Flat Out!

I read on social media this morning that someone had referred to these days between Christmas and the New Year as 'a flat time'.  The writer claimed - and I'm inclined to agree with him - that these days of relaxation are as much part of Christmas as the hectic run-up to Christmas Eve.  They do indeed provide some sort of balance to life.

I found myself nodding off over the keyboard and realised that there was no need to fight fatigue any longer.  Laying aside my mouse, I settled down in the chair and fell asleep.  Emerging from a 'power nap' almost a new man (I wish!), I now find myself inspired to write this blog.

It's amazing how many people succumb to a cold over the holiday period.  Whether medically correct or not, I share a commonly held belief that the body's immune system normally runs at 'high' in order to protect us to meet the demands of daily life but, once those requirements are relaxed, it too takes a holiday and we are thus exposed to bugs and infections that would otherwise be repelled.

Certainly this seems to have been the case for me this week.  In my retired state, normal pressure at this time of  year has comprised a number of social and church engagements, including taking part in choral pieces at the annual carol service, ringing bells for an extra service, and completing the transcription of the latest batch of census entries.  I returned from a communal Christmas day lunch for people living alone and within hours I was aware of the first symptoms of a cold; by the evening of Boxing Day I was streaming.

After securing my cousin's acquiescence, I gathered together all my medication, along with other necessaries, and travelled yesterday to fulfil the plans we had made for me to spend the New Year weekend with her and her husband as I usually do.  In return for a few hours of conversation and a little light household assistance, I'm being well looked after and entertained with television programmes that my screen-limited home doesn't offer.

It's interesting to see how other people are spending their 'flat time'.  Some have travelled to foreign parts, some are exploring other parts of this realm, and others are simply content to relax and have a weekend doing very little.  One wife (and I suspect one out of a goodly number!) has prepared a list of 'jobs around the house that we need to attend to'. 

Whatever you're going to be doing in the coming days, I wish all my readers a very good New Year!

What Christmas is All About

At lunch today, after finishing my half-day shift, I looked from my seat at the table down the length of the sorting room and said, "In just three months, this place has become like home."  As my colleague agreed with the sentiment expressed, I thought, 'Isn't this what Christmas is all about?'.

All the religious fundamentals aside, Christmas is at heart a time for family.  I'm not sure whether that limitation is actually possible: after all, what's the Jesus, Mary and Joseph thing, if not a family ... but let that pass.  Some years ago, my daughter said to me, referring to her step-father, "I can't call you 'dad'; he's been much more of a dad to me than you ever were!"  Yes, that hurt.  And I could have argued the point, citing certain things many years ago to plead my cause but I had to admit that, from where she was looking at the time, truth was on her side.

Family isn't just flesh and blood; it's a matter of love and behaviour.  And when it comes to Christmas, those things are even more important.  Unusually for this blog, I offer you two pictures.  This envelope landed on my doormat yesterday morning.  It had come all the way from Canada, sent by a woman I've never met, and with whom my only contact, apart from a burst of e-mails in the last couple of months, has been a single similar exchange about five years ago.  It's her theory that we are something like ninth or tenth cousins, going back to a potential common ancestor in Tudor times.  Whether we will be able to prove this link is somewhat doubtful, to say the least, but on the strength of this, she was willing to prepare and send to me a whole package of papers relating to the family and descendants of this putative n-times-great grandparent.  If nothing at all develops from it, it will provide some interesting holiday reading!

My second picture is also recent, but the story behind it started just before last Christmas.  After some thought and discussion, the CO of our local Salvation Army corps decided to go ahead with a plan to open a weekly drop-in for people in our town who are either homeless or vulnerable in some other way.  There they can get a cooked breakfast and bread, pastries or other foodstuffs, clothing and toiletries, when available and according to their needs.  Along with a dozen or so others from different churches in the town and beyond, it is my privilege to be one of the helpers at this operation, called the Ark (standing for Always Room for Kindness).

One day during the spring, I was talking to one of the other volunteers about the amount of spare time on my hands now my retired life had settled into a regular pattern.  She explained how, in addition to the Ark, she had also volunteered to help at our local hospice, where she had joined a scheme called Compassionate Neighbours.  These people are paired up with 'clients' (an awfully professional-sounding word, but it serves the purpose) who have a relative suffering from a terminal condition, or who have recently been bereaved.  They operate on a one-to-one basis to offer a small amount of time on a regular basis to someone who may be feeling isolated or lonely, perhaps for something as simple as a cup of tea and a chat. 

The picture is of Becky and some other Neighbours at their Christmas party last week.  The hospice is a charity funded to a large extent by a small of retail shops in local towns.  These shops are supported in their operation by a central warehouse and distribution centre, and my friend suggested that it might be appropriate if I were to offer my time to help there.  After a few other problems had been resolved during the summer months, I followed up her suggestion, and have been working there a day and a half a week since the beginning of October.  The atmosphere is very relaxed and congenial.  They are, indeed, like a second family.

People ask from time to time what I shall 'be doing for Christmas'.  What they mean is, 'will you be alone on this overtly family occasion?'  In the absence of a family, my answer is usually 'Nothing.' meaning, 'Yes, I shall be alone, but I'm used to it now, and I don't mind.'  From time to time one family or another have invited me to their table ... invitations I've gladly accepted in preference to cooking my own dinner but, despite the warmth and sincerity of their welcome, they're not my family.  This year, as a result of helping at the Ark, I have accepted the invitation to join other people who would otherwise be alone for Christmas lunch at the Salvation Army.

Whatever table will be welcoming you next Tuesday, I wish all my readers a very Happy Christmas!

"Dull Days Afore Christmas"

Some while ago in this medium, I wrote about the fact of my father having left me a wealth of wisdom.  Unlike the literati of this world, he didn't do so in the form of a shelf of writings - not even a single slim volume - but in a variety of wise sayings, some of which I heard countless times, uttered in his irreplaceable north Suffolk dialect.  Many a time as I grow older I recall something he'd said and mutter to myself, 'I see now what Dad meant by that'.

And so to my title today, another of his sayings.  It seems obvious.  With Christmas just around the corner, we would be in December, or at least late November, when days of warm wall-to-wall sunshine were most definitely not the norm.  So they were 'dull days' occurring before - or in his word 'afore' - the festival.  But I question whether there might not be a deeper meaning to this.

This week passed, as have many lately, very quickly.  In fact, last night I wrote an e-mail asking if someone would be around 'tomorrow lunchtime', only to get a swift correcting reply informing me that I meant Saturday!  My mind had surpassed itself in trying to cope with the speed of one day following another.  But the fullness of time that always makes the days pass quickly has comprised a sequence of things that are, of themselves, just routine.  For several weeks now, there has been a single pattern to my week, that has repeated over and over again, with no specific highlight.

The first signs of excitement leading up to Christmas began on December the first, the day before the start of the church's season of Advent.  For a number of years now, we have gathered in the church hall to sing carols, watch the children decorating the tree and sing carols around the piano before joining in a fish-and-chip supper.  It is accepted that this will happen and, through the diligent and thorough preparation of a dedicated few, it happens.  Although special of itself, it has now become commonplace.

The next regular event is the bell-ringers' Christmas dinner, another year-after-year occasion that has become routine.  A few years ago we used to go to a different pub each year, but maybe with age has grown laziness, and for several years now we favour the pub across the road from the church; it's convenient and offers good food at an acceptable price.  Sometimes I used not to go, either because of the unpredictability of work or simply for fear of the discomfort of a heavy meal late in the day.  These days, with no work considerations, or perhaps just not caring so much, I prefer fellowship with discomfort against neither.

For me, the first unusual event this year came last Saturday when I accepted an invitation to a party.  I'll admit it, I'm not naturally a party animal but there was something about this one, not least that it was an afternoon do, that attracted me.  It was something to look forward to and, came the day, I really enjoyed it.  There was plenty of good food, the company was of mixed ages so it was easy to find someone to talk to and, with children present, there was a good supply of non-alcoholic drink too.

So the spell of 'dull days' - whether meteorologically dull or not - comes to an end.  This weekend will see the church's carol service, another annual event, but here there will be the highlight of musical challenges not hitherto attempted by our choral group, and the excitement of seeing just how our new vicar will deal with this important festival, when many who don't attend church on a weekly basis will be coming along.

A Puzzle Still Unresolved!

Two weeks ago I wrote about a family 'secret' that I hope to unlock upon receipt of some documents from the National Archives.  Whilst waiting for these, I've busied myself looking into the family of my great-aunt's ex-husband.  I found one of his siblings in the 1911 Census, living in the village of Finningham, where I didn't think I'd found any relatives up to now.  As I scrolled through my spreadsheet to enter the details, however, I found I was wrong.  Already there was the Game family, the entry for which bore a number of anomalies.  Since I couldn't remember them, I retraced my steps to find out more.

Walter Game was born in Rickinghall Superior on New Year's Eve at the end of 1866.  In the spring of 1891, he married Ellen Kerridge, some three years his junior ... and many months pregnant!  Ellen was one of the 'distant twigs' related to my cousin's husband - his first cousin twice removed, in fact - and she was added to my records as part of the 'great clear-up' following my mammoth Golden Wedding exercise at the start of last year ... which is why her married name meant nothing to me!  I later discovered that she is also distantly related to me.  Through my father's family, she is my third cousin, once removed.

Walter and Ellen settled in Rickinghall, and began to raise a family with daughters Lily, born in their first summer there, Maud Ellen, born early in 1893 and Daisy Jane, born late in 1898.  Their fourth child was born in the summer of 1900 but sadly, either as a direct result of the birth or very soon afterwards, Ellen died.  Walter was distraught; it appears that he didn't even think to register the child's birth ... although Ellen's death is registered.  There was no way he could look after a new-born child and work to provide for his other three daughters.  He engaged a housekeeper, one Sarah Haddock, to cater for their needs and in the 1901 Census, he is shown as a horseman on a farm, with the two eldest girls attending the local school.  The baby, who was given the names Ellen Sparkes: the spark of life her mother left, is recorded with Ellen's parents and siblings, some 17 miles away in Old Buckenham.

The little girl didn't stand much chance without her mother, however, and lived just to the age of three, staying with her grandparents for the rest of her short life.  By the end of 1905, Walter had established a new relationship and married Elizabeth Seeley.  Soon his elder children left home and found work.  In 1911 Maud was a servant at a hotel in Felixstowe and her father's entry - the one that prompted this reverie - shows the household moved from Rickinghall to Church Farm, Finningham.  On the face of it, a normal household had emerged from the tragedy of the past.  Walter was listed as a waggoner and, in addition to his new wife, were shown his younger daughter Daisy, now 12, and an 8-year-old boarder May Garner; the two girls were at school.

One of the advantages of seeing the 1911 Census on line is the fact that we can see a facsimile of the actual form completed by our ancestors.  I mentioned at the start that there were some anomalies here; this particular form is the invitation to a mystery, only part of which have I solved.  It appears that Walter entered his own name, that of his wife and their ages ... and signed the form at the bottom.  All the other details were added by another hand and using a different ink, so possibly at a different time and/or place.  The information presented for Walter and Daisy appears, if not correct (and who can judge that after 118 years?), then at least plausible, and correct as to their ages and birthplace.  However, unlike the majority of women, Elizabeth declined to provide the detail of how long she had been married to Walter and the statistics regarding any children they had had, leaving all those boxes completely blank.  And whoever filled in the rest of the form claimed not to know where either Elizabeth or the 8-year-old boarder May had been born.

Were these details genuinely unknown to a third party who completed the form?  Or did Elizabeth fill in the form, having some reason for not admitting them?  After many attempts to find out more, I discovered that Elizabeth was born Elizabeth Coe, daughter of Edward & Hannah, in Ixworth during the latter part of 1856.  At the age of 14, she was kitchen maid to the vicar of Earls Colne in Essex and in 1879 she married a bricklayer, Samuel Seeley, who was a few years older.  They lived in Euston, over towards Thetford, but never had any family.  When Samuel died in 1899, Elizabeth stayed in the village and ran a grocery shop from her home.  What brought Walter Game and her together we don't know, and nor do we know why he didn't complete the census form he'd started in 1911.

The other mystery is the boarder.  I've been unable to trace the birth of a May Garner of that age - a challenge made more difficult by the absence of her birthplace.  It's possible, of course, that her name was changed, or that she was known by a different name than that in which she was registered.  There is no way of knowing.

When Elizabeth died in 1934, her age was recorded as 75, consistent with what had been given in that census.  Walter obviously came to terms with his earlier traumas;  in 1939 he was retired and living alone in Finingham and he survived just long enough to see the end of the war.

Parallel Lines

There are times when, as you look back along the river of time, you can see how one strand in your life grew out of, or was spawned by, another.  I don't have to look back far this week for just such an incidence.  A year after I joined the Liberal Democrats in 2015, I was motivated ... or inspired ... or maybe just knobbled by a strong sense of newly empowered enthusiasm and the freedom of retirement.  The outpouring of these emotions - however identified - was that I spent five or six days over a period of three weeks helping at the campaign headquarters of the LibDems in the Witney by-election, that followed the resignation of David Cameron.

A year later, when a General Election was called, I was similarly motivated, emotions this time being strengthened by an 'old school tie' dimension, helping the campaign of the daughter of one of my school-friends as she tried to win the St Albans seat for the party.  The upshot of these two expeditions was that I acquired a good idea of some of the mechanics behind an intensive political campaign.

At the end of 2016, I found myself the victim, if that's not too strong a word, of a somewhat chaotic campaign of a different kind.  For many years our church has endeavoured to put a Christmas card through the door of every dwelling in the parish.  On this particular occasion the campaign to achieve this had not been well managed and some cards that were intended to be delivered by me had found their way to someone else, who sent me a text or an e-mail - I can't remember which - as a result of which I drove across the town to collect and deliver them.  Since the day was broken, and I had little else to do, I called in the church to see if there were any more to be taken round.  I duly found some and was quickly walking around a new estate, merrily popping cards through letterboxes.

My tranquillity was shattered when, after a cordial greeting to a friend across the road, our conversation revealed that she'd delivered to those same houses that very morning!  Uncertain how this had happened, but determined that it shouldn't happen again, the following year the two of us joined forces to prepare a parish-wide plan by which a few dozen willing volunteers could be recruited to achieve the desired result with no confusion, duplication or omission.  The plan was essentially based on some of those canvassing techniques I had witnessed in operation in Witney and St Albans; our efforts were welcomed, and proved most successful.

This year, after some delay resulting no doubt from oversight, a knock-on effect of the general trying-to-do-everything situation in the vacancy between losing one vicar and getting the next, I find myself in the midst of another Christmas card 'campaign'.  The cards were finally delivered yesterday, unpacked and counted into batches of 25, ready to be bundled street by street into delivery walks for volunteers to deliver next week.  It all sounds simple and straightforward, doesn't it?  And, indeed, it has been ... compared to the chaos of former years. 

The trouble is people ... isn't it always?  They grow old, suffer accidents, illnesses and disabilities, and whereas a year ago they were enthused to walk along with a bundle of 50 or 100 cards, in and out of gateways, sometimes up flights of stairs to flats, now they would rather do 20 with a friend, or perhaps none at all.  With the first 'event' of the Christmas calendar taking place tomorrow, the cards not being bundled until tomorrow morning, and still short of fifteen volunteers, time is against us, to say the least.  But we shall give it our best shot.  More cannot be asked of us at this late stage.

Meanwhile on the parallel track, last night saw the Annual General Meeting of our local Liberal Democrat branch, when my brief spell as acting secretary ended and was replaced by a formal election to the office.  If nothing else, as I get older, suffer accidents, illnesses and disabilities, (where have I seen that phrase before?) it will keep me off the streets and away from doorsteps ...!

Things Old and New ... and Something that's Both!

The week (at least the bits I'm writing about) started and ended with peace and quiet in good company.

Last weekend I spent with my cousin and, in keeping with a habit recently developed on these occasions, on Sunday I took the bus into Nottingham.  As I walked down the aisle I could see that, for a Sunday morning, there seemed to be a lot of people on board and every seat was occupied by at least one passenger already.  I made to sit down next to a woman who quickly realised that the bags beside her would be in my way.  As she cleared the seat, she said, "There you are, sweetie!" which, coming from a lady only a few years younger than me, didn't seem in the least cheeky but more in keeping with the easy-going East Midland culture.

My destination was the Quaker Meeting House where, now on my third visit there, I took a seat briefly in the lounge chatting with one or two familiar faces before going into the meeting room.  After the hour's silence, interrupted by only two pieces of ministry, there was - in common with many places of worship these days - a chance for conversation over coffee and cake, where I enjoyed company with new friends as well as those now becoming established.

I returned from my break soon enough to get up on Monday morning for the usual prayer breakfast and life quickly returned to normal.  In addition to a Lib Dem AGM this week, and preparations for our own branch's AGM next week, there has also been a quick re-run of the results of last year's exercise to organise the distribution of the church's Christmas cards, with their arrival expected next week.  But by far the greatest non-routine time consumption this week has been family history.

Whilst with my cousin last weekend, we discovered that my records don't include the marriage date for our eldest maternal great-uncle and his wife.  As I began to look into this on Monday afternoon, I found that my record of our great-aunt's maiden name differed from one place to another!  The source of this apparent discrepancy indicated that the lady had not only been previously married, but that this marriage had ended in divorce scarcely a year before her second ... which possibly explains why little was known about this great-uncle compared to our grandmother and their four other siblings.

Amazingly, I discovered this unsavoury event listed on the National Archives website although, since these records aren't digitised, I could go no further online.  However, for the outlay of only £8.00, I have requested a 'page count', which will reveal the cost of sending me a copy by e-mail of the documents, which will hopefully unfold the detail of a close family story that has remained hidden from us for all of our lives!

Today I spent the morning on one of the hospice vans, servicing four of their retail shops and also collecting donations from a fifth.  After spending a surprisingly enjoyable hour or so unloading the product of these calls and helping to reload the van for this afternoon's deliveries, I joined my fellows at the dining table relaxing over my packed lunch before walking home for an afternoon ... at the keyboard once more.

Lots of Effort ... and Quid Pro Quo

Do you sometimes get weeks when you know you've been busy, but you can't see just what you've achieved?  This has been one of those weeks.  It started, like many, with the men's breakfast at the church, for which we managed a full turnout of the regulars, despite some being engaged at an evening gathering on Sunday night.

Then came an errand that could have been avoided if I'd had my wits about me a week before.  Among my church responsibilities is that of being one third of the team responsible for the parish magazine.  Each issue includes a 'spotlight' profile of one of the church family that results from a personal interview with me.  I went on one such visit last week and was so impressed by the personal history thus revealed to me that I completely forgot to take a picture of my 'victim'.  On Monday morning, therefore, I paid my guest a second visit solely for this purpose.

Another chunk of my 'spare time' is devoted to the local branch of the Liberal Democrats, of which I have temporarily assumed the role of secretary following the resignation of the elected officer during the summer for personal reasons.  This is normally a quite undemanding role but, with our AGM coming up in a few weeks, there are certain preliminaries to be observed.  Most of our members received an invitation to this by e-mail last week; however, we don't have e-mail addresses for all of them, so the others had to be telephoned ... and guess on whose shoulders that responsibility fell!  The other job that I fitted into my busy Monday was preparing the paperwork ready for the meeting itself.

This week there was no drop-in, where I usually help on a Thursday morning, so I quickly found a replacement for my only other obligation this weekend and left to spend a few days with my cousin in Eastwood. When we made the arrangement for this a couple of weeks ago, it seemed convenient - with my ready agreement - for her to arrange a visit to the vet for the family cat and also an out-patient appointment at the local hospital, both of which could more easily be achieved using my car than needing to resort to a taxi or public transport.

It's always good to feel useful. Occasionally one feels that all one has contributed to a relaxing weekend is one's company, but sometimes there are ways of repaying hospitality, that somehow restore the balance in a family relationship.

Secrets Revealed

This week's post reverts to the old standby, the diary ... or, put another way, "what have I done this week?" Two particular incidents in the week stand head and shoulders above the rest of mundane me and I'm ashamed to say that they reveal my prejudice and my senility.

A few months ago I used my hairdresser as an illustration in my 'other' blog.  You can see what I said here.  More recently, I discovered that she was pregnant, and she has now left the salon on maternity leave (or permanently, for all I know!).  Knowing that she only worked certain days, alternating with a colleague, I always made sure that I visited on the days when she would be there because (as your curiosity about my other blog will by now have revealed), she did a good job.

Now her colleague is there all the time and I have to say that there's something about him that I don't like.  I'm not sure what it is but, when - and it seems that it can't be soon enough for me - the time comes for the wave of the mirror behind my head and the inevitable, "Is that all right for you, sir?" and the equally predictable follow-up, "can I do anything else for you today, sir?", I'm very quick to pronounce my complete satisfaction, and release myself from the self-imposed prison of that chair, pay my dues and leave.

If it's such a bad experience, I hear you ask, why don't you go somewhere else?  The main reason is that I can't be bothered, added to which there is usually a parking space within 50 yards of the door.  So this episode reveals not only my prejudice but also my laziness.

Turning the diary page, as it were, the other evening I cooked some pasta for my dinner.  It seemed a good quick option, since I would be going out soon afterwards.  Once the water had come to the boil, I decided that I would have time while it was cooking to go into the bedroom and get changed.  I'd just about finished when I became aware of a burning smell and dashed back to find the kitchen rapidly filling with smoke.

Now, it's my habit - for safety's sake - to switch the cooker off at the wall in addition to switching off the hob I've used and, of late, I have become a little haphazard as to which I do first.  Clearly the last time I had used the cooker I had turned the wall switch off first and then my attention had been diverted before my hand had moved to the control for the grill, for it was this that now caused the problem.  Another habit - one I have now forsworn! - has been to leave the removable handle for the grill-pan on the pan and shut the whole inside the grill compartment out of the way.  In the few minutes I had been away, the heat from the enclosed grill had begun to melt the plastic of the handle and fumes were starting to fill the whole flat.  How long before a raging inferno would have developed I dread to think.

Needless to say, windows were opened, and a blower called into play to try to clear the air, but the smell lingered for quite a while ... and, indeed, can still be detected on returning from outside.  My meal consumed and the washing up done, I went out for my meeting and thought no more of the matter until I returned, probably not an hour-and-a-half later, to find the road to the car park blocked by a fire engine.  I pulled up behind it and was wondering what to do, when the driver got out of the cab and came towards me.   He asked if I needed to get past, and I indicated the car park, the entrance to which he had blocked, whereupon he asked which flat I lived in.  When I told him, he was immediately on the radio to his colleague in the hallway to say I had arrived.  I was just in time to save the firemen the task of battering the door down to see where the smell was coming from!

At the time, I agreed with their comment that I had very kind and thoughtful neighbours who had smelled the fumes and called the emergency services, but since, in the calm light of day, I have recalled the disaster of Grenfell Tower, and called to mind the speed with which a fire starting in the kitchen of one flat had spread to the whole block.  Perhaps what had been thought initially to be a kind and neighbourly gesture was really simply one of self-preservation!  All in all, it's been a week to prompt deeper self-examination!

Folk Wisdom, Pre-Facebook

If you're old enough to remember life before Facebook, then I'm sure you'll be familiar with the grubby sheets of untidy typescript that were pinned to scruffy noticeboards, were sellotaped to workshop calendars and found their way to 101 other useful (or not) places in the factories and offices of the kingdom.  Here would be found 'Ten Key Rules of the Office' or '25 Uses for a Paper Clip'.

One of these came to mind this morning. It purported to be a guide to performance appraisal and in the section headed 'Communication' it suggested that someone who far exceeded requirements might talk to the Almighty, someone who merely out-passed them talked to angels and someone who just met requirements would talk to himself.  Those needing improvement would argue with themselves, while complete failures would lose those arguments.  I'm sure you get the picture of the sort of rubbish that amused us in those far-off days.  Living alone, I'm usually talking to myself or, put another way, I voice my thoughts aloud; sometimes I discuss plans with myself in strange accents or foreign tongues.

As I confessed recently, I've just started working a couple of days a week in the warehouse of the local hospice, which has tightened up some of the loose time in my average week.  Last week, the senior driver-cum-transport manager there was planning cover for his holiday and, being short of a replacement driver for Wednesday, asked if I would be willing to fill the gap.  As a one-off, I accepted the challenge and said I would, making adjustments and sacrifices in order to do so; earlier this week I had been debating with myself the wisdom of accepting this invitation to broaden the skill-base that I'm offering.

The occasion arrived and - with a confidence that, frankly, surprised me - I clambered aboard this box van that I'd never driven before and, after finally finding out how to start the engine, set it in motion towards the local roads.  The day went well and, as a bonus, I discovered on my return a chair outside that was destined for scrap, which was in considerably better condition than the one on which I would otherwise be sitting as I write this blog.  A beneficial exchange was duly made that would probably not have been possible had I not been working until this morning as would have otherwise been the case.

Today, spending all the time at home, I have been available to open the windows for painters to refresh the outside of the block, I have dusted and cleaned to an extent that exceeds normal practice and I have mended a bookcase that was in need of a couple of new pins in the back. I can also make suitable preparations to attend a conference tomorrow, some two-and-a-half hours' drive away.

As I discussed with myself today the merits of making this exchange, my alter-ego adopted a Yorkshire accent and told me, 'Tha wert reet!'

The Truth (as I See it Now!) About Maria

A few weeks ago I watched a performance of The Importance of Being Ernest.  It was the first time I'd seen the play since sitting mesmerised at the age of eleven watching the school performance at the end of my first term at high school.  On the safety curtain at this performance, which was screened to our local cinema directly from the Vaudeville Theatre in London's West End, was projected a quote from the author, Oscar Wilde: "If one tells the truth, one is sure, sooner or later, to be found out."

I think I can see why it is that these words have stuck in my mind ever since!  It was very soon afterwards that I mentioned in this blog the death of my great aunt Maria just before the end of the nineteenth century; as I did so, I wondered how it was that I knew that she had died in Accrington.  I have recorded most deaths by the registration district, but usually the only reference to a specific location is from the burial register and, mostly this would be the case when death pre-dated the start of national registration in 1837.  On searching my database I found that I had noted this from the edition of the Accrington Observer and Times of 30th May, 1896.  Intrigued, I looked in my files for a copy of the obituary ... no sign of it!

I decided that I had probably looked it up in the on line newspaper collection on Find my Past ... that title isn't digitised yet.  Could it have been via Lancashire library service ... one of the few for which you don't have to be resident to subscribe?  As I tried - without success - to retrace my research of some years ago, I discovered a post on Genes Reunited from someone called Valerie, whose great-grandfather was one Fred Cubitt ... my great aunt's youngest son.  My enthusiasm was stoked and I hastily took out a month's subscription to enable me to post a message to Valerie ... before realising that this message was posted over eight years ago!  Unsurprisingly, I have had no reply.  I did note, however, that one respondent in 2010 had kindly provided the local birth references from Preston record office for five of the children and I thought it a good idea to make a note of these.

This is where the Oscar Wilde quotation becomes relevant for, having stated that great aunt Maria had 'married and raised a family of six children', I then discovered that - depending on definitions and parameters - she could be truthfully said to have raised a family of five, seven or eight children ... but not six, as I firmly believed to be true when I wrote it.  I knew that Maria's eldest daughter was born in 1871, before she had left Suffolk, and I assumed that the birth references that I was now about to collect related to the other five children, born between 1877 and 1889.  As I noted them, however, I realised that the two eldest, born 1877 and 1880, were missing from the list and two new names had appeared in the midst of the other three I knew about, giving a total of seven Lancashire births, plus the eldest daughter, making a family of eight.

This discovery has prompted many evenings of further research into the family ... and I expect there will be more to come!  I suspect the eldest daughter, Suffolk-born Annie, never really felt part of the family. She was so much older than the other children, and was almost five when her mother married Stephen Cubitt.  In the 1881 census she was named as Cubitt and correctly described as 'step-daughter' to Stephen, but ten years later, by which time she was nineteen, she was called Evans and listed, bizarrely, as his 'sister-in-law'.  She retained her mother's maiden name up to her marriage in 1894.

The two hitherto 'unknown' sons were Arthur and Willie. Arthur died in the summer of 1884 at a maximum age of five months; Willie was born a year later and died in 1889 without either of them having appeared on a census, which explains why I had no record of their existence.

I have now traced most of the other children's families down several generations and have linked in the mysterious Valerie who started the whole stampede for truth ... although I'll probably never have any contact with her.  The eldest Cubitt daughter, Mary Ellen, appears to have led a single life, since I've found a possible death of Mary E Cubitt at about the right age in 1958, but more verification will be required before I can accept this, since she died in Paddington!

Annoyingly, though, I still haven't found that news cutting about Maria's death!

Bells Then and Now!

I'm amazed that in the last seven years and more, this blog has now passed the 400 mark.  Since stepping out with some hesitation on May Day 2011, I dread to think how far those 'Four Wheels' have travelled.  And, as edition no. 401 hits the air-waves, I'm looking forward to several more miles being covered tomorrow ... although it won't be me behind the wheel this time.  It's the occasion of our annual Autumn Ringing Outing, and I'm being picked up at 8.25 for a day in Bedfordshire and Buckinghamshire.

With this excursion in mind, I woke up one night this week to find myself recalling my first such outing.  About six months after I'd learned to ring, the old chap who had taught me was asked if he would be prepared to visit the church in nearby Palgrave, where there were a number of youngsters who would like to learn to ring their bells.  After expressing his willingness to undertake the challenge, Bertie asked me if I'd like to go along to help.  I suspect he thought the additional practice would be good for me and, whether by design or not, it certainly worked out that way. 

Once all of the learners could safely handle a bell, there was no need for Bertie to attend every week and, within a year or so, I was there every Friday evening running the practices and teaching them to ring simple methods.  By the summer of 1972 we were looking for further adventures.  I suggested an outing with a difference.  With transport limited, we opted to travel by train to Norwich, spend the morning exploring and then do a little ringing in the afternoon.  The older beginners - the village's rector and his churchwarden, both of whom were probably in their sixties - didn't find this appealing, and declined the invitation.

So the party set forth one sunny Saturday morning.  I was accompanied by Mark, a work colleague who often helped with the practices, and possibly his sister Debbie, who was also a ringer, and we took Mary, the churchwarden's daughter, Colin and Roger, two brothers of whom Colin subsequently became a much more accomplished ringer than I ever did, and another boy named Stan.  Of these I was the eldest, in my early 20s and, with the exception of Mark, all the rest were at secondary school.  None of us had any recognised accreditation; there were no health and safety considerations in those days.

The morning was spent visiting three churches where there were bells that were no longer rung.  The first was St Stephen's in the city centre, then very much on the decline and with three bells that were never rung, and then we moved on to St John de Sepulchre, which at the time had eight fine bells that weren't rung because the tower was unsafe.  We were met by a robed priest who exhorted us not to attempt to do so.  These bells were later sold and split up.  Six of them were installed at Erpingham in the north of Norfolk, and the other two enabled the six at East Harling to be made up to the octave. 

I was present at the dedication of that new ring, which was preceded by a quarter peal that has lingered in my memory.  For some reason the start had been delayed and with the congregation all assembled the vicar announced that 'we will wait for the ringers to finish'.  Aware of this, we were aware of a slight increase in the speed of the ringing and all hoped they wouldn't make a mistake.  Suddenly, on three consecutive strokes, the conductor called, "Bob! That's all! Stand!" signifying the end of the composition, instructing the end of ringing and finally the setting of the bells ... and the dedication could proceed.

Our third exploration was at St Clements where there were three bells in a frame that was in such a dangerous condition that we wouldn't have been allowed up there today.  A picture exists of the four youngsters having just emerged into the sunlight on the top of the tower after climbing through the bells and all around that dodgy frame!

After our packed lunches had been eaten, we were met by a celebrated local ringer, the Revd. Gilbert Thurlow, shortly before his elevation to become dean of Gloucester Cathedral.  He was very familiar with the churches of Norwich, and told us much about the places we'd been to and also those where we were going to.  Much of what he told us probably went over our heads, but we felt it a great privilege to have him ring with us at St George's, Colegate and St Michael Coslany.

Tomorrow our greatest challenge will be the fine ten at SS Peter & Paul, Olney, where the bells are well over twice the weight of those at our home tower!  With luck, we will be welcomed by a local ringer who will be able to help where needed, but I'm sure neither this privilege nor any dangers we face will match those experiences of 46 years ago!

The Length of a Generation

Today's post begins with a history lesson.  Ask people what they know about the history of Texas and many - in this country at any rate - will respond with blank faces.  Some who were brought up on stories of cowboys and the Wild West might mention Davy Crockett and the Alamo, but few would go beyond that.  One of my schoolboy fascinations was the geo-political history of the USA; as a result I remembered that Texas was briefly an independent republic before being annexed by the United States in 1845. 

My attention was drawn this week to an item broadcast on CBS Evening News of 6th March 2018, which informed me that the President who signed the Decree of Annexation was John Tyler.  Tyler became the first Vice-President to succeed to that role when his predecessor, William Henry Harrison, died in April 1841 after only a month in office.  The focus of the news item this March was the discovery that - amazingly for a man born in 1790 - two of his grandsons are still alive!  The younger of the two, Harrison Ruffin Tyler, was interviewed with his son at the family home in Charles City, Virginia, which President Tyler had renovated for his second wife, Julia.

Julia was only 22, and some thirty years younger than her husband, when they married after the death of his first wife, Letitia, in 1842.  After raising a family of eight children with Letitia, the President went on to have a second family of seven with Julia.  Of these, Lyon Gardiner Tyler, the third son and fifth child was born in 1853.  Lyon's life followed the pattern of his father, to the extent that he re-married following the death of his first wife.  Lyon's second wife was 35 years his junior, and bore him three sons, the youngest of whom died in infancy.  Harrison, the second son, was born in 1928 when his father was 75 years old.

As a result of learning about the Tyler family this week, my thoughts have been focused on my own.  As a small boy, a pattern of births was revealed to me that was probably one of the earliest seedlings of my interest in genealogy.  Three girls were born in successive years following my birth, as cousins who had married before my arrival started their respective families.  I was the last of one generation; these three, born of three different sets of parents, were the start of the next one.

I have often commented with some amusement on the Biblical precedent followed by my father, who was John, born of Zachariah and Elizabeth (see Luke ch. 1).  However, unlike the Baptist, dad wasn't executed in his mid-thirties, but lived two days beyond his eightieth birthday, and gave me the best upbringing his meagre status would allow.  What I hadn't realised until after his death, was the fact that he missed only one unit of being that most fortunate of creatures, 'a seventh son of a seventh son'. 

I knew from the list in the family Bible that this Zachariah and Elizabeth had a family of twelve, of whom three children died within their first year.  I knew all the rest of them, five of whom were my uncles, but had never done the sum of adding in the son who died, which makes dad the seventh son.  I never knew anything of my grandfather's family until starting my researches, and I have often wondered just how much dad knew of them ... like so many families, it just wasn't a topic of conversation.  I now know that grandfather was one of ten children and just as my father was the youngest son, so was his father; with three elder sisters and one younger one, he was the sixth son of the family.

I have called this article the length of a generation; in the case of the Tyler family from the birth of John to the birth of his youngest surviving grandson was 138 years.  We can't compete with that! From my grandfather's birth to my own was a mere 81 years, and looking back another generation, my father's birth was only 79 years after his grandfather.  And it's a progressive trend, for the earliest I can go back is only one more generation and from the end of the eighteenth century I can say that my grandfather was born only 69 years after his grandfather!

I mentioned the succession of annual births that marked the transition from my generation to the next;  My favourite personal example of this phenomenon is the fact that, after migrating to Lancashire in search of work, my eldest great-aunt had married, raised her family of six children and died - albeit at the early age of only 45 - some four years before the turn of the twentieth century!

One Thing Leads to Another!

I may have used this title before but if so I've no compunction about using it again.  I'm sure I'm not the only one who has found it to be true, both in an immediate sense, and also when reflecting over past events and realising how they have led to later developments ... those 'if only ...' moments: some good, some bad.  This week's events have embraced examples of both short- and long-term categories. 

A year ago, I was prompted to go along with a few others as representatives of our church in response to a town-wide appeal to explore the possibility of starting a breakfast/drop-in facility to help the town's homeless or vulnerable citizens.  At that stage, my interest was purely from the point of view of information-gathering; nothing would persuade me to do anything in a kitchen or, for that matter, talk to strangers!  However, when a clipboard was passed round to collect names of those who would like to explore the idea further, it collected mine and gradually I was drawn in.

At first, I committed myself to 'the Ark' on a once a month basis to 'set the scene', putting tables and chairs out and so on.  After that I would stand by the serving hatch, sipping coffee and observing ... and feeling more and more uncomfortable about not taking an active part in what was going on.  The name ARK stands for Always Room for Kindness, and I felt uneasy that keeping my distance like this betrayed that aim.  Eventually one of the other helpers drew me into a conversation she was having with a 'client' and the ice was broken.  Soon my monthly visit became fortnightly and, having no competing commitment, I began attending every week.

In a conversation with that same helper one week, I think it was a comparison between her children growing up and leaving her some free time and my having retired that led to the revelation that she also volunteers at the local hospice, and the suggestion that there might be a need in their warehouse that could provide an application for some of my excess capacity.  Once I'd been accepted by the organisation, I determined that - as much for my own enjoyment as anything else - I wanted my commitment to be a versatile one.  I am therefore learning what is involved in collecting larger donations from houses, and servicing the retail shops that raise funds, and also computer work, processing books for bulk sale.  Inevitably, the odd items that, for one reason or another, can't be sold catch the eye as potentially of interest or use to the volunteers so, rather than see them scrapped, we are able to pay a small amount and claim them as ours.

When I brought home a couple of CDs this week, I realised that my already full cabinet wouldn't accommodate them, and space had to be made by selecting two unwanted ones to offer as donations on my next visit.  Today I spotted, sitting on top of a skip in the yard, what looked like a roll-top CD cabinet; further examination revealed that one of the roller doors was split.  I thought it could be mended and enquired about obtaining it for my use.  It was quickly mended - to my satisfaction, at least - and I set about filling it, only to discover that the width of the sections makes it more suitable for DVDs than CDs.  As a result, it is now filled with these and, by virtue of 'moving the space along', I have capacity for some more books on my shelves ... and a few cobwebs have been evicted in the process!

As if all this 'personal development' weren't enough, a few weeks ago, as I emerged from the theatre, I bumped into the chairman of my local Liberal Democrat branch, who asked me if I would take some minutes at that week's meeting.  This led to my agreeing to take on the secretary's duties up to the next Annual Meeting.  Following on from that, the need to circulate all members with information from time to time, led this week to my exploring the intricacies of MailChimp, which, after two sacrificed evenings on the altar of discovery, I would like to say I've just about mastered ... time alone will tell!

Come Again, Chum?

It's something I've heard many times ... I expect most of my readers have, as well.  In fact ... I wonder if they actually teach it in schools.  Or perhaps they used to but, since it seems to be so self-evident, maybe they no longer bother.  I'm talking (rubbish) about the idea that 'History repeats itself'.  I believe there's an American Indian saying, "Only an idiot does the same foolish thing a second time hoping for a different outcome!"  It says much the same thing, I think.

What's prompted this philosophical line of thought?  I may have mentioned before an e-book that I'm reading called "Cat and Mouse" by Tim Vicary.  It's set in the early months of 1914 ... a significant point in our history for many reasons.  I continue to marvel at the ingenious way this author has planted his principle male characters into the two main concerns of the day (viz. the Suffragettes and their fight for votes for women, and the Irish home-rule crisis), and then linked them by their marriage to two sisters.  I need give away no more of the plot than that to make my point ... it's a good read!

These two 'problems' had divided the people of our great nation.  No matter where one looked, it seems, there would be some who supported women getting the vote, and many others who opposed it vigorously.  Perhaps less on this island, but certainly on the other, there would have been a similar division of opinion regarding setting up a parliament in Dublin to govern the affairs of what geographically might be 'Lesser Britain' as opposed to 'Great Britain' (although I've never seen the former name in print).

And today, just over a century later, there are once more two great concerns in our land.  There are many - a growing number, we are told - who would like to see the end of the present electoral system, with its 'winner-takes-all' principle that worked when there were only Whigs and Tories, but so often results nowadays in a disproportionate outcome when compared to the way people voted, and its replacement by a proportional system such as operates in most other countries, and in the devolved institutions here.  The second current divider of our land goes by the name of 'Brexit' and is so often in the news that it needs no further expansion here.

In many ways the situation today reflects that of 1914.  One contention concerns the governing of the country while the other is about the means of conducting elections; both have large swathes of the population in favour and against, and both campaigns are vociferous in nature and involve occasional localised violence.

In 1914, with the King's reluctant intervention, the Home Rule Bill was passed but its implementation was shelved owing to the brief international crisis that led to the outbreak of war.  There was an ineffective rising in 1916, brutally quashed in the interests of focusing attention on the war, and once that was over, Ireland was torn apart by the War of Independence followed by a brief civil war. 

After the suspension of Suffragette activities during the war, accompanied by thousands of women taking on what had been exclusively men's work to aid the war effort, it was seen afterwards - whether correctly or not - as a 'pay-off' when in 1918 women over 30 and younger ones who were property owners were given the vote.  The remaining women had to wait another ten years.

In 1914, few ordinary people saw the war coming.  A minor headline in June reported an assassination on the other side of the continent, but on August Bank Holiday people were sunning themselves on the beaches as usual.  This week, a solitary District Council has passed a motion to set up a local commission to look at what Brexit will mean 'on the ground' ... just one, out of hundreds!

I can't help wondering at these comparisons ... and I'm praying that history doesn't, in this instance, repeat itself!

The Rich Variety of Life

It's good that my life includes a variety of both routines and exceptions that, in juxtaposition, can provide both pleasure and adventure.  After a very enjoyable weekend, the highlight of which was an unusual celebration, this week has seen an exciting new development.

The routine of the weekend was a 'normal' Sunday, with bell-ringing, helping with the singing and other rota duties at the church service and an afternoon and evening listening to radio and clicking away at the computer.  The complementary excitement came on Saturday afternoon, when I joined in an rare event being celebrated by one of my friends from church.  This week marks the twentieth anniversary of my friend's putting into effect her decision to come and live in this country.  In that time, she has developed - to a remarkable extent, in my opinion - her skills in our (very strange!) language, found a husband and become a very settled mother-of-two and significant contributor to our church family life.

The test match series might well have finished, but the cricket season is far from over.  While I was working, the radio would be on all day and, during a test match, it would be tuned to Test Match Special so long as I had a radio that would receive it.  Since my retirement, I hadn't listened to very much cricket, despite having a DAB radio on my sideboard.  This year, though, my interest has been re-kindled and I think I have listened to at least part of every day of the five-match series against India.  Alongside this, I have discovered that this wonderful facility is not confined to the test matches but, with all-day network links that rival those for coverage of League football at the weekend, all the Spec-savers Championship games have been broadcast live on local radio and relayed - according to which matches are most exciting - on TMS!

So I've been filling my listening hours by following this in-depth commentary on a sport that I never played apart from as a very green schoolboy ... with skill that eventually led to my being appointed scorer for the school team!  As I've done so, I've discovered that there is a very definite distinction between things I can and cannot do while there is cricket commentary in the background.  Something that involves intricate work with a spreadsheet is quite feasible, for example, while anything that requires reading and/or thought has to be postponed.  As a result, on occasion, I've spent long hours playing sudoku or snooker on my phone while other things have been 'parked' ... and then felt guilty about wasting my time!

A few months ago a friend made a passing reference to her voluntary activities in connection with a well known hospice based in our town and tossed out a comment about the variety of 'jobs' that are available there for willing volunteers.  Following my abortive exploration of a part-time job with my former boss the other week, I remembered this conversation, and decided to 'push another door'.  After a couple of misdirected phone calls, I struck lucky on Monday, and accepted an invitation to pop in for a chat.  After a description of all that goes on in their warehouse and a conducted tour, arrangements were made for me to go along for a 'taster' shift this morning. 

So far as I know, the operation is entirely self-funding, and to raise the necessary finance, the nearby towns support a chain of shops which both receive and sell a broad variety of donated goods.  As well as providing storage facilities, the warehouse is a base for distributing the goods between the various shops, so my chance to see the system in action involved being a working passenger on a van visiting a couple of the outlying high-street stores.  Next week, I shall hand in my application forms and decisions will be made whether, and in what way, I might make a regular appearance there.

September Mourning

It seems that, when September comes, it brings with it each year pretty much the same emotions about life's journey.  There are the annual pictures of little ones being left at the school gate with shiny new bag - or elder sibling's hand - clutched tightly, leaving a tear in mother's eye as another milestone in the life of her child passes, never to return.  Further down the line are similar, but perhaps more easily stifled, responses to later transitions: to a new school, or college or leaving for far-off parts as they put into practice those rudimentary aims for a 'gap year'.

Mother Nature is ever quick to respond with what my English teacher used to describe as 'her sympathetic background'.  We notice the browning of leaves as they prepare to line gutters instead of branches, and with advancing age comes the earlier noticing of lower temperatures, the need for an extra layer of clothing ... along with the frustration of its not being required during the middle of the day when that lingering sunshine still bears some power. 

One thing I noticed this year was the dormant spider hanging motionless for days on end, suspended in the large web on the outside of my kitchen window and looking for all the world as if it has passed its allotted life-span.  Then along comes the shower that I thought would be nature's undertaker, washing away the cadaver, only for me then to see that it has sprung to life once again and has scrambled to the security of the frame along which the edge of the web had been fastened.

This afternoon I attended the funeral of someone whom I had the privilege to know only for a small proportion of his nearly 87 years and, in the wake of this (sorry, no pun intended), it's easy for me to move my thoughts on from the autumn of the year, to the autumn of life itself.

Yesterday morning I found myself quite alone on arriving at the Salvation Army hall.  As I erected tables and spread a gingham check cloth on each one, something triggered recollection of a passing comment made to me by my mother (now dead these fourteen years) that she would like to have owned or run a small roadside tea-shop.  I thought of her 'looking down' at her son, performing the same tasks that would have suited that occupation.

I can't recall now when it was she told me this, nor - perhaps more significantly - at what phase of her life she had had this unfulfilled desire.  Did she consider this in her early adulthood, after a short while in domestic service, followed by a succession of jobs in retail?  How advanced, if at all, were her plans when they were possibly kicked into the long grass by the outbreak of war?  Or was this an ambition of more mature years, possibly with a prospective husband in mind?  Was it before or after she met my father?

So far as I remember, the matter was only mentioned once and I can only imagine that my response was simple acknowledgement, with no attempt to draw out any further detail.  The matter-of-fact attitude that I had to life in those days would probably have not considered it important enough to follow up.  Indeed it's taken me twenty or thirty years to remember it at all!  How different my life would have been if it had become reality!  One thing is certain ... I wouldn't have been writing this blog today!

Celebrations, but Alongside Disappointments

A few weeks ago, still dazed by the surprise, I described the remarkable circumstances that had led to the discovery of my second cousin's fiancée.  On that occasion the main topic of conversation was the detail of his relationship to me, partly in order to establish my own bona fides, and to convince this lady that I was no ordinary 'stage door lounger'.  Consequently I came away knowing very little about her other than her name.

Last Saturday was their wedding day.  I hadn't expected an invitation on the strength of nothing more than that encounter, and so had gone to watch an FA Vase tie at Ely, where the local team were playing Norwich United, a club that has fascinated me ever since I first learned of their existence some eight years ago.  I'd never seen them play, but as a Norfolk boy myself, I was hoping they would win.  Amidst groans from the home fans, they scored the first goal and were 2-1 up at the interval.  Ely then scored again after the break, making the scores equal after 90 minutes and extra time was called for, during which three more goals left the home team 4-3 winners.

I returned home to restore my spirits by taking advantage of arrangements that had been made to stream the wedding on Facebook.  Thanks to the consideration of a musical couple who were well aware that there would be many friends and relatives for whom distance and/or space in the hall would preclude attendance, I was able to sit in rapt enjoyment, a virtual fly-on-the-wall for an hour-and-a-half, absorbing and vicariously sharing the happiness of their afternoon.  Little did I know that more delight was even then being prepared.

All that I had been able to glean about the bride from the internet since our encounter had been purely speculative.  On Monday and Tuesday, Facebook carried a number of individual collections of photos from the nuptials and, from the various comments on the pictures, I was able to confirm some of my findings and refute others, and to build up sufficient detail to enable me with confidence to add her to my family tree records.  I had been quite amazed by the streaming of the wedding ceremony; on Monday I discovered that the same means had been used to provide a couple of hours viewing of an entertainment that this enterprising couple had devised for the Saturday evening!  Some of the photos also revealed the ritual disfigurement of the going-away vehicle, which had required some cleansing activity to make it legal to drive!

On Tuesday evening, football once more took pride of place in my activities. Ten days before, I had been at an FA Cup match that had had to be abandoned after 58 minutes (with my favoured team 3-2 ahead) because of serious injuries to two of the visiting players.  This Tuesday saw the re-match, which started off well, but the strength of the opposition was too much and I left after watching a 5-3 demolition of the locals' Cup hopes.

All was not lost, excitement-wise, however, for there was more celebration to come last night, when our church saw the installation of the lady who is now (I almost wrote 'to be', which has been the case since her selection some months ago now, and has become habitual) our new Vicar.  Although her authority takes effect at a specific moment - like when at a wedding the priest says, 'you are man and wife' - she has been 'on the scene' for a few weeks since moving into the vicarage.  During this time the family have been settling in and undergoing the same transitions that anyone does on moving house.  Meanwhile, there has been infrequent, informal contact with key people in the church in order to make various necessary arrangements.  In no way did this detract from the sense of occasion when the Bishop proclaimed, 'You have a new vicar!' and the clapping, cheering and whooping would have rivalled that at many a stadium to greet a winning goal!

Sadly winning goals didn't figure in my diary this week, but there has been more than adequate compensation!

Facing up to Reality

There comes a time when you have to face facts.  What's gone is gone ... lost and gone forever!  Such a time came for me this week.  It's over two and a half years now since that memorable Friday in December, when I had great difficulty starting my van after I'd fuelled up for two deliveries in Norfolk.  As I carried out those final duties, it became apparent that the end had come.  My friendly garage confirmed my suspicions that, if I wanted to use it any more, that van would need considerable investment.  It was time to stop work and enter full-time retirement.

As I've responded to friends enquiring about my coping with not driving, I miss it.  I don't miss the actual work: kneeling in the van, neatly packing boxes of print to get another job on with them, dropping something heavy on my finger as I try to unload it, or scouring Google maps before going to bed so I would be able to find a faraway factory at 6.0 in the morning.  What I miss is the good bits: eating a meal at a truck-stop amidst other drivers after a long day on the road, the excitement of getting on or off a ferry, and the midnight magnificence of topping a rise of an up-and-down road and coming face to face with the full moon to show me the way home.

When I learned last spring that my former boss had started a new company that basically re-kindled the business he had sold three years before, I wondered about driving for him again.  After briefly discussing it with friends, I did nothing about it, but it's a thought that has haunted me ever since, until last weekend, when I decided it was time to 'kill or cure' the ghost of the past.  With the general idea of dedicating a day a week to the project, I e-mailed Dave asking if we could 'explore the possibility of my rejoining the team' and on Wednesday I paid him a visit in his smart new office ... which stands on the site of a factory where, some ten years before, I had collected plastic mouldings for delivery.

After the anticipated greetings from all around, we talked seriously about my requirements and it quickly became clear that, while I would be most welcome to return on the same basis as before - i.e. as an owner-driver - there was no opening for a one-day-a-week driver, and the expense of hiring a van, or buying and insuring my own, for that level of activity would result in a negative rather than positive impact on my financial situation.

So where does this leave me?  Certainly with no resentment; it's financial common sense.  To spend more than I earn would be folly, and I couldn't expect any favourable guarantee of the most profitable jobs to cut my loss, but should have to take my chances alongside the regular drivers.  I still yearn to travel and see familiar if distant places, but these appetites will have to be confined to holidays and kept within the mileage limit that applies to my new car.

As to the use of that 'spare' day that I would have offered to Dave, I feel that I'm being nudged towards following up possibilities of other voluntary work in addition to my support for the weekly drop-in where I help on Thursday mornings.

Home is Where the Heart is

In the sunshine of Tuesday afternoon, I decided to go for a walk.  Nothing unusual there, of course; I try to get out at least once a week, maybe walking to the shops or to sit in the park for a few minutes before walking back; on this occasion I decided to go to the Common.  It's quite an extensive 'lung' in the middle of the Garden City, and its history goes back many centuries.  In one part the ridges and dips that can be seen are understood to be evidence of a medieval strip cultivation system.

My walk took me into an almost totally enclosed 'meadow' area, with a couple of trees in the midst.  Although quite close to the backs of houses that surround the Common, and within earshot of the open-air swimming pool, visually, I could have slipped back into a long-bygone age.  Peaceful tranquillity only partially describes the feelings I experienced.  From there, my chosen way home took me past the fragrant gardens of some of the early Garden City cottages, built just before the First World War.

Along the road, I noticed a sign I hadn't spotted before, indicating the presence of a playschool for the younger children living in that locality.  Alongside thoughts of frenetic mums trying to occupy their children during the long school holiday, my mind went back to my own early childhood on a housing estate, and the variety of things that might have occupied my own early summer days.  I muttered to myself as I walked along, 'Where is my home?' and then came the answer, 'Home is where the heart is.'

Perhaps it was with these thoughts still in the back of my mind that, the next morning, I realised that it would have been 75 summers ago that my uncle Charlie - whom I apparently closely resembled, as I had often been told as I grew up - had died while working on the Burma Railway as a prisoner of war.  Something made me check the actual date of his death - 21st August, 1943.  Tuesday was the 21st ... the anniversary.

Those walking thoughts now went back to a home that was a happy part of my childhood, not my own home, but that of my grandparents.  I would often be taken there - their house was just round the block from ours - and I came to look forward to such visits because it was quite likely that my cousin would be there as well, and we were often left to play together, while the grown-ups, our two mums and their mum, would get on with 'adult business' ... which was, of course, the real reason for the journey.  I believe that expression, 'Home is where the heart is' was originally '... where the hearth is'.

And Nanna's hearth was always a homely and welcoming place.  Beside her armchair was the wireless and above that, fixed to the wall, some bookshelves that could be accessed by climbing children willing to risk adult wrath!  Such exploits were sometimes rewarded, however, by being allowed to have some of the books down to read.  Although little of the contents would have been understood or appreciated by our young minds, the ability at least to read them was of no small benefit when we went to school!

As I look back I realise that, little more than ten years on from his death, there would still have been many memories in that home of our late uncle, plucked by the war from its midst in his early twenties.  One I clearly recall was a fretwork picture that he had made of RMS Queen Mary, although I don't remember where it used to hang.  He had built a cabinet for all his woodworking tools, which found its way into my teenage after the grandparents' home had been cleared.

Although Charlie died long before his sisters married, and many years before I was born, I can't remember a time when I was unaware of his existence.  The great loss they felt when he didn't return with his comrades at the end of the war was possibly prolonged because the three had been so close.  In a sense, he was still a very real part of their lives as I was growing up, and I'm sure that my physical resemblance to him played a significant part in my early life.  I have often said that my life began some years before I was born!

Lose (Loose?) Ends

After an interval of some months, I wrote on Wednesday evening to a not-to-distant cousin, (either genealogically or geographically ... she's only a second cousin and lives in the London area).  By way of a 'catch-up', I listed some of the technical and technological upheavals that seem to have bedevilled my life this year.  Looking back after two days, I realise that the first of this chain had evaded my memory - having to replace my SatNav back in February - and that, had I delayed my e-mail until today, I could have added the need to replace my printer ... the complete exercise of selecting collecting and installing of which occupied the whole of yesterday morning.

It occurs to me that the fact of my writing the e-mail at all is a reflection on a far greater loss of ends.  I have written many times previously on this blog (the latest of which was here) about my great-uncle George and the family that he raised in Ireland towards the end of the nineteenth century.  He was the second in my great-grandfather's family of ten children and, as I think of my father's awareness or otherwise of his Irish cousins, I mustn't lose sight of George's older sister, the first of the family, who lived in Lancashire and married there before my grandfather's eighth birthday - a story for another day.

The cousin to whom I wrote this week is the granddaughter of my maternal grandfather's sister.  That family comprised eleven children: nine boys, of whom my grandfather was the eldest, and two girls, who were the second and third in the sequence.  This was the first of three second cousins I've discovered in this family in the last two years.  I've recently made contact with a grandson of the youngest brother, and last summer I discovered a granddaughter of the second son (i.e. fourth child), who has the unusual distinction of also being related to another distant branch of my family ... albeit only through a brother's marriage!

The trouble with those large families of past generations is that one end's children get involved with the other end's grandchildren ... like a constantly-running roundabout!

We genealogists certainly discover tangled webs ... although it's doubtful whether they were ever intended to deceive!  Robbie Burns would have had a field day!

It's a Matter of Give and Take

I didn't know the date without looking it up, but 16th March 2014 marks a landmark in my life.  Its significance is apparent as I look around my home, for that was the day I first signed up to Freecycle.  Now part of 'Trash Nothing', it's a wonderful scheme by which anything that would otherwise find its way to the junk yard, or worse to landfill, can be offered to anyeone else who might be able to use it.

A bookshelf in my bedroom, my radiant heater, and the laminator in the cupboard all bear testimony to its success.  Some things have a complex story behind them; my desk, for example.  I arrived at my present home with a desk that was clearly too big for the room.  Via Freecycle I acquired a metal computer desk - the traditional design with a pull-out shelf for the keyboard - which was soon found to be too small for my needs.  By this time, the original desk had been collected by someone else.  I then saw offered a rosewood desk at a median size that would suit both my requirements and the room.  I contacted the owner and discovered that her situation was much the same as mine had been.  The rosewood desk was too big for her room and what she needed was the metal computer desk that I was saddled with ... Result x2!

Other things have come and gone by the same means.  I acquired a small lamp on a stand, which I could place behind my armchair as a reading light.  Months later, it was being offered again, after I found the ideal standard lamp lying in a lay-by, just a little buckled but easily recoverable.

Of course, it's a game of win and lose.  Several times I've posted a 'want' of a long-arm stapler, which has never materialised.  Clearly anyone who has one is hanging onto it for dear life!  On the other side, I've lost count of the times when I've expressed interest in something, and either been told that it had already been taken ... or heard nothing at all.  This happened the other day in the case of a two-manual keyboard. 

That's the most recent chapter of quite a long saga.  Some years ago, I had been offered a harmonium, at the time in the home of the offerer's parents.  Owing to the difficulty of co-ordinating communications between them and me, and the demands of my work, it ended with me hunting for their address at the same time as the parents, having given up on its being collected, had taken it to the dump!  I subsequently obtained an electric (as opposed to electronic) keyboard, but found after a while that I used it so little that its space was more valuable than its presence.  So far as this week's offer was concerned, had I been successful I would have been a little challenged to make room for it, but decided it was too good an opportunity to ignore.

This week, as well as the disappointment of the keyboard, I offered a number of items that had come out of my old car and for which no place could be found in the new.  At the same time, I also offered a small cafetiere that I realised I no longer use.  The car items were collected within hours of my post, but the lady who had expressed interest in the cafetiere cried off for reason of 'domestic chaos', so it's still on the shelf.

It's a great use of the internet, simple to use, and amazingly useful for anyone on a limited budget!

Broken and Twisted ... but not Bitter!

As hinted in my last post, this week's steep learning curve has been coming to terms with a new lady-friend, some ten years younger than the last, more sophisticated although less gymnastically capable, but hopefully less demanding and more reliable ... and I'm NOT talking about the saleslady!

Following the demise of Tina the Tigra, I questioned both the accessibility and the wisdom of getting another secondhand car.  Firstly, there was the problem of transport.  I could think of no secondhand dealer within walking distance, and only two on my regular bus-route, neither of whom fill me with confidence.  There are several main dealers in the town, but a glance at their websites told me that even their secondhand prices were beyond my resources.

The way forward seemed to be a contract on a new vehicle.  Although in many ways it's kicking the can down the road - a principle that I normally detest - it is a way out of an unacceptable situation.  In only two weeks, I realised both the frustration and the limitation of having to walk everywhere, whether directly or to get the nearest bus, which is a ten-minute walk over the railway bridge ... not to be considered lightly in the context of shopping, for example.  Church is a 20-minute walk, and to ring bells on Sunday was an impossibility to co-ordinate, it being a similar distance in the opposite direction.

So, I've been discovering the great electronic prowess of Keziah, my new VW Up! (what a name for a car! - 'Up!', not 'Keziah' - the latter was inspired by the registration letters, and means sweet smelling like cinnamon).  She also has a DAB radio, which promises cricket-filled journeys if they're cleverly planned!

The other learning associated with this transition is more of a puzzle ... and something of a caution.  I wrote the other week of the impressive speed with which the insurance company dealt with the aftermath of the accident.  It happened on Sunday; I rang my broker first thing on Monday to report it and was told to send the estimate for repair when I'd received it, which I did the next day.  That afternoon (Tuesday), the insurance company texted me to say they had been contacted by the third party's insurers and would I call them.

When I did so, and tried to explain that my brokers were handling this on my behalf, this was poo-poo'd, and I was persuaded to provide them with the estimate, which led to the prompt financial outcome later in the same week.  I heard nothing from the brokers until a week later, when they e-mailed to say they had sent the estimate to my insurers to authorise the repair!  Feeling that they were a waste of space, I sent off a caustic reply ... expecting to hear no more from them.  But this was not to be.

On Wednesday this week, came an apology from the brokers for their delay and what appeared to be a casual enquiry whether my policy excess had been deducted from the settlement, in which case they might be able to recover this from the third party's insurers.  When I replied that there had indeed been such a deduction, the brokers' response floored me.  "I'm surprised that this wasn't waived, since the third party insurer accepted liability very early into the claim."

Now, my insurer had advised me that, whoever had caused the accident, because I was the one driving onto the roundabout I would be deemed to be at fault.  Having suffered in a similar way some years ago, I reluctantly accepted this at the time as an 'insurance convention'.  Now I'm wondering just how much of these exchanges is 'insurance speak', and how much actually reveals what's going on.  I hadn't seen the other car until just before he hit me; I could have been a bit cursory in making sure nothing was coming, or he could have been coming at excessive speed (he was coming down a hill towards the roundabout).  Instinctively - as I suppose most drivers would - I felt it wasn't my fault, but I couldn't be sure.  If, as my insurer had led me to believe, there is a convention that made me at fault, why should the other insurer 'accept liability' ... unless his client had told him that he was to blame?

It's all water under the bridge now - or, more accurately, car on the scrap-heap - but it does leave me wondering just what is the relationship between insurer and broker, and how do their respective responsibilities to the client interweave?  Having accepted the Volkswagen insurance on my new car for the present, I have twelve months in which to ponder these things before I have to consider how to proceed next year.

Three Young Ladies and a Wardrobe

The received wisdom regarding a bulging wardrobe is to consider whether you've worn a garment in the last six/twelve/eighteen/twenty-four months (choose your own threshold) and, if you haven't worn it, get rid of it.  In my case, the last time I purged my T-shirt drawer, it was a case of 'if it hasn't got a hole where it shouldn't have a hole'.  All the intact ones were kept and, given our usual English weather, none has been worn for several years.

So it was that, while sweltering in heat that is no longer welcome in the last few weeks, I've been recounting tales of holidays 26 and 27 years ago, and of working abroad in the millennium year amidst election posters for Geo. W. Bush.

While wearing some of these antiques last weekend, I visited my cousin for a 'special' birthday but, now being without a car (see last week's illustrated post), I had to resort to train travel.  In both directions, the boredom of public transport was relieved by the company of students.  On Friday, my train from Grantham to Nottingham - an hourly two-car shuttle - was packed.  As I sat by the window waiting for it to depart, a breathless voice came from above a flowery dress, "Is this seat taken?"

My negative reply afforded relief to a student at a local university, glad to have caught this particular train as it would allow her to make it to her seat of learning by 1 pm.  She began to read from the heavy tomes she carried in her bag, making notes as she did so.  It seems that she'll be working through the holidays to submit her dissertation in September ... "and then it will all be over!"

I set off early on Monday in a vain attempt to negotiate crossing the city centre before the day got too hot.  As a result, I could sit on the platform and enjoy a cooling breeze while I waited about half an hour for an earlier train than I'd planned.  Soon I was joined on the seat by a second student, who parked her suitcase and carrier and began studying her phone intently.  A train was announced on the tannoy, arrived in front of us and departed, having completely evaded appearance on the departure board visible from our seat.  Mentioning this to my fellow traveller led to the discovery that we were both waiting for the one train that was shown, she going to the second stop, I to the first.

Contact having thus been established, I asked if she would mind keeping an eye on my bags while I went in search of a toilet ... which she did and on my return asked me to reciprocate.  While she was on her way back it was announced that our train would be leaving from a different platform.  Finding this and waiting there for our train allowed further exchanges, revealing that she was from Belfast, was studying at Newcastle, and was joining up with fellow students to look at Cambridge and then proceed to the south coast.  Once more, the train was quite full - although not standing only, as we had been led to expect - but we found a seat and shared a companionable silence, as she watched a film on her phone, and I studied a family across the aisle.  When we reached my stop, the friendship came to a pleasant ending as each thanked the other for brightening our journey.

On Tuesday began my search for a new car.  At the first showroom I entered, I was greeted by a receptionist, who summoned the sales executive to explore my needs.  Armed with their information, I walked home and, after lunch, sallied forth to another such establishment, expecting to find a similar situation.  However, seeing no obvious greeting point, I stood somewhat helplessly amidst the vehicles on display.  Someone at a nearby desk asked, "Can I help you?"  I approached the desk and repeated the morning's explanation for being there, to 'talk to someone about deals on new cars'.  "Certainly," said the third young lady of my tale, "I can help you with that; take a seat."

In half the time the man of the morning had taken, I was provided with far more information, and in a more collaborative manner, and I returned home very impressed ... not least by the certificate of her credentials proudly displayed on the desk!  Meanwhile, following a brief conversation the previous evening, a friend had e-mailed with details of a car he knew was likely to be for sale.  After careful consideration of these two very different opportunities, I replied to his e-mail and rang the efficient young lady to say I'd like to take up the deal she had outlined.  The result was a test drive in a similar vehicle, reams of form-filling and a very satisfied customer now looking forward to being mobile early next week.

Wham, Bang, Thank you, Ma'am!

It can take a while: months ... years even, to build up a trusting relationship and then in a flash - call it carelessness, oversight, complacency ... whatever - all that building effort is rendered to dust in an instant.

I've lost count of the number of times this has happened to me ... although no more than most of us, I imagine.  But on Sunday afternoon, it happened again.  I'd been out to lunch, as I often do, and was driving home again when out of the blue ... SMACK! ... a Mercedes came at me from where I thought there was nothing and biffed me on the roundabout.  I tried to avoid him, but it was too late. I came to rest by the 'keep left' bollard of the road joining from the left.

I suppose I was in shock, although I didn't recognise it at the time.  I got out of the car, looked briefly at the ripped wing and smashed headlight and thought, "Well, it's the end for you, old girl!" before turning my attention to the driver of the Merc.  Like me, he and his passenger were unhurt and, mechanically, we went through the standard routine of exchanging names and addresses.

Surprisingly, I found that I was able to drive away from the scene, albeit with a lot of screeching and whining.  Realising that my route home passed an accident repair centre, where there were often people working on a Sunday, I stopped there to seek advice.

This was immediately forthcoming: "Don't drive any further!"  They were surprised that I'd made it the three miles or so to them; a sharp edge of the body was gouging a deep channel in the tyre, so there was an increasing danger of a blow-out if I were to continue and I was persuaded to leave my beloved 'Tina the Tigra' on their forecourt.

In addition to the damage I could see, I had already discovered problems with the steering, and it transpired that the main structure of the vehicle had been distorted as well.  The estimate for repairs was more than I paid for the vehicle two-and-a half years ago!  Once contact had been made with the insurers, action was swift.  By Wednesday afternoon, a payment was on its way to my bank and I noticed the next morning that the 'corpse' had been removed.

Now I'm off for a different adventure ... one that will be a much happier one, I'm sure: the celebration of my cousin's birthday, and a weekend away from home and all its challenges!

You Can Take the Boy ...

In general terms, I'm content with my present life in the First Garden City.  Most of my modest needs are catered for in the town, and those that aren't can find satisfaction nearby.  Occasionally, though - and especially when there are blue skies overhead like those this glorious summer has brought - I yearn for cornfields.  Yesterday afternoon I actually drove out to find one to walk around.

That yearning for the wide East Anglian skies was heightened last weekend when much of our church family migrated to Letton Hall for two days of great teaching, fabulous fellowship ... and a great deal of equally fabulous food!  My mind, however, was to a certain extent focused a few miles away.  I had taken with me a slim book, most of which I read during free time over the weekend.  It told the story of Lucilla Reeve, a strong-willed woman who, in 1938, had exchanged a job as a land agent for the role of farmer, and taken over one of the properties she had formerly administered.

Little did she know that, within five years, the village where she had been born, the one where she now lived and worked, and four more would be under military occupation, with all the inhabitants cleared out on just a few weeks' notice to find homes elsewhere, and with precious little by way of compensation.  Lucilla Reeve took a few belongings, samples of the crops she had grown on her farm, and scraped a living just outside the cleared area.  "It's all right," they had been told by their landlord (who lost his own home at the same time), "You can come back when the war is over."  It never happened, of course.

Although the fundamental reason for the expulsion of civilians was their own safety, it soon became apparent that the military training for which the area had been commandeered would be impossible if they were to keep to their initial undertaking that the homes would be left intact.  On Armistice Day, 1950 Lucilla Reeve took her own life.  Many believe that the loss of her farm was a major factor in this tragedy.  She is buried at the corner of the churchyard of St Andrew's church, Tottington.

After the end of World War II came the Cold War, Northern Ireland, the Falklands, the Balkans and Iraq.  While the homes of the original villages of Buckenham Tofts, Langford, Stanford, Sturston, Tottington and West Tofts are now just humps in the ground, a new 'village' has been built, representing a typical settlement in Afghanistan, complete with street markets, lots of signs in Arabic and even a mosque ... all in the cause of urban warfare training.

Each of the villages had its own church; two of these had already disappeared before the nineteenth century, but the remaining four are carefully protected by the Ministry, with high fences and severely restricted access.  The roofs of the larger two have been replaced by blastproof panels in the style of pantiles.  The villages themselves will never be re-habited.  While the material losses of the individuals was, in the overall scheme of things, minimal, what was destroyed was the sense of community, as they were scattered far and wide across the county and beyond.  In their absence, the old, and largely unmechanised, farm and village life of pre-war Norfolk disappeared for ever.  The only civilian connection with the area now is a fast-declining sentimental link with family graves and the memory of Breckland childhoods that are now eight and nine decades into history.

The occasional visits allowed by the MOD to the area usually merit a mention in the local press.  It was just such a report that prompted my interest in what had hitherto simply been a blank area on the map, and my purchase of the book that I took with me last weekend.  Although my journey to our retreat venue passed close by, I knew that it would be pointless to engage in a sightseeing diversion.  For one thing my curiosity relates only to the past, and there is no longer a past to be seen, and for another, I have no personal interest in the villages at all, save for the basic one of filling in a gap in awareness about my native county.

It's true what they say about many a birthplace - "You can take the boy out of Norfolk (or wherever), but you can't take Norfolk out of the boy!"