and I have often quoted that incident and suggested a definition of a friend as 'someone you can offend with a smile without causing offence'. I'd say that's still true today ... what do you think?
I've had encounters this week with two particular friends. One was on line, the other face to face. I have no wish to embarrass either, so 'no names, no pack drill'. The first encounter was spread over a number of days, with messages flowing to and fro via social media. The topic is a common one at this time of year: 'what are you doing for Christmas?' It was quickly established that, if things stayed as they were at that moment, each of us would be 'home alone'. The exchanges then became more nuanced than forthright in both directions and it was only eventually that a proposition was made that we should meet for some hours during Christmas day. This was turned down, and apologies were exchanged each for misleading the other. It was all rather messy in a distant sort of way.
The second encounter took place in the street. This week, our church has seen the annual burst of community activity to acquaint some 4,000 parishioners with details of our Christmas services by means of a special church Christmas card delivered through every door. As one of the active newly-retired, I have enjoyed taking part in the campaign, since it gave me a good deal of exercise with more motive than just the exercise itself. I readily admit, however, that - in contrast to my usual walking habits - these walks were topped and tailed by a car journey from my home in the neighbouring parish.
I had just finished my deliveries in one road and was almost at the point of getting back into the car, when a familiar figure rounded the corner. I walked over to exchange a greeting, and was met by the question, "What are you doing on my patch?" By way of response I gestured to the remaining cards in my hand. In some consternation, the ensuing conversation revealed that we had each delivered cards, within the space of only a few hours, to the same 31 houses. Having determined how this had come about, through no fault of either of us, we parted company. As I walked to my car I heard a shout of mock anger from across the road, "Now, get off my turf!"
That final word has been rolling around my mind. It's one I've only heard before in connection with horse racing ... with one exception. A few weeks ago, I spent some time helping in the Liberal Democrat campaign office at the Witney by-election, where I found that the software with which they were monitoring the canvassing uses this word 'turf' to specify a particular street or area where printed materials are to be delivered. My friend had engaged to deliver cards to all the roads on her estate, and so was using the word in exactly the same context.
Yesterday, another by-election took place in Richmond Park, Surrey. Up to this point, I have felt much more distant from this campaign than the one at Witney. I quickly decided that, although this constituency is closer to my home than Witney, the fact of having far more to do on the home front as Christmas approaches, together with the unwelcome thought of the journey there - whether through or round London - made helping there a non-starter. It wasn't until I saw a picture on line this afternoon of yesterday's winning candidate surrounded by some of her campaign team, and recognised two faces as having been at Witney, that I had considered any of the folks I'd met there as 'friends' ... and I suppose, on the strength of only twenty or thirty hours, that term is still a little closer than would be accurate. Nevertheless, it was warming to see those familiar faces once more.
But, continuing my line of thought, I ask myself how close someone has to be in order truly to be a friend. In the case of those two encounters I described at the start, I've known the first lady some fourteen years and the other little more than one. One I haven't seen for some years now, and our recent contact has been by the annual exchange of Christmas cards and on line, while the other I probably see two or three times a month, and we exchange a few words on about half of those occasions. Over all, I suppose my level of intimacy is the same with both. And yet, I fear, the need for that exchange of apologies has slightly damaged one friendship, while the apparently harsh dismissal that ended the other encounter has, if anything, deepened that one.
Many years ago, I met the new Rector of my village church for the first time outside the church door on a weekday morning. As he struggled with his key in the lock, I chided the clumsiness of his unfamiliarity, got out my keys and let us in. In the following years we became firm friends, and I have often quoted that incident and suggested a definition of a friend as 'someone you can offend with a smile without causing offence'. I'd say that's still true today ... what do you think?
Friday, 25 November 2016
I Must Get Out More!
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!
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, 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.
Saturday, 1 October 2016
The Magnificant Seven*
I thought I'd tell you about the people with whom I spent half an hour yesterday evening.
There was a wife and mother whose family is scattered far and wide. At present her husband is teaching several thousand miles away. She delighted in having had the day to think how to respond to a lovely letter from a colleague's six-year-old granddaughter.
One lady has had a difficult time for many years. She suffers from cancer, which appears to be in remission just now, but she's still in constant pain and can't get around without either a motorised wheelchair or her son driving her. Depression makes her reactions and behaviour a little difficult sometimes, although at others it's clear she has a wonderful sense of humour
Another is a single seventy-year-old. She still leads a very active life, coaching at the local tennis club and visiting friends and family near and far. She shared her joy at making a couple of new friends during the week.
A young ordinand was thrilled at having completed the first assignment of her course at the 'vicar-factory' ... and had found time to get a birthday present for her daughter.
A man who works at a nearby pharmaceutical plant had ordered a takeaway meal which he would collect on his way home. He texted me later to apologise for not saying much to me, and asked of my welfare, commenting that I had seemed quiet.
Yes, I was quiet. I've not been sleeping well lately and my body had told me to spend part of my afternoon in bed, having realised that that would be more beneficial than dozing in the armchair. I returned refreshed, and able to turn my attention to plans and preparations for two little adventures that are coming up in the next week. My thoughts were still focussed on these affairs.
I decided that, rather than simply follow a by-election campaign on the computer, it would bring some sense of achievement if I were to go and lend a hand at their local headquarters, even for only a day. If I can find a bed for the night at a price I can afford, then I'll stay for two days.
Later in the week, I shall take the motorhome for its MOT. At the same time I can get it tested for any deficiencies in the habitation aspects, such as bad ventilation of the gas heating ... a not insignificant danger to avoid! Unfortunately, this means being without the vehicle for a short period, so I'm leaving her for a 'holiday', and will collect her when the work is done, which may be some time later, owing to an exhibition which the engineer is attending. The challenge is, therefore, how do I get home afterwards?
Although I had the offer from a friend of a lift, the times when he can do this don't readily coincide with when the establishment is open, and when I'm not otherwise engaged myself. After some investigation (and a small amount of swearing at my computer screen), I've discovered a sequence of train and three buses by which I can be home by mid-afternoon. Assuming it works, the next challenge will be whether or not this process can be reverse-engineered in order to recover the motorhome later in the month. For now, I'm crossing one bridge at a time!
(*- for maths check, see Matt. 18:20)
There was a wife and mother whose family is scattered far and wide. At present her husband is teaching several thousand miles away. She delighted in having had the day to think how to respond to a lovely letter from a colleague's six-year-old granddaughter.
One lady has had a difficult time for many years. She suffers from cancer, which appears to be in remission just now, but she's still in constant pain and can't get around without either a motorised wheelchair or her son driving her. Depression makes her reactions and behaviour a little difficult sometimes, although at others it's clear she has a wonderful sense of humour
Another is a single seventy-year-old. She still leads a very active life, coaching at the local tennis club and visiting friends and family near and far. She shared her joy at making a couple of new friends during the week.
A young ordinand was thrilled at having completed the first assignment of her course at the 'vicar-factory' ... and had found time to get a birthday present for her daughter.
A man who works at a nearby pharmaceutical plant had ordered a takeaway meal which he would collect on his way home. He texted me later to apologise for not saying much to me, and asked of my welfare, commenting that I had seemed quiet.
Yes, I was quiet. I've not been sleeping well lately and my body had told me to spend part of my afternoon in bed, having realised that that would be more beneficial than dozing in the armchair. I returned refreshed, and able to turn my attention to plans and preparations for two little adventures that are coming up in the next week. My thoughts were still focussed on these affairs.
I decided that, rather than simply follow a by-election campaign on the computer, it would bring some sense of achievement if I were to go and lend a hand at their local headquarters, even for only a day. If I can find a bed for the night at a price I can afford, then I'll stay for two days.
Later in the week, I shall take the motorhome for its MOT. At the same time I can get it tested for any deficiencies in the habitation aspects, such as bad ventilation of the gas heating ... a not insignificant danger to avoid! Unfortunately, this means being without the vehicle for a short period, so I'm leaving her for a 'holiday', and will collect her when the work is done, which may be some time later, owing to an exhibition which the engineer is attending. The challenge is, therefore, how do I get home afterwards?
Although I had the offer from a friend of a lift, the times when he can do this don't readily coincide with when the establishment is open, and when I'm not otherwise engaged myself. After some investigation (and a small amount of swearing at my computer screen), I've discovered a sequence of train and three buses by which I can be home by mid-afternoon. Assuming it works, the next challenge will be whether or not this process can be reverse-engineered in order to recover the motorhome later in the month. For now, I'm crossing one bridge at a time!
(*- for maths check, see Matt. 18:20)
Saturday, 24 September 2016
Lost in the Branches
I can still hear my mother's voice ringing in my pre-teenage ears, "His wife was a Hxxxx; there was a big family of them, and a right rum lot they were an' all." One of the penalties of growing up in a small town, where my parents had lived all of their adult lives ... and more, was that entrenched views of the morality of one's neighbours were inevitably passed down. These assessments were received by young ears and minds as truth, rather than mere opinion.
I was reminded of this the other day when I visited my homeland for a school reunion. One of those present was a man whose concerns and interests seemed to differ little from my own. He was a child of one of those large family groups about whom my mother had a declared 'opinion'. Although I have long since been of the persuasion to form my own opinions about people ... and to change them if I find I was wrong, I still recall, after nearly sixty years, what I heard in childhood.
One usually finds that a place called West something has a matching East something not far away; the same applies to North and South. I recall my amazement when I discovered the distance between North Elmham and South Elmham ... they are about 50 miles apart, one in Norfolk, the other in Suffolk. That surprise was nothing to what I felt when I realised how far West Derby is from the city of Derby. I've never found an East Derby; in fact, I haven't even looked for it. This week, I've learned quite a bit about West Derby. Much of the time I have struggled with a particularly challenging cluster of people in connection with the extended family of my great-uncle George, oft-mentioned here in recent weeks. This week's study was into the family of one of his military sons-in-law.
The registration district of West Derby lies beside, and appears to swamp, the city of Liverpool and, although someone might well have declared their place of birth as 'Liverpool', I found it necessary in my searches always to include West Derby as well. Its area includes Everton, and many other well-known suburbs. It was interesting to look at one short Everton street on Google Maps. Using the street view, I was greeted by the Liverpool - there, I've done it myself! - that I remember from my delivery days, with the doors and windows of most of the terraced houses secured with steel plates, and signs of life at only two or three of the twenty-odd dwellings. Switching to the 'earth' view, captured at a later date, I could see that the whole area has been flattened ready for re-development. Those houses on Venice, Viceroy, Vanguard and Vienna Streets are no more.
My mother's outspoken views (probably conditioned by her own upbringing and a small but firm family background) came back to me again, as I discovered that the father of my soldier had been married either two or three times. With the common name of James Davies, it was hard to be certain which entries in the records referred to the right person. When it came to marriages, the same sort of problems arose. Were the first two wives were one and the same: could Liza A in one census have been Agnes in the next?
I eventually decided that the marriage I'd found for a James Davies and Agnes Elizabeth Caven wasn't the right one after all, and that there were two others more likely to be the true couples, one to Eliza Ann Lindop, and the other to Agnes Conlan. There was also the need to fit in appropriate deaths, and deaths of former husbands, of course, and in the case of the third wife, Sarah Guy - formerly married to another James - which Sarah she had been before that marriage. Was she Watson or Wright? And to further confuse an already complicated muddle, there were step children - sometimes not called step- - to be taken into account as well.
By Wednesday evening, I decided to call a halt and spend the next day on other things. After returning home yesterday in a motorhome with a newly-repaired fridge - some relief, after being confronted by the possibility of an expensive replacement - I sat down with a clean sheet of paper to attack the problem once more. Another couple of hours or more left me fairly certain of the overall picture, with one unfortunate snag. There was one boy - a brother of my soldier - whose mother had died some fifteen months before his birth, and his father's next marriage wasn't until about eight years afterwards. It was at this point that realism took over. Many of these complexities were so distant from the family that I call mine - children of former husbands of later wives, and so on ...!
To apply an agricultural metaphor, the axe has been wielded, and the fence re-erected nearer home. I'm now left with a much smaller picture, but one which - however incomplete - I know to be relevant and, to the best of my knowledge, true.
I was reminded of this the other day when I visited my homeland for a school reunion. One of those present was a man whose concerns and interests seemed to differ little from my own. He was a child of one of those large family groups about whom my mother had a declared 'opinion'. Although I have long since been of the persuasion to form my own opinions about people ... and to change them if I find I was wrong, I still recall, after nearly sixty years, what I heard in childhood.
One usually finds that a place called West something has a matching East something not far away; the same applies to North and South. I recall my amazement when I discovered the distance between North Elmham and South Elmham ... they are about 50 miles apart, one in Norfolk, the other in Suffolk. That surprise was nothing to what I felt when I realised how far West Derby is from the city of Derby. I've never found an East Derby; in fact, I haven't even looked for it. This week, I've learned quite a bit about West Derby. Much of the time I have struggled with a particularly challenging cluster of people in connection with the extended family of my great-uncle George, oft-mentioned here in recent weeks. This week's study was into the family of one of his military sons-in-law.
The registration district of West Derby lies beside, and appears to swamp, the city of Liverpool and, although someone might well have declared their place of birth as 'Liverpool', I found it necessary in my searches always to include West Derby as well. Its area includes Everton, and many other well-known suburbs. It was interesting to look at one short Everton street on Google Maps. Using the street view, I was greeted by the Liverpool - there, I've done it myself! - that I remember from my delivery days, with the doors and windows of most of the terraced houses secured with steel plates, and signs of life at only two or three of the twenty-odd dwellings. Switching to the 'earth' view, captured at a later date, I could see that the whole area has been flattened ready for re-development. Those houses on Venice, Viceroy, Vanguard and Vienna Streets are no more.
My mother's outspoken views (probably conditioned by her own upbringing and a small but firm family background) came back to me again, as I discovered that the father of my soldier had been married either two or three times. With the common name of James Davies, it was hard to be certain which entries in the records referred to the right person. When it came to marriages, the same sort of problems arose. Were the first two wives were one and the same: could Liza A in one census have been Agnes in the next?
I eventually decided that the marriage I'd found for a James Davies and Agnes Elizabeth Caven wasn't the right one after all, and that there were two others more likely to be the true couples, one to Eliza Ann Lindop, and the other to Agnes Conlan. There was also the need to fit in appropriate deaths, and deaths of former husbands, of course, and in the case of the third wife, Sarah Guy - formerly married to another James - which Sarah she had been before that marriage. Was she Watson or Wright? And to further confuse an already complicated muddle, there were step children - sometimes not called step- - to be taken into account as well.
By Wednesday evening, I decided to call a halt and spend the next day on other things. After returning home yesterday in a motorhome with a newly-repaired fridge - some relief, after being confronted by the possibility of an expensive replacement - I sat down with a clean sheet of paper to attack the problem once more. Another couple of hours or more left me fairly certain of the overall picture, with one unfortunate snag. There was one boy - a brother of my soldier - whose mother had died some fifteen months before his birth, and his father's next marriage wasn't until about eight years afterwards. It was at this point that realism took over. Many of these complexities were so distant from the family that I call mine - children of former husbands of later wives, and so on ...!
To apply an agricultural metaphor, the axe has been wielded, and the fence re-erected nearer home. I'm now left with a much smaller picture, but one which - however incomplete - I know to be relevant and, to the best of my knowledge, true.
Friday, 16 September 2016
Long Ago and Far Away
Within the short time that has elapsed since I proudly announced, three weeks ago, the arrival from Dublin of a brightly coloured Irish marriage certificate, the world of genealogical research has taken a new and exciting turn. On Wednesday of last week, 7th September, Ireland's historic civil registers of births, marriages and deaths became available on line. The information that I paid €21 for only weeks ago is now available to print out at home free. And for the majority of these events an image of not just the entry sought, but the whole page on which it appears (that's 10 births or deaths or 4 marriages) can be downloaded ... also free. Scotland has offered this service to genealogists for many years, but in England and Wales the only option is the standard 'official certified copy' of a single register entry.
Imagine my great delight then when, earlier this week (after allowing the initial worldwide enthusiasm to die down), I took to the screen and - rather like a child let loose in a sweetshop - printed out register entries for every event I could remember (and one or two more that I discovered on the way). If I'd obtained this volume of detailed information about English relatives, the heap of paper I printed in about two hours the other evening would have cost me nearly £300!
Included in this collection were two particular marriage certificate images for daughters of my great-uncle. One of them I knew about already, but didn't have the full information. It was for a girl variously reported as Rosanne, Rose Anne or Roseana, who married a soldier in Limerick in 1904. At some point in the following years her husband was posted to England, and their first son was born near London. The family next surfaced at Kinsale near Cork, where the soldier died in the military hospital in September, 1909. Rose Anne was then pregnant with their second child, who was born in January, but died of bronchitis at the age of only eight weeks.
The other certificate was a much happier one. It was for her youngest sister, born in 1901, about whose marriage status I was quite convinced I would never learn until I should be able to visit the record office in Belfast. But there it was in black and white, Rebecca Evans married in Belfast on 17th February 1921. The records for the North available from this source end some time in 1921, when the six counties were separated following the Anglo-Irish Treaty, so I consider this find doubly lucky. It was perhaps a sign of the new modern age that, instead of a labourer or soldier, her husband was described as a 'cinema operator'.
So, for a Norfolk boy already thinking of his 'homeland' as Suffolk (my parents 'migrated' north in 1909 and 1926 respectively), this whole week has had a strangely Irish flavour as, first of all, I entered all these quasi-certificates into my records as 'valued documents', and then added all those extra details to that branch of my family tree. Two particular aspects of my great-uncle's story emerge. He went to Ireland in the first place as a soldier, having enlisted in the 27th Regiment of Foot at Norwich in 1871. He married a local girl and settled in Enniskillen, where they raised a family of seven daughters and four sons. The army had a continuing influence on the family. The 27th Regiment was one of the forerunners of the Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers; three of his sons and one son-in-law served with the Fusiliers, while four more sons-in-law served in other regiments.
It was interesting also, to note the various ways he described his 'rank or profession' at the births or marriages of his children. For the first five years, he was a 'Pensioner' or 'Military Pensioner'; then he appears for some years simply as a labourer. After this came a long period when he worked for the railway company and described himself variously as 'Porter', 'Railway Porter', 'Luggage Porter', or 'Railway Luggage Porter'. There followed more years as a labourer before in 1911 and 1914 he was a fisherman. The entry I liked best came on the marriage of his youngest daughter, where he proudly announced himself as 'Porter G.N.R.' (i.e. the Great Northern Railway, the importance of which was as the only railway company to cross the border with the Free State).
As I pondered this good fortune, memories of my father came to mind. Last week saw the thirtieth anniversary of his death and I realised - not for the first time - how little I know of his younger life. I have one photo of him in his schooldays, and one from teenage with his younger sister, and the next pictures show virtually the man I remember from my own early years, when he was courting my mother in his early 40s. In the light of these latest discoveries, I wonder just how much - if anything at all - he knew of his Irish cousins. Some of them were already married and living in England with their families by the time dad was going to school. When dad was meeting German prisoners-of-war in the farmyard (as I mentioned here a few weeks ago), two of his cousins had already died in the war.
Included in this collection were two particular marriage certificate images for daughters of my great-uncle. One of them I knew about already, but didn't have the full information. It was for a girl variously reported as Rosanne, Rose Anne or Roseana, who married a soldier in Limerick in 1904. At some point in the following years her husband was posted to England, and their first son was born near London. The family next surfaced at Kinsale near Cork, where the soldier died in the military hospital in September, 1909. Rose Anne was then pregnant with their second child, who was born in January, but died of bronchitis at the age of only eight weeks.
The other certificate was a much happier one. It was for her youngest sister, born in 1901, about whose marriage status I was quite convinced I would never learn until I should be able to visit the record office in Belfast. But there it was in black and white, Rebecca Evans married in Belfast on 17th February 1921. The records for the North available from this source end some time in 1921, when the six counties were separated following the Anglo-Irish Treaty, so I consider this find doubly lucky. It was perhaps a sign of the new modern age that, instead of a labourer or soldier, her husband was described as a 'cinema operator'.
So, for a Norfolk boy already thinking of his 'homeland' as Suffolk (my parents 'migrated' north in 1909 and 1926 respectively), this whole week has had a strangely Irish flavour as, first of all, I entered all these quasi-certificates into my records as 'valued documents', and then added all those extra details to that branch of my family tree. Two particular aspects of my great-uncle's story emerge. He went to Ireland in the first place as a soldier, having enlisted in the 27th Regiment of Foot at Norwich in 1871. He married a local girl and settled in Enniskillen, where they raised a family of seven daughters and four sons. The army had a continuing influence on the family. The 27th Regiment was one of the forerunners of the Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers; three of his sons and one son-in-law served with the Fusiliers, while four more sons-in-law served in other regiments.
It was interesting also, to note the various ways he described his 'rank or profession' at the births or marriages of his children. For the first five years, he was a 'Pensioner' or 'Military Pensioner'; then he appears for some years simply as a labourer. After this came a long period when he worked for the railway company and described himself variously as 'Porter', 'Railway Porter', 'Luggage Porter', or 'Railway Luggage Porter'. There followed more years as a labourer before in 1911 and 1914 he was a fisherman. The entry I liked best came on the marriage of his youngest daughter, where he proudly announced himself as 'Porter G.N.R.' (i.e. the Great Northern Railway, the importance of which was as the only railway company to cross the border with the Free State).
As I pondered this good fortune, memories of my father came to mind. Last week saw the thirtieth anniversary of his death and I realised - not for the first time - how little I know of his younger life. I have one photo of him in his schooldays, and one from teenage with his younger sister, and the next pictures show virtually the man I remember from my own early years, when he was courting my mother in his early 40s. In the light of these latest discoveries, I wonder just how much - if anything at all - he knew of his Irish cousins. Some of them were already married and living in England with their families by the time dad was going to school. When dad was meeting German prisoners-of-war in the farmyard (as I mentioned here a few weeks ago), two of his cousins had already died in the war.
Saturday, 10 September 2016
'Camel-Route-to-Iraq' Day
In case you're too young to understand my title, it comes from a Frank Sinatra song of the 1950s, in which 'Iraq' rhymes with the line, 'it's oh, so nice to wander back'. I'd booked four nights on a campsite near Boroughbridge, but when I began to plan what to do with my time there, I realised the truth that underlies the travel brochures' adverts for 'a 5-day break in ...'. What it really boils down to is a day to get there, three days' sightseeing and a day to come home. Yesterday was exhausting. I wanted to get my money's-worth and, by Thursday night, I was thinking that four nights deserved four days, too.
Having arrived on Monday at about 2.30, and got myself set up, I rejoiced that the new awning and windbreak could be set up without some of the feared problems of only having two hands (to do tasks several feet apart!), and set about relaxing and getting my on-site bearings. Sightseeing began on Tuesday after a leisurely breakfast. The 1A bus service from Roecliffe to Harrogate, which stops so conveniently outside the gate, unfortunately runs every two hours, with only four buses each way per day, so the first bus into town wasn't until 10.35. Study of the map revealed, however, that there was a stop just beyone Knaresborough perfectly situated to visit Old Mother Shipton's Cave. By 11.40, I'd paid my entrance fee and taken my first pictures of the 'scary exhibits'.
A typical mixture of myth and the supernatural, this tourist attraction, one of the oldest in the country, focuses on the life of a woman who, according to legend, was born in a cave in 1488 and grew up there with her mother. She was disfigured and shunned by the local population and later made all kinds of prophecies which appear to have been fulfilled down the years.
The next day, with temperatures soaring into the high 20s C., I walked early into Boroughbridge and thoroughly enjoyed wandering around, noting the history and taking pictures. Sited just off the motorway, the town's main street was once the main road from London to Edinburgh.
Being the half-way point between the two capitals, it was a favourite stopping point on that journey, and many of the coaching inns can still be seen, although some are now put to an alternative use. After lunch taken in the sunshine outside a café, I got the bus back to the campsite and spent the rest of the day sunbathing.
I'd planned another excursion on Thursday, and began the same way, walking into the town. I then joined a long queue for a 22 bus to Ripon. What a contrast between the small town I'd left and the 'city of the dales'. I admit my opinion was coloured by the drizzle that greeted me there; without the freedom to take out my leaflets and maps to see where exactly to go, I wandered around some of the nearby streets, and around the open air market before returning to the bus station to go back to base, where I could be constructive with my time. The afternoon was dry and quite pleasant but there was a noticeably strong wind at times, so I decided to take down the awning in readiness for my departure the next morning.
Yesterday, I combined the 'day to get home' with 'day 4 of the programme', making good use of the previous afternoon's preparations. I set off at 10.0, with a view to seeing something of the dales scenery before heading south. My planned destination was Pateley Bridge, but on the way found myself passing the ruins of the Cistercian Fountains Abbey.
I first went there some twenty-five years ago when taking part in a 'Medieval Monks & Monasteries' course at Durham University ... part of a wonderful scheme called Summer Academy, which folded some years ago now, owing to a change in people's holiday appetites. After such a delay, I had forgotten much of the detail, until it was revived by the good fortune of arriving just as one of the day's two guided tours was about to get under way.
I then went on to Pateley Bridge and took a few pictures there, but was restricted by the time-limted on-street parking. With something of the tourist aims thus fulfilled, I set off for the 180-or-so miles of the journey home, stopping for a very late lunch at Ferrybridge services and arriving home about 7.15pm.
I can now begin to evaluate the achievements of the week. On the plus-side, I happened upon a smart little camera in a charity shop, a little more modern than mine, which should only need a memory card and cable to get in operating order, and I was persuaded to take out a year's membership of the National Trust, which will hopefully provide an incentive to get out more to see some of the heritage that is being preserved for us all. The disappointment list is small, but is headed by the fact of the fridge in the motor-home not working, as I suspected on my last trip, when I found the milk was 'off'. The same happened this week, too, but I have been experimenting with cottage cheese!
 |
| The hitch-free set-up |
A typical mixture of myth and the supernatural, this tourist attraction, one of the oldest in the country, focuses on the life of a woman who, according to legend, was born in a cave in 1488 and grew up there with her mother. She was disfigured and shunned by the local population and later made all kinds of prophecies which appear to have been fulfilled down the years.
 |
| The 3 Horseshoes - one of over twenty coaching inns in Boroughbridge |
 |
| The Crown Hotel - in its heyday it had stabling for a hundred horses |
I'd planned another excursion on Thursday, and began the same way, walking into the town. I then joined a long queue for a 22 bus to Ripon. What a contrast between the small town I'd left and the 'city of the dales'. I admit my opinion was coloured by the drizzle that greeted me there; without the freedom to take out my leaflets and maps to see where exactly to go, I wandered around some of the nearby streets, and around the open air market before returning to the bus station to go back to base, where I could be constructive with my time. The afternoon was dry and quite pleasant but there was a noticeably strong wind at times, so I decided to take down the awning in readiness for my departure the next morning.
Yesterday, I combined the 'day to get home' with 'day 4 of the programme', making good use of the previous afternoon's preparations. I set off at 10.0, with a view to seeing something of the dales scenery before heading south. My planned destination was Pateley Bridge, but on the way found myself passing the ruins of the Cistercian Fountains Abbey.
 |
| Fountains Abbey |
I then went on to Pateley Bridge and took a few pictures there, but was restricted by the time-limted on-street parking. With something of the tourist aims thus fulfilled, I set off for the 180-or-so miles of the journey home, stopping for a very late lunch at Ferrybridge services and arriving home about 7.15pm.
I can now begin to evaluate the achievements of the week. On the plus-side, I happened upon a smart little camera in a charity shop, a little more modern than mine, which should only need a memory card and cable to get in operating order, and I was persuaded to take out a year's membership of the National Trust, which will hopefully provide an incentive to get out more to see some of the heritage that is being preserved for us all. The disappointment list is small, but is headed by the fact of the fridge in the motor-home not working, as I suspected on my last trip, when I found the milk was 'off'. The same happened this week, too, but I have been experimenting with cottage cheese!
Friday, 2 September 2016
All Change!
I've lost count of the number of times during the last thirty or so years that I've echoed the words attributed to Henry Ford, "If it ain't bust, don't fix it!" I certainly thought of them last Wenesday, as I mopped up what could only be side-effects of a two-hour Windows 10 update download the previous evening. It seems that - with all due respect to my American readers - modern America has lost touch with Henry's sentiments.
One of my spreadsheet applications has over fifty individual graphs with two vertical axes. Every one of them had been modified so that only one axis could be seen, and every one had to be individually corrected, by the same amount ... once I had searched all the menus to find out how to do it. That was no accident!
Furthermore, my favourite on-screen memo program, Sticky-notes, had also been changed. Not only had the font been changed from something cheerily informal to a bog-standard Tahoma or Arial, but the line-selector enabling a quick cut and shift of whole lines at a time had disappeared! When I explored a brand new menu icon and found settings for reporting my use of the product to ... who knows where? ... I realised that I'd found the explanation for an interminable wait for the effect of typing a single character to appear on the screen. It was time for it to go! I'm now using Evernote, which is also cloud-based, but seems to fulfil my needs with a sophistication, yes, that exceeds Sticky-notes, but at least isn't imperative.
Last week I reported delivering the awning that had been replaced by a fixed apparatus on my motorhome, and also an unexpected change-around of my lounge, two more recent changes that have been followed up. The weekend saw the departure of the redundant bookshelf, and on Tuesday I drove three boxes of books to a charity warehouse in the town, leaving only the lamp-stand to go. Three people were interested in this, but one after another dropped out of the running by neither appearing at the door to collect, nor responding to my e-mails. The result was a further minor adjustment to my reshuffle, and the lamp has now been re-instated beside the dining table.
On the bank holiday, I visited my cousin and spent a pleasant afternoon chatting in her garden and enjoying the sunshine ... a pleasure usually denied to flat-dwellers like me. During the course of my visit, she posed a question that I undertook to answer upon my return home. The next morning, therefore, I faced the challenge of finding the requisite books from my re-arranged shelves. To do this, I had to move a small storage cabinet, which I did without realising that on the top of it was an external hard-disk drive. As its power-lead tightened, this fell to the floor, shedding its case in the process. The case was fairly easily replaced, but upon testing, the drive was found not to work. Its use hadn't been essential, and its apparent demise has eliminated what was really an unnecessary daily task, so I'm not unduly worried.
More significant came the last change I want to mention. Yesterday, as I made to follow my usual habit of watching a catch-up TV programme over lunch using i-Player, I discovered the truth of a rumour I'd heard a week or so ago, that a change in regulations had now come into force, whereby watching such material, even long after it has been broadcast, now requires a TV licence. I have no intention of spending almost £150 in order to accompany two meals a day, so today I bought a newspaper, and sat at the dining table with this. By my reckoning, a paper will last two days (given my normal amount of available reading time), news the first day, features the second, and the total expenditure per annum should be less than half the cost of the TV licence! And, considering the intellectual content of the material, I shall be better-informed into the bargain!
But don't ask me to sell the car and walk everywhere, please. Even economy has its limits ... as yet!
One of my spreadsheet applications has over fifty individual graphs with two vertical axes. Every one of them had been modified so that only one axis could be seen, and every one had to be individually corrected, by the same amount ... once I had searched all the menus to find out how to do it. That was no accident!
Furthermore, my favourite on-screen memo program, Sticky-notes, had also been changed. Not only had the font been changed from something cheerily informal to a bog-standard Tahoma or Arial, but the line-selector enabling a quick cut and shift of whole lines at a time had disappeared! When I explored a brand new menu icon and found settings for reporting my use of the product to ... who knows where? ... I realised that I'd found the explanation for an interminable wait for the effect of typing a single character to appear on the screen. It was time for it to go! I'm now using Evernote, which is also cloud-based, but seems to fulfil my needs with a sophistication, yes, that exceeds Sticky-notes, but at least isn't imperative.
Last week I reported delivering the awning that had been replaced by a fixed apparatus on my motorhome, and also an unexpected change-around of my lounge, two more recent changes that have been followed up. The weekend saw the departure of the redundant bookshelf, and on Tuesday I drove three boxes of books to a charity warehouse in the town, leaving only the lamp-stand to go. Three people were interested in this, but one after another dropped out of the running by neither appearing at the door to collect, nor responding to my e-mails. The result was a further minor adjustment to my reshuffle, and the lamp has now been re-instated beside the dining table.
On the bank holiday, I visited my cousin and spent a pleasant afternoon chatting in her garden and enjoying the sunshine ... a pleasure usually denied to flat-dwellers like me. During the course of my visit, she posed a question that I undertook to answer upon my return home. The next morning, therefore, I faced the challenge of finding the requisite books from my re-arranged shelves. To do this, I had to move a small storage cabinet, which I did without realising that on the top of it was an external hard-disk drive. As its power-lead tightened, this fell to the floor, shedding its case in the process. The case was fairly easily replaced, but upon testing, the drive was found not to work. Its use hadn't been essential, and its apparent demise has eliminated what was really an unnecessary daily task, so I'm not unduly worried.
More significant came the last change I want to mention. Yesterday, as I made to follow my usual habit of watching a catch-up TV programme over lunch using i-Player, I discovered the truth of a rumour I'd heard a week or so ago, that a change in regulations had now come into force, whereby watching such material, even long after it has been broadcast, now requires a TV licence. I have no intention of spending almost £150 in order to accompany two meals a day, so today I bought a newspaper, and sat at the dining table with this. By my reckoning, a paper will last two days (given my normal amount of available reading time), news the first day, features the second, and the total expenditure per annum should be less than half the cost of the TV licence! And, considering the intellectual content of the material, I shall be better-informed into the bargain!
But don't ask me to sell the car and walk everywhere, please. Even economy has its limits ... as yet!
Saturday, 27 August 2016
One Success follows Another!
It's been a surprisingly successful week. It began on Sunday when, with my food-shopping out of sync, I had planned a pub lunch. Unfortunately by Sunday morning, I had forgotten this resolve and it wasn't until someone asked 'have you anything planned for lunch today?' that I remembered. By then, of course, my plans weren't required, because my answer was followed up by an invite to join the questioner and his wife to dinner later.
Monday saw the final session in the online genealogy course, which was appropriately interrupted by the arrival of the postman, who delivered a marriage certificate I had ordered only last Tuesday from the National Archives of Ireland (notwithstanding that this was for an event in Co. Fermanagh, so I wasn't sure that it would be successful). How's that for service?!
Last week I had advertised my now-redundant 'awning-cum-marquee' on eBay. On Wednesday, I discovered how their system works. Despite my checking the website frantically as the deadline approached, the process is so automated that I didn't need to at all. I had a message saying the item was sold, and another from Paypal telling me, in effect, that I'd got the cash, so I'd better get on with sending the goods! Now, the 'goods' comprised the tent part, all packed away in its own bag, a long bag with the poles and pegs, a set of rods with a canvas strip that constituted the 'fitting kit' and, completely separate in its own container, the additional underlay that I was selling with it. The whole lot couldn't easily be assembled into one despatchable item, and was in any case beyond the weight limit for most services.
Years of experience told me quickly that the best way to send it was by courier - the old trio of possible necessities (urgency, fragility or value) came into play, with two scores out of three. But why waste all those years of practice? It took only minutes for me to decide to take it to Yorkshire myself. The journey was only just over three hours, and I enjoyed revisiting a past life ... all the more so, knowing that I wouldn't be doing the same thing tomorrow, and could take my time getting home again.
Yesterday, I woke up with a headache. That was caused by the sinusitis, which has now outlived the prescribed medication, and is prompting me to consider a return to the medical professionals next week. Apart from the physical, I also woke up with a definite idea from somewhere, that my lounge could benefit from a partial re-arrangement mirror-wards. So, with very few interruptions, and following an intense session of on-screen planning, I have now changed what was (in cricketing terms, thinking of bookshelves as fielders and the armchair as the batsman) a 6-3 offside field to the right-hander into a 6-2 offside field to the left-hander. As a result, I expelled from the field one computer screen, one bookcase and one lampstand, along with about 140 assorted books.
The single items were immediately offered on freecycle and the screen was picked up while I was still filtering the books between 'not-wanted', 'must-keep', 'might-be-useful' and 'could-probably-do-without'. To my amazement, the collector was one of the town's parochial clergy, who was only too eager to snaffle up all the theological rejects, leaving me with a heap of rejects that had accumulated on a makeshift workbench in the bathroom (board for making up extra bed in motorhome placed over the bath). These have now been neatly packaged into three boxes ready for next week, when they will be foisted on an unsuspecting charity shop!
With all that success going to my head, I now need to come quickly back to earth and finish planning my next motorhome expedition ... but more about that in the coming weeks!
Monday saw the final session in the online genealogy course, which was appropriately interrupted by the arrival of the postman, who delivered a marriage certificate I had ordered only last Tuesday from the National Archives of Ireland (notwithstanding that this was for an event in Co. Fermanagh, so I wasn't sure that it would be successful). How's that for service?!
Last week I had advertised my now-redundant 'awning-cum-marquee' on eBay. On Wednesday, I discovered how their system works. Despite my checking the website frantically as the deadline approached, the process is so automated that I didn't need to at all. I had a message saying the item was sold, and another from Paypal telling me, in effect, that I'd got the cash, so I'd better get on with sending the goods! Now, the 'goods' comprised the tent part, all packed away in its own bag, a long bag with the poles and pegs, a set of rods with a canvas strip that constituted the 'fitting kit' and, completely separate in its own container, the additional underlay that I was selling with it. The whole lot couldn't easily be assembled into one despatchable item, and was in any case beyond the weight limit for most services.
Years of experience told me quickly that the best way to send it was by courier - the old trio of possible necessities (urgency, fragility or value) came into play, with two scores out of three. But why waste all those years of practice? It took only minutes for me to decide to take it to Yorkshire myself. The journey was only just over three hours, and I enjoyed revisiting a past life ... all the more so, knowing that I wouldn't be doing the same thing tomorrow, and could take my time getting home again.
Yesterday, I woke up with a headache. That was caused by the sinusitis, which has now outlived the prescribed medication, and is prompting me to consider a return to the medical professionals next week. Apart from the physical, I also woke up with a definite idea from somewhere, that my lounge could benefit from a partial re-arrangement mirror-wards. So, with very few interruptions, and following an intense session of on-screen planning, I have now changed what was (in cricketing terms, thinking of bookshelves as fielders and the armchair as the batsman) a 6-3 offside field to the right-hander into a 6-2 offside field to the left-hander. As a result, I expelled from the field one computer screen, one bookcase and one lampstand, along with about 140 assorted books.
The single items were immediately offered on freecycle and the screen was picked up while I was still filtering the books between 'not-wanted', 'must-keep', 'might-be-useful' and 'could-probably-do-without'. To my amazement, the collector was one of the town's parochial clergy, who was only too eager to snaffle up all the theological rejects, leaving me with a heap of rejects that had accumulated on a makeshift workbench in the bathroom (board for making up extra bed in motorhome placed over the bath). These have now been neatly packaged into three boxes ready for next week, when they will be foisted on an unsuspecting charity shop!
With all that success going to my head, I now need to come quickly back to earth and finish planning my next motorhome expedition ... but more about that in the coming weeks!
Saturday, 20 August 2016
The Somme ... and not the Same at all!
On my journey through Lincolnshire earlier this year, I visited the town of Horncastle. There in a bookshop I found a volume that took my eye and, as is often the case, I began reading it immediately. Unusually, instead of putting it aside fairly soon afterwards and turning to something else, I carried on with it and - rather topically, in the sequence of centenaries - have now come to the end of it. Called 'Kelly's War', it is the diary of Frederick Septimus Kelly, an Olympic rower, composer and naval soldier, from September 1914 to November 1916, when he was killed in one of the last phases of the Battle of the Somme.
I was struck by a description he wrote after a reconnaisance walk in the last days of October 1916 to a point from which he could see the line of their forthcoming advance. "The land up there is an indescribable scene of desolation. For acres and acres (as far as we could see) there was no sign of vegetable life, just a sea of lacerated earth, with here and there the traces of a former trench system. ... I was haunted by the sense of terrible tragedy - the triumph of death and destruction over life. ... There were no trenches in the sense of an excavation or breastwork giving protection - just tracks from shell hole to shell hole." The previous day Kelly had written, "we turned to the left and walked through Thiepval Wood - or, rather, the appalling wilderness of tree-stumps and lacerated earth which was once a wood - to the northern edge where we got an excellent view of both the bank and the trenches over which we are to advance."
Having read them within the last week, these phrases were still fresh in my mind anyway, but they were brought back to me again as I reflected on my mission yesterday to the Suffolk Record Office in Bury St Edmunds. I've lost count of the number of times in the last fifteen years that I've examined the fiche copies of the parish records for the villages of Hoxne and Syleham. Most of my father's immediate family came from there and, every time I turned a corner in my research, I returned to seek some more data from the same records, perhaps looking for a different name, or for one particular detail I hadn't recorded on an earlier visit. After ploughing in the same field so many times (sorry about the changed metaphor) I'm beginning to know the terrain backwards.
As I return time and again to the same entries, I find there's a decreasing limit to the new life I can squeeze from them. After nearly five hours, I emerged with two or three pages of scribbled notes; I now find that the majority of what I had written was not only familiar, but exactly the same as what I already have recorded on my computer. I have verified about a dozen items that had been passed to me fifteen years ago by a distant cousin with whom I lost contact long ago; I have found the names of the two hitherto undiscovered direct ancestors, great-great-great-great-grandparents, and revealed a possible step-great-great-uncle, whose very existence is subject to further checks before I can count him.
It must have felt a bit like that to those men in 1916. Quite apart from the effects of earlier campaigns, the to-and-fro-and-get-nowhere shooting and shelling of the past three months had, by November, left little recognisable of the countryside, let alone any trace of normal village life. As Kelly wrote, there was no sign of vegetation ... just mud in the advancing autumn rains.
Hundreds of comrades lost, hundreds of thousands of other men killed ... and all for a few hundred yards of unrecognisable land. Little wonder, then, that, at the same time, talks were going on among the politicians of both sides - although not between them - of some kind of peace to bring this waste to an end. But little wonder, too, that any peace to be considered would have to secure some recognisable gain that those lives had bought. In 1916, no such gain was apparent.
In comparison, I'm just playing games!
I was struck by a description he wrote after a reconnaisance walk in the last days of October 1916 to a point from which he could see the line of their forthcoming advance. "The land up there is an indescribable scene of desolation. For acres and acres (as far as we could see) there was no sign of vegetable life, just a sea of lacerated earth, with here and there the traces of a former trench system. ... I was haunted by the sense of terrible tragedy - the triumph of death and destruction over life. ... There were no trenches in the sense of an excavation or breastwork giving protection - just tracks from shell hole to shell hole." The previous day Kelly had written, "we turned to the left and walked through Thiepval Wood - or, rather, the appalling wilderness of tree-stumps and lacerated earth which was once a wood - to the northern edge where we got an excellent view of both the bank and the trenches over which we are to advance."
Having read them within the last week, these phrases were still fresh in my mind anyway, but they were brought back to me again as I reflected on my mission yesterday to the Suffolk Record Office in Bury St Edmunds. I've lost count of the number of times in the last fifteen years that I've examined the fiche copies of the parish records for the villages of Hoxne and Syleham. Most of my father's immediate family came from there and, every time I turned a corner in my research, I returned to seek some more data from the same records, perhaps looking for a different name, or for one particular detail I hadn't recorded on an earlier visit. After ploughing in the same field so many times (sorry about the changed metaphor) I'm beginning to know the terrain backwards.
As I return time and again to the same entries, I find there's a decreasing limit to the new life I can squeeze from them. After nearly five hours, I emerged with two or three pages of scribbled notes; I now find that the majority of what I had written was not only familiar, but exactly the same as what I already have recorded on my computer. I have verified about a dozen items that had been passed to me fifteen years ago by a distant cousin with whom I lost contact long ago; I have found the names of the two hitherto undiscovered direct ancestors, great-great-great-great-grandparents, and revealed a possible step-great-great-uncle, whose very existence is subject to further checks before I can count him.
It must have felt a bit like that to those men in 1916. Quite apart from the effects of earlier campaigns, the to-and-fro-and-get-nowhere shooting and shelling of the past three months had, by November, left little recognisable of the countryside, let alone any trace of normal village life. As Kelly wrote, there was no sign of vegetation ... just mud in the advancing autumn rains.
Hundreds of comrades lost, hundreds of thousands of other men killed ... and all for a few hundred yards of unrecognisable land. Little wonder, then, that, at the same time, talks were going on among the politicians of both sides - although not between them - of some kind of peace to bring this waste to an end. But little wonder, too, that any peace to be considered would have to secure some recognisable gain that those lives had bought. In 1916, no such gain was apparent.
In comparison, I'm just playing games!
Saturday, 13 August 2016
Coming Together
Life always feels good when you can see plans that are coming together or simply things succeeding around you. Take, for example, the churches' picnic in the town last Sunday afternoon. Last year, I remember, I packed my normal 'snack lunch' in a cool-bag and walked into town with my chair-in-a bag. I sat on the periphery, ate my lunch, spoke to no one and, after a few minutes' watching what was going on around me, came home.
This year I had been involved. Through being asked to produce a risk assessment for the event, with all the interaction that this had necessitated, I got to know some of those from other churches who were engaged in staging the event. As a result of this, I had been asked to be an official 'supervisor' for half of the time. I was a bit apprehensive but, in the event enjoyed it, talking to a number of people, offering advice where it was requested, and feeling 'engaged' in the whole affair.
Last week I wrote of learning flexibility; this week's lesson was patience. Before last weekend, I had ordered a new awning for the motor-home; the initial arrangement was that it would be delivered on Monday but by 5.30 it hadn't arrived so I phoned the supplier to find out why. He was most apologetic and explained that he'd overlooked an e-mail telling him that the colour I'd ordered was out of stock. We agreed a different colour and delivery was re-scheduled for Wednesday. Finding it by my door when I returned from the midweek church service, I thought I'd get straight on with its installation. Think again! It was far too heavy for me to lift up unaided and guide into a slot some feet above my head! I rang a friend who agreed to help but wouldn't be free until mid-afternoon. We managed the basic installation but some means of stopping it from banking into the wall of the vehicle while driving along was clearly necessary. My friend had an idea, and returned to implement this on Thursday morning. What was to have been a simple afternoon's job on Monday proved to take twice as long and need twice the effort!
Furthermore, in the range of success surrounding me just now, is the unexpectedly good performance of my investments. This is very much contrary to the gloomy outlook reported on the business and industrial front following the EU referendum, and the recent reduction of interest rates. As I am constantly being reminded, favourable results cannot be guaranteed and past performance is no guarantee of future returns, but with that in mind, I cannot fail to be encouraged when, over the last ten weeks, their value has risen by an average amount the equivalent of an annual rate of over 40%!
Uppermost in my mind today, however, is the great emotional enjoyment of a trip yesterday to the seaside. As I told one family, as I sought permission to take a picture of their home, I used to stay there as a holidaymaker over sixty years ago! My favourite picture of my father, which featured here only a few weeks ago, was taken on just such an occasion.
Some years later, I visited the same resort to spend time with the young lady who was my first real girlfriend. Yesterday's trip allowed me to take pictures of both the house where she lived at that time and one of the places where we would park the car for the endless conversations that were part of that phase of life.
I remember that, one May afternoon, we had parked in a nearby village where there was a view of the railway line; as we listened to Radio Caroline, we watched the passage of the very last passenger train on the Lowestoft-Yarmouth line, the last relic of the Norfolk & Suffolk Joint Railway.
When opened in Edwardian times, this was jointly owned by the Great Eastern Railway and the Midland & Great Northern Joint Railway. It wasn't until this week, as I put thoughts together, that I realised that the place where we did our courting was actually the track-bed of the main line of the M&GN, whence the tracks had been removed - with what many since have agreed was unseemly haste - following its closure on 2nd March 1959.
This year I had been involved. Through being asked to produce a risk assessment for the event, with all the interaction that this had necessitated, I got to know some of those from other churches who were engaged in staging the event. As a result of this, I had been asked to be an official 'supervisor' for half of the time. I was a bit apprehensive but, in the event enjoyed it, talking to a number of people, offering advice where it was requested, and feeling 'engaged' in the whole affair.
Last week I wrote of learning flexibility; this week's lesson was patience. Before last weekend, I had ordered a new awning for the motor-home; the initial arrangement was that it would be delivered on Monday but by 5.30 it hadn't arrived so I phoned the supplier to find out why. He was most apologetic and explained that he'd overlooked an e-mail telling him that the colour I'd ordered was out of stock. We agreed a different colour and delivery was re-scheduled for Wednesday. Finding it by my door when I returned from the midweek church service, I thought I'd get straight on with its installation. Think again! It was far too heavy for me to lift up unaided and guide into a slot some feet above my head! I rang a friend who agreed to help but wouldn't be free until mid-afternoon. We managed the basic installation but some means of stopping it from banking into the wall of the vehicle while driving along was clearly necessary. My friend had an idea, and returned to implement this on Thursday morning. What was to have been a simple afternoon's job on Monday proved to take twice as long and need twice the effort!
Furthermore, in the range of success surrounding me just now, is the unexpectedly good performance of my investments. This is very much contrary to the gloomy outlook reported on the business and industrial front following the EU referendum, and the recent reduction of interest rates. As I am constantly being reminded, favourable results cannot be guaranteed and past performance is no guarantee of future returns, but with that in mind, I cannot fail to be encouraged when, over the last ten weeks, their value has risen by an average amount the equivalent of an annual rate of over 40%!
 |
| The boarding house where I stayed as a child |
 |
| The new Temple Road by-passes the market place |
 |
| The house where my girlfriend lived |
When opened in Edwardian times, this was jointly owned by the Great Eastern Railway and the Midland & Great Northern Joint Railway. It wasn't until this week, as I put thoughts together, that I realised that the place where we did our courting was actually the track-bed of the main line of the M&GN, whence the tracks had been removed - with what many since have agreed was unseemly haste - following its closure on 2nd March 1959.
 |
| The track-bed of the old railway |
 |
| The former M&GN terminus is now a car and coach park |
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)