Your Wildest Dreams?

I could be wrong, but I blame the medication.  Ever since I started using this stuff, I've had some amazing dreams.  Nothing scary, you understand, just strange ... and some of them memorable!  Often one dream picks up where another left off, as if another chapter in the same book, or else the venue is the same house.

This morning I was in one of those houses where I'd been several times before.  Wherever I was in the house, I needed to get back - outside, I suppose - but I knew I couldn't go back the way I'd come.  I also knew, from past visits, that there were hidden rooms.  I opened the door to one of these, knowing that, by going from one room to another, I would find my way out. I entered the first hidden room, filled with flowery fabrics, curtains and covered furniture in bright yellows and golds.

I was about to pass into the room beyond, through a bright yellow door, when I heard voices.  A glance through a lace-covered window showed that there were people in there, so I knew I couldn't go further.  I turned to make my way back again but ... .   At the same time as I discovered that I couldn't see the door through which I'd entered this 'yellow room', I realised that I wasn't alone.  Standing beside the fireplace, looking coyly up at me, was a woman.  She must have come up to my shoulder, and I took her to be the chambermaid.  I hadn't spotted her before because her dress was of the same flowery fabric that covered the furniture.

No word passed between us but, as she smiled up at me, I laughed at her, took off my peaked schoolboy cap and placed it on top of the mob cap that crowned her golden curls.  She giggled; I grasped my cap, removing hers along with it and, evading her grasp to recover her headgear ... suddenly I was back in the 'normal' part of the house, talking to my father who, not surprisingly, asked what that was inside my cap.

Somehow, it was decided to 'lose' this by putting it in with the laundry, and I was next aware of all kinds of normal washing dancing on the line, and this little mob cap in the midst of them.  Word must have got around about the hidden part of the house, the 'other people' there and the servants, because soon all the other houses in the street were seen to have strange items on their washing lines too.

What a story.  Where had it come from ... and why?  The only thing I can possibly dredge up from this side of slumberland (other mattresses are available!) is the fact that, a few days ago I was discussing with friends the comparison between our modern economy and that of, say, 150 years ago. We had been speaking of slavery, and the fact that, although it had been abolished, some of the house servants of the Victorian era were little more than slaves.

Although they were paid, what actual use was £25 or £50 a year?  How did it relate to the probable incomes of their employers?  I posed the comparison that someone earning maybe £500 or £600 might well be able to afford a girl (they were almost always girls) at £25.  With a comparable salary today of £20,000 or £30,000, the appropriate proportion to consider paying a servant would be a pittance.  Who would work for £1,000 to £2,500 a year ... however light the duties might be?

Like their Victorian counterparts perhaps, such a sum would be pocket money.  The difference is that today's 'slaves' would want to 'live' on whatever they earned, have career prospects, and so on, while the Victorian servant girl would probably live in, and in a few years be married to a former errand boy and running her own home for no pay at all.  She wouldn't complain because that was the norm.

Norms change;  and so does medication ... and dreams!

More fairy tales next week.

Turning the Clock Back

Many of my readers will be pleased to read that this post is not all about politics.  Perhaps surprisingly, other things too have been happening this week.  It being Easter week, I spent some part of it, as I usually do, visiting my cousin ... although we didn't spend the time munching chocolate eggs. We both recognise the danger that that poses to our health!

Instead, on Monday, we paid a visit to a preserved section of the Midland Railway at Butterley, not far from her home.  Weather-wise, this was not the best day of my break but, since it was sunny, we decided to seize the opportunity.  Unfortunately, some of the attractions were not open to the public and, in the face of a chill wind, our stay wasn't so long as it might otherwise have been.  We did indulge in the fare at the station buffet, however, enjoying a cob and a drink before leaving.

This was the first of a number of reminders this week of the effects of advancing age.  When I was young, little thought was given to a chill wind, just so long as the sun was shining ... or so it seems now, looking back through my proverbially rose-tinted accessories.  More was to come in the same vein, after I'd returned home.

Wednesday saw an outing of the church men's social group to a local ten-pin-bowling facility.  Thirteen of us assembled, and took over two lanes for the evening.  I think it was a fair bet that I was the oldest of the party, and I think the last time I did any bowling could have been before some of my friends were born!  Based on such a record, there is little surprise that my performance was the least prodigious of them all but that didn't diminish my enjoyment of the occasion.  A great part of the fun derived from seeing the style and achievements of my friends - not to mention their reaction to their own successes and failures - as the evening progressed.

When I had returned home on Wednesday afternoon, I found awaiting for me on the doormat one of two books I had recently ordered.  This was a series of autobiographical anecdotes of a former Yorkshire vicar who is now a Welsh bishop, which I had ordered on impulse after hearing a radio interview.  The following day, the second volume arrived, and I couldn't resist the temptation to begin reading one of them on Thursday afternoon.

Despite the thrilling content, fatigue won the day and at one point I found myself rubbing my eyes, looking at the clock and wondering where the last hour had gone!  I got up to make a cup of coffee and realised that my body was aching in any number of places.  One friend was amused when I confessed to having used the previous night muscles that hadn't been called upon for many years; another, less sympathetic, reminded me that I was no longer 40.  Ouch!

As I reflected on the week's events, I did pick up on one aspect of the news reports.  The matter of expenditure on new grammar schools had been raised, whereupon it had been claimed that more of these would provide the opportunity for more children to overcome the disadvantages of being born to less well-off parents.  As the product of a grammar school myself, it might be expected that I would agree with this attitude.

In fact, the reverse is the case, despite being just the sort of pupil that this policy is designed to help.  I considered myself fortunate to have gone there and have lost count of the times I've been grateful for having studied Latin for a year.  But long before those days, I had become painfully aware of the consequences of my lowly birth.

At the age of six or seven, I had responded to a classroom invitation to undertake an ear-test as a preliminary to joining violin classes.  Once successful in this, I was asked to bring some money the next week for the music book.  When, in all innocence, I told my mother of this seemingly simple requirement, her reaction took me completely by surprise ... and has stayed with me for sixty years and more.  "Where do you think I'm going to get 2/6 for a music book?  Do you think I'm made of money?  You can go and tell them tomorrow that you won't be doing any violin lessons.  I can't afford any music books."  This went on for several minutes, making me squirm at every outburst.

So, has the grammar school helped me to rise above my natural class?  Not at all, although it did give me a few ideas above my station.  I've perhaps become more aware of the disadvantages, when I compare myself to some of those with whom I learned, and I've developed ways of coping with these when meeting, dealing and socialising with people who have not been subjected to them.  But as they say about one's birthplace, in my experience the same is true of class: "You can take the boy out of Norfolk, but you can't take Norfolk out of the boy!"

I've never had a music lesson from that day to this.  Like many other things, I've managed to teach myself, from books and through practice, to a standard that will get me by.

Looking Forward and Looking Back

Holy Week has always felt a bit strange.  There's a extra Sunday squashed in before Saturday and after a Thursday that's more like a combination of Friday and Saturday.  In my courier days, Maundy Thursday was the day my boss dreaded.  With many of the drivers looking forward to a long weekend, either not working at all or at least wanting to slope off during the afternoon, he faced customers who were anxious to squeeze five days' activity into four, and get things delivered before the day was done.  Those, like me, who were willing to, could guarantee a full and rewarding day.  In my last two years, though, I declared it a non-working week, well in advance. We all knew where we stood and I could take a full part in the church activities.

So what of it this year?  What my father would have called 'the forepart of the week' saw the tail end of last weekend's comparative heatwave.  After spending most of Monday at the computer screen either dealing with my investments at the start of the new tax year, or working on family history (as usual, many might say), by Tuesday morning the sunshine had won, and I set out for a walk.

It was a walk with a difference for, as I emerged from the footpath onto the road by the bus stop, a no.98 came along.  With one hand I waved for him to stop while the other fished in my pocket for my wallet and the bus pass that was inside.  A moment later I was on my way to the next town, wondering what to do next.  I looked at the timetable as I alighted, walked up the main street in the warm sunshine ... and back again.  After a brief word with someone waiting for the next bus to Letchworth, I crossed the road and waited a far shorter time for one going in the opposite direction, further away from home.

I soon arrived at Royston, where I used to live and work when I first moved to this area.  I walked along some roads I hadn't trod for over fifteen years, reliving old memories and noting changes.  One such change was a former pub that was now a luxury private residence, called a cottage and taking the pub's name.  As I passed it, I recalled walking home from work one day and seeing the then landlord planting what is now a thriving laurel hedge around the edge of his forecourt.  I wonder if he is now the resident of White Bear Cottage.  Taking a train and a brisk walk instead of another sequence of buses, I was home by lunchtime and able once more to pick up the threads of life cast aside for the fresh air.

In some ways Easter - and especially a late Easter - marks the end of the 'busy' part of the year, when the leisurely game of cricket takes over from the furious activity of football, and thoughts turn to holidays and sunshine.  I live in the hope that, one day, I might be able to train myself to enjoy such things.  After an active life, it can be hard to relax fully into retirement, and I tend to be the sort of person who always has a list of things (perhaps little ones, admittedly,) that need to be done ... and there are always the shelves full of books that, I begin to admit, might never be read.

Once the Easter celebrations are over, I remind myself, I shall have to direct some thought to planning how I shall spend my week in north Wales, based in that 'room' that I booked the other week.  Before then, however, will come my first foray into the world of children's seasonal entertainment this afternoon, as I join the team running an 'Easter Eggstravaganza' at one of the local primary schools.  I have to say it's something that I'm looking forward to, albeit with a little trepidation, although I shall be in the company of many good friends who've been doing it for many years.

Our neighbouring parish is presently without a priest and, sadly, their daughter church where we ring the bells had no service last week, and none is planned for tomorrow, Easter Day.  We decided to ring for Easter morning anyway, though, and they do have a service this evening, so we will ring for that as well.  Our team took part in the annual striking competition the other Saturday and, having come second out of five, we shall go forward once more to the finals in September.

"Summer's come ... "  I'm wondering where the "birdies is?"!

Over the Water and Far, Far Away

It’s well known that Alfred Hitchcock like to feature in his own films; the late Colin Dexter played the occasional walk-on part in some of the Inspector Morse programmes.  But it seems bizarre for a cartoonist to portray himself in one of his works ... even more so for the whole to be wrapped up in a dream!  This was my experience one night this week.

In my dream cartoon was an artist, working on a large mural depicting an international summit meeting.  As he laboured away atop a step ladder, the cartoonist – featuring myself in a role I’m never likely to fill in real life – looked up at him with the pithy punch line emblazoned in a speech bubble.  The picture was incomplete, with only one diminutive but very important world leader recognisable; the speech bubble was incomplete, too, as were its contents, which read, “Hi Tom, I see you’ve managed to ...”.  I’m sure that’s not the way a real cartoonist works.

The point at which I awoke came when that particular universally recognised leader had just entered my studio, looked at my depiction of him and asked, menacingly, “Well, what had he managed to do?”  I’m not sure what the intended completion would have been, other than a general sense that it would be far from complimentary.  On the spur of the moment I blurted out, “I see you’ve managed to catch the big guy at least.”  It was far from top-class humour, but I didn’t get to see how this big guy reacted, owing to the fast-encroaching real world entering my consciousness.

As I’ve thought about this since, I realise that this idea of an incompetent observer making a serious comment about the world of politics matched the idea I had earlier in the week about this blog.  Realising that my gentle reader will be more tolerant than that fearsome ‘big guy’, I’ll proceed.

It’s some while since I wrote about affairs in Ireland.  I do recall – however long ago it is – making the comment that, while the majority of the people of Northern Ireland are adamant that they are, and want to remain, a loyal part of this ‘United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland’, there seems to be a dearth of complementary feeling going the other way.  I can’t comment about Scottish or Welsh media but, in England at least, there seems to be little or no coverage of affairs in the six counties, until something really big occurs.  For the rest of the time we appear to be quite content for them to potter along beyond the bounds of our interest. 

We have been moaning – perhaps with justification, depending on your point of view  – about the plight of our health service, the threats to our car industry and our financial hub following Brexit, and all the daft things our government has been doing and saying.  Meanwhile, beyond the North Channel, there has been no effective government at all for several months.  How many people on this island knew that they had had a general election?!  It wasn’t until the announcement that the newly-elected legislators had been unable to form a government that English ears were opened.

Another such something to awaken the interest of Great Britain was the death of Martin McGuinness.  Many tributes were paid by people of all loyalties to the way this man from the Bogside (where’s that? I hear you ask) had apparently changed from a militant freedom fighter to a peace broker and eventually the serious political leader and deputy first minister from which he retired through ill health last year.

These two matters, tentatively connected, have opened up sores that we over the water had thought to have been healed long ago.  In point of fact, the loss of a loved one never goes away.  Under normal circumstances, it’s something we learn to live with at best.  When it’s a violent loss without justification, without the prosecution of a perpetrator for political convenience, even when that perpetrator is known, is far from healed.  It’s a running sore for which there is no balm, and that’s true whether you’re protestant or catholic, whether your sympathies are nationalist or loyalist.

With Brexit threatening the re-imposition of a hard border on the island of Ireland – something the absence of which has helped to maintain a semblance of normal life for twenty years or so – the ‘elephant in the room’ has been given a voice.   There is actually talk, however whispered, however much it might be ignored, of a united Ireland, or at least – say the word quietly – a referendum on the matter.

Now, this is something upon which I have no axe to grind.  My view is that it is a consequence of an ill-judged political movement some 400 years ago, followed by centuries of unfair treatment and a succession of equally ill-judged policies that had been implemented ever since, leading eventually to the struggle for  independence during and after the First World War, and the ensuing partition.  Some would even say that it all began with the Anglo-Norman invasion under Henry II in 1169.

At this distance in time, it’s not a result that can be reverse-engineered.  I don’t have any idea how the situation can be resolved; I can only repeat prayers for its peaceful resolution that began before I was married nearly 45 years ago.  My reason for writing about it today is not to agitate for action, or to support a cause.  I merely think that, if we are a ‘United Kingdom’, we should be as aware of, and concerned about, affairs in Coleraine and Portadown as we are about Carlisle and Peebles, Carmarthen and Plymouth