Regular readers will know that the highlight of my spring every year - and this year has been no exception - is the annual bell-ringing expedition to explore the delights and challenges of places new. From the early part of last week, I had been feeling 'demob happy' on the brink of this year's adventure. By Thursday evening my bag was packed, draped with my coat in the corner of the bedroom and perhaps I should have taken it as a bad omen when, venturing into the bedroom in darkness (as has been my wont 'since Noah were nobut a lad') I forgot it was there, caught one leg on the bag, the other on the chair it was parked against and landed unexpectedly on the bed!
However, I'm not into omens, good or bad, and didn't give the incident a second thought until several days later. Home from work on Friday, all I had to do was change my clothes and pop the bag into the car and I was away, collecting two friends en route, and on our way to Warwickshire, where we stayed at the same hotel we had used last year, aiming this year to visit a different selection of churches against whose bells we would test our mettle.
All went well until after lunch on Saturday afternoon. We had driven through country lanes and made our way into the small town of Knowle. Passing the church and finding the parking spaces outside all full, we drove around the corner to a public car park, paid and displayed our ticket, secured the vehicle and were making our way back to the high street and round to the church. All of a sudden I found myself pitched forward. I stumbled, failed to regain my balance and just had time to realise that I was about to fall on the pavement before gravity completed the manoeuvre and I was laying breathlessly horizontal.
I cannot praise my two friends enough. With all thoughts of bells cast away, they were instantly by my side, reassuring me and trying to keep me still while I recovered my breath as I gazed helplessly up to the sky and wondered what was going to happen next. Meanwhile one of them had produced a tissue and had wiped blood from my forehead ... far more than seemed possible from the tiny cut that I later observed in the mirror back at the hotel. Before long I was back on my feet, and shakily making my way - under close observation - to the church. While the others joined our friends in the tower, I rested, wandered into the church and then out into the sunshine around the churchyard.
The rest of the weekend found me not ringing some lovely bells, but enjoying the warm sun and some beautiful villages. After visiting two churches to help ring for their services on Sunday morning, we found a convenient garden centre coffee shop for lunch and made our way home. Once I'd taken both of my friends home, I decided that, although I was feeling no worse that I'd expected, albeit very sore, it might be wise to seek medical confirmation that nothing more serious was amiss. A visit to a supermarket pharmacy led to a call from their car park to the NHS111 online service, who made a telephoned assessment of my condition. But, because I admitted the very slight head injury, they advised a visit to A&E to be 'checked out face-to-face'.
Anxious that taking pain killers wouldn't mask the symptoms of anything to actually worry about, I followed their advice and, after the usual respiratory and blood tests, I was seen by a doctor, was sent for an X-ray and then returned to the doctor to be told that my ribs weren't even cracked, let alone broken, but merely bent, so I drove home at last, thankful that nothing more serious had been revealed and hopeful that my next weekend away from home will not be so eventful!
Two lazy days ensued, as I cancelled all physical activities but I did drive over to Suffolk one evening, where one of the nearer branches of the Family History Society were staging a talk about an event local to the area of south Norfolk where I grew up. Although it happened long before I was born, I was aware of the main events of the longest strike in history - the 25-year School Strike in the village of Burston - but it was good to learn the fine detail of this story of social division and inter-class persecution stretching back to the early years of the last century
Today I was back at work as a relief driver on one of the Hospice vans, but careful to leave the heavier lifting to others. Hopefully my recovery will continue and I'll be fit enough to resume normal life next week. I'm also praying for patience if this should prove not to be the case!
Friday 29 March 2019
Friday 22 March 2019
The Write Word!
Occasionally I receive comments about my blogs; usually they are clearly self-promoting and get ignored. However, those I received in reaction to my last post here - what I described as 'an earthy satire' - were indeed relevant and deserve a response. In fact, one response fits them all, those that condemned as well as those that were constructive, and it's this. "Don't shoot the messenger." Although it could be argued that I was my own messenger, I was in fact describing, as closely as I could, a dream and I had little option but to follow the details as I remembered them. I don't believe my conscious mind could dream up such a story line. You flatter me if you think it could.
It was whilst reflecting on this reply, I hit upon the theme for this week's offering. Those who know me well will be only too aware of my interest in languages, the words that make them up and the words that link them. It's one reason why I offered the other year to join the team that produces our church magazine, and - let's face it - what other new retiree do you know who is willing to use some of his new-found spare time to learn Welsh?
I offer you three words to think about: 'shoot', 'fire' and 'burn'. We all know about animals and meat, of course: how the words for the living animal come to us from the Saxons who looked after them and the words for the meat from them are of Norman (French) origin from those who were privileged to eat it. But these three words are all from Old English, so we have to look further to compare them. They all have a wide variety of uses and meanings, but I'm thinking of this particular example, and wondering why we don't say 'don't fire the messenger' or 'don't burn the messenger'.
'Firing him' does, of course, have a modern meaning which could be entirely possible ... to remove him from his job. I nearly wrote 'discharge', showing clearly the close relationship between expelling an employee and releasing the missile from a weapon. And that's the point I wanted to make. 'To shoot' indicates the overall purpose of the exercise, whereas 'to fire' describes a more intimate action between the operator and the weapon. It also narrows down the range of weapons to be used, if we were thinking of literally shooting someone. 'Shooting' could be carried out with a long bow or cross bow, for example, but 'firing' restricts it to something that involves combustion.
That leads to the third word I chose, 'burn'. It wouldn't be a sensible alternative to 'shoot' - or even 'fire' - in this example, but there could be situations where it could be a more general alternative to 'fire', for instance if the speaker were inciting an act of arson, he might instruct his co-conspirator to 'fire the house' or 'burn the house'. And I'm sure that if you, dear reader, have the time and patience, you can think of others ... or indeed other words that could be explored in similar ways.
Burning not only destroys; it also produces light and we have a variety of ways to refer to the illumination of our homes. Dad's Army aficionados will recall the ARP Warden, Mr Hodges, and his call of "Put that light out!" How many of us today still talk of 'putting' the light on? Many, too, will speak of 'turning' the light on but some will refer to 'switching' it on and, almost universally, the reverse will be 'off' rather than Mr Hodges' 'out'. As with all language, we learn from what we hear in childhood ... from parents who did the same; I suggest that these terms refer to different light sources. 'Putting the light on [the table]' may well be inspired by the actual conveyance of an oil lamp or candle to where light was needed. 'Turning the light on' could reflect the movement of a gas tap, an expression only now being gradually replaced by the electrical equivalent, 'switching'.
Whence all this etymological exploration? Quite apart from the responses to last week's blog, I heard last weekend, from an unexpected source (someone who, frankly, I would have expected to know better) a very common error. It reminded me just how many people are confused by the challenge of whether to say 'Sheila and me' or 'Sheila and I'. My observation tells me that many who err believe that one is always correct and that, bizarrely, the other is always wrong. In fact, there are those occasions when one is the right thing to say and those when it is correct to use the other word. And, if your habit is always to use one and never the other, it's likely that 50% of the time you'll be losing points in the eyes of those who know!
It was whilst reflecting on this reply, I hit upon the theme for this week's offering. Those who know me well will be only too aware of my interest in languages, the words that make them up and the words that link them. It's one reason why I offered the other year to join the team that produces our church magazine, and - let's face it - what other new retiree do you know who is willing to use some of his new-found spare time to learn Welsh?
I offer you three words to think about: 'shoot', 'fire' and 'burn'. We all know about animals and meat, of course: how the words for the living animal come to us from the Saxons who looked after them and the words for the meat from them are of Norman (French) origin from those who were privileged to eat it. But these three words are all from Old English, so we have to look further to compare them. They all have a wide variety of uses and meanings, but I'm thinking of this particular example, and wondering why we don't say 'don't fire the messenger' or 'don't burn the messenger'.
'Firing him' does, of course, have a modern meaning which could be entirely possible ... to remove him from his job. I nearly wrote 'discharge', showing clearly the close relationship between expelling an employee and releasing the missile from a weapon. And that's the point I wanted to make. 'To shoot' indicates the overall purpose of the exercise, whereas 'to fire' describes a more intimate action between the operator and the weapon. It also narrows down the range of weapons to be used, if we were thinking of literally shooting someone. 'Shooting' could be carried out with a long bow or cross bow, for example, but 'firing' restricts it to something that involves combustion.
That leads to the third word I chose, 'burn'. It wouldn't be a sensible alternative to 'shoot' - or even 'fire' - in this example, but there could be situations where it could be a more general alternative to 'fire', for instance if the speaker were inciting an act of arson, he might instruct his co-conspirator to 'fire the house' or 'burn the house'. And I'm sure that if you, dear reader, have the time and patience, you can think of others ... or indeed other words that could be explored in similar ways.
Burning not only destroys; it also produces light and we have a variety of ways to refer to the illumination of our homes. Dad's Army aficionados will recall the ARP Warden, Mr Hodges, and his call of "Put that light out!" How many of us today still talk of 'putting' the light on? Many, too, will speak of 'turning' the light on but some will refer to 'switching' it on and, almost universally, the reverse will be 'off' rather than Mr Hodges' 'out'. As with all language, we learn from what we hear in childhood ... from parents who did the same; I suggest that these terms refer to different light sources. 'Putting the light on [the table]' may well be inspired by the actual conveyance of an oil lamp or candle to where light was needed. 'Turning the light on' could reflect the movement of a gas tap, an expression only now being gradually replaced by the electrical equivalent, 'switching'.
Whence all this etymological exploration? Quite apart from the responses to last week's blog, I heard last weekend, from an unexpected source (someone who, frankly, I would have expected to know better) a very common error. It reminded me just how many people are confused by the challenge of whether to say 'Sheila and me' or 'Sheila and I'. My observation tells me that many who err believe that one is always correct and that, bizarrely, the other is always wrong. In fact, there are those occasions when one is the right thing to say and those when it is correct to use the other word. And, if your habit is always to use one and never the other, it's likely that 50% of the time you'll be losing points in the eyes of those who know!
Friday 15 March 2019
An Earthy Satire for These Difficult Times
With all the twists and turns of parliamentary activity this week, coupled with a chest infection, it's little wonder that I haven't been sleeping too well. It's also a long while since I regaled my readers with my dreams ... so here goes!
The scene is somewhere near Sevenoaks in a couple of years' time; I'm outside a small greengrocer's shop. I can tell it's a greengrocer's by the sign that says, "H & B Cobb - Fruit & Veg" but the absence of any produce makes me question even that. I step inside and ask Henry Cobb, "How's business?" "Doing fine!" is the firm reply. I look around at the almost empty shelves and back to him in disbelief. "Turnover has shot through the roof!" he says, "I've got five tons of golden delicious arriving shortly. In fact," he turned to the window, where a white transit van had just pulled up, "that's them now - he told me he's got two left."
I was puzzled. That van couldn't carry five tons of anything; nor two tons for that matter. The door opened and the van driver entered, carrying a paper bag in one hand and a sack in the other. He put the bag on the counter and the sack on the floor and went out; seconds later he returned with another sack, which joined the first. "Here's the two that were left," he told the proprietor and added, pointing to the sacks, "and here's your SHIT." Unfazed by the remark, Henry told him "Thanks" and invited him to help himself to a cup of tea, "You know where it is." I wondered whether I'd heard correctly and peeked into one of the sacks. Neither was closed and each was stuffed full of little forms, neatly stapled in sets. On the top of each was the heading "Self Help In Transit".
When the driver re-appeared, mug in hand, Henry's concern was for the paper bag. "When you said you had two left, I thought you meant two hundredweight at least," he gestured to the bag, "not just two apples." He hesitated, and I could see the cogs turning. "I shall have to sell these for £15 or £20 each ... no. I'll shut the door and Brenda and I will spend the afternoon sorting this lot out. The apples will do for our lunch." He turned to me and laughed. "We call it 'shit-shovelling'" My blank look clearly demanded further explanation.
"Tom here has just been down to the lorry park. People go down there to get the produce as fresh as they can, straight from the trucks off the ferry. The buyers and the lorry drivers then fill in these chits, Tom collects them along with whatever stock they've got left and brings them to me, and the trucks spin round and get on the next ferry back to France. Two apples apart, I've got paperwork here for 5 tons of apples. We now contact the buyers to get paid for them." he smiled, "Simples!"
It might be simple to him; to me it seemed daft. I asked him how likely he was to get money on the face of these scraps of paper. "It depends. Most of the people I deal with are pretty honest, I can get about 70% out of these and that keeps me going. Some folks have a hard job to get 40 or 50%, and they suffer.
The scene changed to a lorry park just off the M20. I'd just come back with Tom to see where those SHITs had come from. As we approached the park, he'd pointed out a couple of tents with signs outside 'i-TURD' and said, "These are the cowboys ... don't trust them." We now walked up to a tidy wooden shed, with the same sign outside. Waiting to go in were pairs of mostly men, but a few women were amongst them, and I even spotted two women together. Tom explained, "The buyers go and deal with the truckers who've got what they want after they've seen the goods and reckon they're fair value. They then come here, and fill in the paperwork. They go back to the truck, the goods are exchanged for the papers - the SHIT - and the buyers go off happy.
"Then I come along, and meet the trucker who's supposed to be selling 5 tons of apples to Henry Cobb, and find he's got diddly squat left. Sometimes, like Henry was expecting, he'll have half a load, and I have to wait until I can get what's left into my van." I was beginning to see how it worked, but it all seemed very dodgy. Tom showed me what went on in the shed.
To my amazement, here was a most civilised set-up rather like the traffic offices I'd known in the past but, instead of smart computer systems, there were big ledgers and hand-written forms. I discovered that i-TURD stood for in-Transit Ultimate Receiver Delivery, which was printed on the top of the form that the truckers were completing. The buyers, the ones who would be taking goods away with them, completed a SHIT accepting receipt of the goods. The two completed forms were then taken to the desk, entered into the ledger, stamped and stapled together and given to the trucker. He then gave the goods to the buyer and kept the paperwork to pass to the courier ... Tom.
It was clearly a system that was open to misuse and fraud but, as I found out when I spoke again to Henry, it meant that goods got to the end-user quicker and in better condition that would be the case if they had to wait for the trucker to deliver them to him and him to arrange the deal with the buyer ... not to mention warehousing costs. It had grown up quickly and unofficially, but was now a recognised way of processing perishable goods. Yes, there were rogues, but they soon got their come-uppance one way or another.
"What about the tax-man?" I asked, "How do you keep track of everything?" For a brief moment Henry Cobb looked worried. "You're not from the Revenue, are you?" Being reassured that I was not, his face relaxed again and he made the common suggestion of a physical impossibility that that official might attempt, before explaining that he didn't bother to keep accounts. A lot of his business was in cash and, so long as he made enough to keep Brenda and himself, he was content to carry on that way.
The scene is somewhere near Sevenoaks in a couple of years' time; I'm outside a small greengrocer's shop. I can tell it's a greengrocer's by the sign that says, "H & B Cobb - Fruit & Veg" but the absence of any produce makes me question even that. I step inside and ask Henry Cobb, "How's business?" "Doing fine!" is the firm reply. I look around at the almost empty shelves and back to him in disbelief. "Turnover has shot through the roof!" he says, "I've got five tons of golden delicious arriving shortly. In fact," he turned to the window, where a white transit van had just pulled up, "that's them now - he told me he's got two left."
I was puzzled. That van couldn't carry five tons of anything; nor two tons for that matter. The door opened and the van driver entered, carrying a paper bag in one hand and a sack in the other. He put the bag on the counter and the sack on the floor and went out; seconds later he returned with another sack, which joined the first. "Here's the two that were left," he told the proprietor and added, pointing to the sacks, "and here's your SHIT." Unfazed by the remark, Henry told him "Thanks" and invited him to help himself to a cup of tea, "You know where it is." I wondered whether I'd heard correctly and peeked into one of the sacks. Neither was closed and each was stuffed full of little forms, neatly stapled in sets. On the top of each was the heading "Self Help In Transit".
When the driver re-appeared, mug in hand, Henry's concern was for the paper bag. "When you said you had two left, I thought you meant two hundredweight at least," he gestured to the bag, "not just two apples." He hesitated, and I could see the cogs turning. "I shall have to sell these for £15 or £20 each ... no. I'll shut the door and Brenda and I will spend the afternoon sorting this lot out. The apples will do for our lunch." He turned to me and laughed. "We call it 'shit-shovelling'" My blank look clearly demanded further explanation.
"Tom here has just been down to the lorry park. People go down there to get the produce as fresh as they can, straight from the trucks off the ferry. The buyers and the lorry drivers then fill in these chits, Tom collects them along with whatever stock they've got left and brings them to me, and the trucks spin round and get on the next ferry back to France. Two apples apart, I've got paperwork here for 5 tons of apples. We now contact the buyers to get paid for them." he smiled, "Simples!"
It might be simple to him; to me it seemed daft. I asked him how likely he was to get money on the face of these scraps of paper. "It depends. Most of the people I deal with are pretty honest, I can get about 70% out of these and that keeps me going. Some folks have a hard job to get 40 or 50%, and they suffer.
The scene changed to a lorry park just off the M20. I'd just come back with Tom to see where those SHITs had come from. As we approached the park, he'd pointed out a couple of tents with signs outside 'i-TURD' and said, "These are the cowboys ... don't trust them." We now walked up to a tidy wooden shed, with the same sign outside. Waiting to go in were pairs of mostly men, but a few women were amongst them, and I even spotted two women together. Tom explained, "The buyers go and deal with the truckers who've got what they want after they've seen the goods and reckon they're fair value. They then come here, and fill in the paperwork. They go back to the truck, the goods are exchanged for the papers - the SHIT - and the buyers go off happy.
"Then I come along, and meet the trucker who's supposed to be selling 5 tons of apples to Henry Cobb, and find he's got diddly squat left. Sometimes, like Henry was expecting, he'll have half a load, and I have to wait until I can get what's left into my van." I was beginning to see how it worked, but it all seemed very dodgy. Tom showed me what went on in the shed.
To my amazement, here was a most civilised set-up rather like the traffic offices I'd known in the past but, instead of smart computer systems, there were big ledgers and hand-written forms. I discovered that i-TURD stood for in-Transit Ultimate Receiver Delivery, which was printed on the top of the form that the truckers were completing. The buyers, the ones who would be taking goods away with them, completed a SHIT accepting receipt of the goods. The two completed forms were then taken to the desk, entered into the ledger, stamped and stapled together and given to the trucker. He then gave the goods to the buyer and kept the paperwork to pass to the courier ... Tom.
It was clearly a system that was open to misuse and fraud but, as I found out when I spoke again to Henry, it meant that goods got to the end-user quicker and in better condition that would be the case if they had to wait for the trucker to deliver them to him and him to arrange the deal with the buyer ... not to mention warehousing costs. It had grown up quickly and unofficially, but was now a recognised way of processing perishable goods. Yes, there were rogues, but they soon got their come-uppance one way or another.
"What about the tax-man?" I asked, "How do you keep track of everything?" For a brief moment Henry Cobb looked worried. "You're not from the Revenue, are you?" Being reassured that I was not, his face relaxed again and he made the common suggestion of a physical impossibility that that official might attempt, before explaining that he didn't bother to keep accounts. A lot of his business was in cash and, so long as he made enough to keep Brenda and himself, he was content to carry on that way.
Friday 8 March 2019
The Calm Between two (or more!) Storms
After the excitement of two weeks ago with Muddy Mayhem and the FA Vase, last weekend was very much back to normal. There was no football to watch ... and the weather didn't encourage me to find any since it, too, was back to normal for the time of year. And on Sunday I resumed my fortnightly habit of a pub-lunch which, for one reason or another had lapsed for all of February. This week has seen a gradual build up of excitement once more, and not all of it good!
On Sunday evening the glint of something descending before me and the rustle of something behind drew my attention to a sinister pair of leaks in my bathroom ceiling. Some years ago, water had somehow found its way into the cavity between my ceiling and the floor of the flat above resulting in drips in my lounge. That was rapidly remedied and there has been no repetition of that trouble. Last summer, the overflow from the flat above was cascading a constant flow onto the parched grass beneath, making a distinct green 'oasis'. This, too, was put right and caused me no bother.
The tenant was somewhat shocked when I tapped on his door to advise him of the latest development and lost no time in alerting his landlord, who in turn called in a plumber. I wasn't around for the plumber's visit and have been unable to obtain further news, but the drips are still dripping, and my landlord's agent has taken the matter in hand. It's more of an annoyance than a threat of disaster, though, and life certainly hasn't been put on hold because of it.
There has been comparative excitement in my kitchen, too. Following a comment overheard at work about 'Pancake Day', I realised on Tuesday that there's nothing stopping me doing my own. After a joke I saw during the autumn - "I don't know; shops are getting madder than ever these days. Pancake Day is months away but the shops are already selling flour, milk and eggs!" - I know the essential ingredients so there's really no excuse. I'm pleased to say that the 'experiment' was successful, the only downside being some slight difficulty in breathing deeply for singing practice later that evening! And yesterday I was motivated to repeat an earlier success with apple crumble. Pleased with these two, however, I'm resting on my laurels and don't anticipate anything Cordon Bleu for a while yet!
This week, I made tentative enquiries about two new voluntary jobs, one with the Hospice where I'm already spending a day and a half a week, and the other as membership secretary for a particular organisation within the national umbrella of the Liberal Democrats. Both have been acknowledged, but it's early days for both of these, and there is as yet no further news of either. I'm amused by the way some things fall together; only hours after making the first of these enquiries, I was approached by the driving supervisor at the Hospice Distribution Centre, to advise me that his colleague will be on holiday next week and to ask if I would be able and/or willing to cover for him on Monday and Tuesday. Monday is usually a day that I reserve for 'church stuff' but, since there's none of that coming my way at the moment, I was pleased to agree to the challenge. I say 'challenge' because one of the shops that I shall have to visit has a very awkward rear access, and regular patrols by traffic wardens render its avoidance out of the question!
Next week sees our former curate being installed into her first living and I'm planning to make the trip down to Hampshire to add my support to that of others of our congregation. The only unknown aspect of the expedition is the effect of the 'Magic Motorway': the one that has no beginning and no ending (that isn't strictly true; just look on the map at A282, which links the two ends) and is commonly referred to as London's biggest car park. That isn't true either, for experience has taught me that, despite the predictable queues, sitting in them and putting up with the pressure is usually still quicker than coming off and trying to find a viable alternative route.
And following that journey it won't be long before the bell-ringers travel afield for our annual 'weekend away'. Watch this space for further news of that one!
On Sunday evening the glint of something descending before me and the rustle of something behind drew my attention to a sinister pair of leaks in my bathroom ceiling. Some years ago, water had somehow found its way into the cavity between my ceiling and the floor of the flat above resulting in drips in my lounge. That was rapidly remedied and there has been no repetition of that trouble. Last summer, the overflow from the flat above was cascading a constant flow onto the parched grass beneath, making a distinct green 'oasis'. This, too, was put right and caused me no bother.
The tenant was somewhat shocked when I tapped on his door to advise him of the latest development and lost no time in alerting his landlord, who in turn called in a plumber. I wasn't around for the plumber's visit and have been unable to obtain further news, but the drips are still dripping, and my landlord's agent has taken the matter in hand. It's more of an annoyance than a threat of disaster, though, and life certainly hasn't been put on hold because of it.
There has been comparative excitement in my kitchen, too. Following a comment overheard at work about 'Pancake Day', I realised on Tuesday that there's nothing stopping me doing my own. After a joke I saw during the autumn - "I don't know; shops are getting madder than ever these days. Pancake Day is months away but the shops are already selling flour, milk and eggs!" - I know the essential ingredients so there's really no excuse. I'm pleased to say that the 'experiment' was successful, the only downside being some slight difficulty in breathing deeply for singing practice later that evening! And yesterday I was motivated to repeat an earlier success with apple crumble. Pleased with these two, however, I'm resting on my laurels and don't anticipate anything Cordon Bleu for a while yet!
This week, I made tentative enquiries about two new voluntary jobs, one with the Hospice where I'm already spending a day and a half a week, and the other as membership secretary for a particular organisation within the national umbrella of the Liberal Democrats. Both have been acknowledged, but it's early days for both of these, and there is as yet no further news of either. I'm amused by the way some things fall together; only hours after making the first of these enquiries, I was approached by the driving supervisor at the Hospice Distribution Centre, to advise me that his colleague will be on holiday next week and to ask if I would be able and/or willing to cover for him on Monday and Tuesday. Monday is usually a day that I reserve for 'church stuff' but, since there's none of that coming my way at the moment, I was pleased to agree to the challenge. I say 'challenge' because one of the shops that I shall have to visit has a very awkward rear access, and regular patrols by traffic wardens render its avoidance out of the question!
Next week sees our former curate being installed into her first living and I'm planning to make the trip down to Hampshire to add my support to that of others of our congregation. The only unknown aspect of the expedition is the effect of the 'Magic Motorway': the one that has no beginning and no ending (that isn't strictly true; just look on the map at A282, which links the two ends) and is commonly referred to as London's biggest car park. That isn't true either, for experience has taught me that, despite the predictable queues, sitting in them and putting up with the pressure is usually still quicker than coming off and trying to find a viable alternative route.
And following that journey it won't be long before the bell-ringers travel afield for our annual 'weekend away'. Watch this space for further news of that one!
Friday 1 March 2019
Language, Language, Language!
It's the Prime Minister of the 1960s and '70s, Harold Wilson, to whom is attributed the saying "A week is a long time in politics." It's a long time, too, in the life of this multi-faceted scribe, for whom the two sporting events that disrupted last weekend are already rapidly fading onto the crowded pages of history.
On Saturday, with nothing on the calendar, I had assigned myself just one task, the preparation of a guide to the pronunciation of Welsh for a friend for whom a change in her family dynamics has suddenly spawned an interest in the language. Foreigners learning to speak English have to cope with such confusing complications as the letters 'ough', in words like rough, through, nought, thorough and cough, and place names like Slough. Welsh, by contrast, is very much a phonetic language. With very few exceptions, the same letters are always pronounced the same way. However, a lot of them differ from the way those same letters are treated in English, so I decided to help my friend by adapting a few pages from my text book into a simple guide to the 'code' that is the key to such apparent puzzles as 'hamgyffred' (comprehension) and 'llwyddodd' (managed) and place names like Ystradgynlais.
As the morning wore on, though, I felt the need for a break and, realising that only a few miles down the road some of my friends from both work and church were taking part in a fund-raising event, I took time out to go and watch. Muddy Mayhem has been held for a number of years to support the work of the hospice situated just across the road from our church. It's a 5-kilometre obstacle race, enhanced, as the name suggests, by lots of mud. Last year it was held in the face of the 'Beast from the East'; this year the temperature was about 20 degrees higher so the mud was far less of a problem, although it did mean that the part of the course that went along a small stream was noticeably chilly ... as voiced by contenders using a variety of expressions when they entered it!
Sunday's excitement began with a slight rearrangement of my normal routine, as I forsook my usual duties on the end of a bell-rope for attendance at the early service in my own church, prior to a 10-mile drive up the road to board one of three coaches that conveyed team and supporters to Kent for a quarter-final tie in the FA Vase competition.
With the three other ties already decided on Saturday (each by a two-goal difference, as it happens: one 2-0 and the others both 3-1), Canterbury City, who ground-share with Faversham Town entertained the team that I support, Biggleswade FC (which is jointly managed by my former boss). It was the first time either team had got this far in the competition, so the stakes were high and the game was hard-fought before a crowd of just over 600.
The visitors opened in their usual confident style, scoring only 7 minutes into the game, and seemed to be holding their own against an opposition strengthened by the recent addition of incoming players from higher leagues. However an equalising goal in the dying minutes of the first half, matched by another just after the break, seemed to demoralise the boys in green. The player who had scored the opening goal joined us on our coach for a brief chat as we waited for our return journey and he explained that, while those who had been with the side since the club was formed three years ago knew how to keep their wits, re-group and fight back, some of those with less experience were 'running around like headless chickens' and, despite a valiant spell of constant pressure on the home goal in the last quarter of the game, the ball couldn't be persuaded to go in the right place to secure a replay.
While extremely disappointing (not the only description to be heard!) a 2-1 defeat meant that Biggleswade were the best losing team of the round, it also leaves them free to consolidate their position at the top of the South Midlands League with a view to securing promotion in a couple of months' time. For me, after a long and tiring day (I've never understood why road travel at 50 mph, whether driving or as a passenger, is so much more tiring than going 10 mph or more faster), I was able to resume the now familiar pattern I described here last week. Now I'm on the brink of another weekend, but this time with no sporting highlights in view.
On Saturday, with nothing on the calendar, I had assigned myself just one task, the preparation of a guide to the pronunciation of Welsh for a friend for whom a change in her family dynamics has suddenly spawned an interest in the language. Foreigners learning to speak English have to cope with such confusing complications as the letters 'ough', in words like rough, through, nought, thorough and cough, and place names like Slough. Welsh, by contrast, is very much a phonetic language. With very few exceptions, the same letters are always pronounced the same way. However, a lot of them differ from the way those same letters are treated in English, so I decided to help my friend by adapting a few pages from my text book into a simple guide to the 'code' that is the key to such apparent puzzles as 'hamgyffred' (comprehension) and 'llwyddodd' (managed) and place names like Ystradgynlais.
As the morning wore on, though, I felt the need for a break and, realising that only a few miles down the road some of my friends from both work and church were taking part in a fund-raising event, I took time out to go and watch. Muddy Mayhem has been held for a number of years to support the work of the hospice situated just across the road from our church. It's a 5-kilometre obstacle race, enhanced, as the name suggests, by lots of mud. Last year it was held in the face of the 'Beast from the East'; this year the temperature was about 20 degrees higher so the mud was far less of a problem, although it did mean that the part of the course that went along a small stream was noticeably chilly ... as voiced by contenders using a variety of expressions when they entered it!Sunday's excitement began with a slight rearrangement of my normal routine, as I forsook my usual duties on the end of a bell-rope for attendance at the early service in my own church, prior to a 10-mile drive up the road to board one of three coaches that conveyed team and supporters to Kent for a quarter-final tie in the FA Vase competition.
With the three other ties already decided on Saturday (each by a two-goal difference, as it happens: one 2-0 and the others both 3-1), Canterbury City, who ground-share with Faversham Town entertained the team that I support, Biggleswade FC (which is jointly managed by my former boss). It was the first time either team had got this far in the competition, so the stakes were high and the game was hard-fought before a crowd of just over 600.
The visitors opened in their usual confident style, scoring only 7 minutes into the game, and seemed to be holding their own against an opposition strengthened by the recent addition of incoming players from higher leagues. However an equalising goal in the dying minutes of the first half, matched by another just after the break, seemed to demoralise the boys in green. The player who had scored the opening goal joined us on our coach for a brief chat as we waited for our return journey and he explained that, while those who had been with the side since the club was formed three years ago knew how to keep their wits, re-group and fight back, some of those with less experience were 'running around like headless chickens' and, despite a valiant spell of constant pressure on the home goal in the last quarter of the game, the ball couldn't be persuaded to go in the right place to secure a replay.
While extremely disappointing (not the only description to be heard!) a 2-1 defeat meant that Biggleswade were the best losing team of the round, it also leaves them free to consolidate their position at the top of the South Midlands League with a view to securing promotion in a couple of months' time. For me, after a long and tiring day (I've never understood why road travel at 50 mph, whether driving or as a passenger, is so much more tiring than going 10 mph or more faster), I was able to resume the now familiar pattern I described here last week. Now I'm on the brink of another weekend, but this time with no sporting highlights in view.
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