The Mud, the Mistake and the Mirth!

I have to conclude that my face is less of a mask than I had suspected.  I walked into the kitchen at the drop-in on Thursday to be greeted as usual by the helper already there, "Hello, Brian, how are you?"  When I replied, "I'm fine", she asked, suspiciously, "Are you really fine?"  This week's blog is an attempt to justify my response that I was 'all right physically ... just hassled'.

Cue the diary.

On Saturday afternoon I watched a football match, in which my team won 2-1 on a 'claggy' pitch that had not drawn all the venom it could have from either team.  The atmosphere was good throughout - although there were bookings - and perhaps a lot of this was down to a referee who was noticeably in control but even-handed.  This delight was complemented on Sunday with a visit to the cinema, my third in as many weeks, I think, this time to see David Copperfield.

Our usual church breakfast  on Monday was cancelled because the leader had to be in work early.  This gave me an extra lay-in, and I then spent most of the day working on my latest family history project.  In the afternoon, I discovered that one of the key characters couldn't have been who I'd thought he was, because this person died when only a few weeks old!  After many deletions and just a little cursing, I felt by the evening that I was back on track and was rewarded by a good bell-ringing practice.

Something had gone wrong with my re-setting of the alarm when I didn't need the early call on Monday (I blame the user!).  The result was that I awoke on Tuesday to realise that there was bright daylight behind the closed curtains and the discovery that it was already 8.13am!  Normally by that time I would be gearing up to go to work.  It was from that point, I think, that the week went downhill.  I had made a second appeal on Monday for some information I needed for a meeting on Wednesday, so when it arrived late on Tuesday afternoon, that evening was 'written off' through my dealing with it.

The meeting itself was the debut for our new chairman (I suppose I'm old-fashioned but, I admit, possibly sexist, as I decline to use the word 'chair' except when officially obliged).  I have to say she exuded an efficiency beyond that of her predecessor, and the meeting finished a little earlier than usual.  Nevertheless, by the time I'd got home and prepared the minutes before my septuagenarian memory had forgotten the meaning of my squiggles, it was early on Thursday and I rejected any consideration of keeping up with my daily Welsh language practice!

It was thus, with a number of things unfinished on my desk and the nagging risk that something or other would get overlooked, that I drove to the drop-in just about on time, only to find that the person who would normally let us in had been held up, so three of us were queueing at the door at 9.0.  Yes, I admit, I was hassled.  Thereafter, I'm pleased to report, things underwent a noticeable improvement.

Not long after the exchange that opened this post, came a brief interlude when all was ready and we were awaiting the arrival of our first clients.  All the helpers were gathered around a table with mugs in hand, when one said, "You know, I think I enjoy coming here as much because of you lot as I do for the people we're helping."  I think she voiced the pleasure that we've all cultivated over the last two years.  Although some of us have other connections, we have melded into a good team, with a bond of affection all its own.

Next came a wonderful blend of care and amusement as we greeted a young Syrian refugee, with us for the first time (we hope of many).  She has very little English and, since none of us speaks Arabic, we tried to establish her needs and learn something of her circumstances by means of Google Translate on our mobile phones.  Despite the obvious distress that brought her to us, I think she was as amused by this as we were.

I spoke of my Welsh practice; I picked up my efforts to learn what is, I believe, the only language in the UK that is designated by a governing body as an 'Official Language', when I retired.  After following, with rapidly evaporating satisfaction, a fifty-year-old self-teaching book, I was introduced last summer to an on-line course called Duolingo ... which is not only free, but is constructed with built-in incentives for consistency, and follows a syllabus based on that taught in Welsh schools.

Yr Iaith Gymraeg has thus become a feature of my daily life as it never did before, and this is encouraged by a number of independent happenings.  Our new vicar, for example, although not a Welsh speaker, was born there, and has a greater understanding than perhaps she lets on.  One of the helpers at the drop-in has a daughter whose fiancé is Welsh and, on overhearing our banter, another, who attends less often, asked, "Are you teaching (her) Welsh?", to which I replied, "No, just teasing her".  And the manager at the warehouse where I also volunteer is learning a word at a time (things like 'hello', 'thanks' and 'good afternoon'), as a result of my casual comments ... much to the amusement of us all.

Better the Devil you Know ...

This saying (no connection to last week's post, by the way) occurred  to me the other day when the events I'm about to describe came to a head.  I've looked at countless census pages in the last twenty years, but I don't recall seeing anyone working as a printer's devil.  Uncertain just what one was, I was a little sceptical about its part in deciding my title, so I asked the ever-knowledgeable Wikipedia.  A 'printer's devil', (says this authority), was an apprentice in a printing establishment, whose duties would typically include mixing tubs of ink, and fetching type.

An inevitable consequence of such tasks would be to stain the skin black and the association of black ink with the 'black arts' is one possible derivation of the term 'printer's devil'.  Another suggestion is the fanciful idea that a special devil haunted every print shop, performing such mischief as inverting type, misspelling words, and removing entire lines of completed type.  The apprentice became an alternative source of blame for these misfortunes, Another of many possible derivations is the fact that worn or broken type would be thrown into a 'hellbox', whence it would be taken eventually to be melted down for re-use.

I have long bemoaned the arguments I've had with my Canon printer ... almost since the time I acquired it.  It might work faultlessly for weeks, and then refuse to co-operate at all.  Sometimes it would tell me it was 'offline' - a condition for which there seems to have been no remedy - and at others it would allege that it was working for 'another user' ... which person was, of course, completely non-existent!

A few months ago, when searching on line for possible causes and remedies for such nonsense, I came across the suggestion that to switch off both computer and printer (which I had tried unsuccessfully already) and unplug them from the mains (which I hadn't) might solve the problem.  Ever since then, I have religiously switched off at the mains every evening after making sure that both appliances are off (which also has the readily noticeable effect of dousing my desk lamp) and there have been no further misunderstandings between printer and user. 

Then came the day just before Christmas when a sheet of paper became jammed.  Received wisdom says that this should be withdrawn carefully along the output path.  On no account should the jammed paper be removed by pulling it back whence it came.  However, when there is no trace of the leading edge of the recalcitrant sheet emerging, and a good six inches waiting to be fed in ... what more can one do, but yank on that which is visible?  I removed the main part of the page, and found another bit screwed up within reach; fitting them together as one is recommended to do on such occasions, I found that a corner piece was still missing.  A further search, accompanied by modest force to open the door of the 'garage' where the printer cartridges linger when not in action, enabled the removal of this final piece of the jigsaw.

Somewhat relieved, I carried on printing and all was well ... until the other week when I printed a sheet I'd downloaded, which was produced in colour.  There were three separate lines of type, equally visible and about a millimetre apart, making the whole thing very difficult to read, and completely unusable.  Anything I printed in black and white was still fine.  I opened the 'garage door' again, and peered inside with an inspection torch; nothing appeared out of place.  I removed the ink cartridge and re-inserted it, making sure it was in straight.  Still the same result.  As a final resort, I removed the colour cartridge and replaced it with a new one.  All was to no avail.

I sought professional advice from the repair chappie in town.  His blunt but helpful comment was, "I don't do any printer repairs for two reasons.  There are many different types and all have their own peculiarities, so to offer any viable service you have to know a great deal and, in any case, the time it would take to identify the problem, and then, often, decide that I can't actually fix it anyway, would more than outweigh the cost of a new printer.  Inkjet printers today are virtually a consumable item."

That was on Monday of last week; I let the matter ride for another sennight, until I needed once more to print something in colour.  This Monday, therefore, I researched what printers might be available locally at a 'consumable' price.  What make should I go for?  There were two or three equally capable options.  Finally I decided to get another Canon.  This is the same model as before, but with a final 'S' in its designation - presumably signifying an upgraded version - and, instead of the classic black, this one is white.  Within two hours it had been selected, reserved, collected, unpacked and installed; the packaging and all thirty or so different language versions of the instructions had all been recycled, and I was once more a happy bunny.

At least with the printer(/servant/apprentice/devil) I know, I shouldn't face anything with which I'm not already familiar!

Just Saying ...

Have you noticed that, when you hear - or are reminded of - a wise saying or proverb, almost immediately will come to mind another which has the opposite meaning?  The classic example is 'Many hands make light work' while not forgetting that 'Too many cooks spoil the broth'!  Yesterday afternoon a less common pairing came to mind.  I made a decision that seemed right at the time: I decided to 'go with the flow'; but now, however, I'm wondering whether I've 'bitten off more than I can chew'.

Thursday afternoons are usually quite quiet at the hospice distribution centre, giving the opportunity to achieve more as a result of focused activity with little interruption for chatter.  Not so yesterday.  I had been writing a procedure document to help ensure that all the volunteers are 'singing from the same hymn-sheet' (Sorry about that ... I couldn't resist injecting another saying!) when it comes to carrying out the work of our section.  After having my draft reviewed by the first of two others whose experience parallels my own, but on different days of the week, I was anxious to implement her suggestions before it is viewed by the other person, who happens to be leaving today, so his input is both potentially useful, but also urgent.

All this was being done against the background of conversations about the progress - or otherwise - of a new volunteer whom I have been training on Tuesdays, and discussions between my manager and others about developments concerning changes in the pattern of van usage.  Not unnaturally, I had an ear to this, since one of my commitments to the place is as a stand-in driver when required.

It was at this point that another volunteer, having finished her usual duties with time to spare, was guided to help me, with the comment that there was an abundance of scanning to be done.  Prompted, I think, by the general pressure surrounding her, my manager then quipped, "How do you fancy moving in here, Brian, and doing a night shift?"  After a year or more, I'm getting used to her sense of humour and didn't respond.  However, my awareness of the situation she referred to prompted me later to offer to come in on Saturday (tomorrow) as a one-off gesture to reducing the overall workload.  Once she realised I was serious, my offer was 'seized with open arms' (another saying!).

Yet another saying comes to mind, as I think of my life in slightly wider terms.  'As one door closes, another one opens.'  For four months or so during the summer I held the seemingly prestigious post of membership secretary to a national 'associate organisation' of the Liberal Democrats.  It proved a useful opportunity to gain certain elements of expertise but, on Guy Fawkes' night (November 5th, for non-English readers), I resigned from the post, unable to cope any longer with the absence of a reliable flow of information.  At our local AGM a week or so later, I was persuaded to take on the same role for our own branch and much of last weekend was spent poring over the records I have now inherited as the start of the new year heralds newly-elected officials taking office.

As a result, I've become aware of the same potential problems: the neatening and automation of a spreadsheet database (helped by my recent national experience) and identifying a regular source of up-to-date information.  One advantage will be the local nature of the responsibilities, which I hope will make any difficulties easier to resolve.

So, as I now look forward to my first Saturday 'at work' for several years, I'm wondering whether the pattern of one responsibility neatly dovetailing with another will continue ... Watch this space!

There is a Better Way

All right, I admit it - I did shed a few tears on Monday afternoon.  And when it had finished, I grabbed up my coat and made my way to the back to put it on, thus avoiding any casual conversation after the event.  The occasion was the matinee screening of the film Little Women, billed as a combination of the book of the same name and a biographical reflection on the life of its author Louisa May Alcott.  I found it a potentially confusing interweaving of events from Alcott's series of four books: Little Women, Good Wives, Little Men and Jo's Boys, but I didn't notice any specifically biographical content, apart from the obvious similarities between the writer and the central character, Jo March.

The story is set during and after the American Civil War and - by pure coincidence - I obtained last week a triplet of DVDs produced by A&E Television Networks LLC under their History label.  This week I watched one that featured the events at the end of the war, before and after the assassination of Abraham Lincoln on Good Friday, 1865. 

Lincoln had controversially declared that, when the fighting came to what seemed early that year to be the inevitable conclusion of a Union victory, there would be no punishment or retribution levied upon the Confederates, but that they should be treated as brothers in a positive, forward-looking and united federal republic.  The programme depicted the face-off between generals Grant and Lee at the famous surrender at Appomattox Court House a few days after the president's death.  Fortunately for the future of the nation, Grant was determined to fulfil his late president's wishes and, in so doing, set the pattern for the peace that followed.

Lincoln's plan for this kind of peace essentially treated the war as a very violent example of a family quarrel and, in the story of the March girls portrayed in the books and the film, there were many quarrels and arguments - some of them quite violent - just as I imagine is the case in most families.  However, time - helped by the influence of a variety of pacific characters like Lincoln, and Mrs March - is a great healer and resolver of discord.

Looking back through the lens of my own recent 'significant birthday', I realise how my own view of life's ups and downs has mellowed.  Fifty years ago, I saw things very black and white.  There were those things that I saw as Right, and anything that disagreed with them was Wrong.  There was no middle course that could be adopted without undermining that which was Right, and therefore fall under the general heading of 'Wrong'.

In the world of politics, which is seldom far below the surface these days, I've never been completely in favour of, nor completely averse to, any party.  I can see good and bad points of most claims and counter-claims.  And, although I'm a committed Liberal Democrat, I know that, in common with others, there are things in their policies with which I disagree. But I support them because of those that I do agree with and want to succeed.  For the sake of such hopes and ambitions I don't feel I can hide behind my closed door and do nothing.

Sometimes life's events have a way of resolving an argument or quarrel by bringing about a far more significant calamity, such as in the story of the March family when a quarrel led to Amy burning the manuscript of Jo's book, a personal affront that Jo was not going to forgive.  The next day she and Laurie went skating on the frozen river, hotly pursued by Amy, anxious to make amends and regain Jo's affection.  Jo pretended not to hear her calling, and followed Laurie around the bend.  Amy, who hadn't heard his advice to keep to the edge where the ice was thicker, sped off in pursuit only to fall through the ice.  All thought of the burnt manuscript was forgotten in Jo's anxiety to help Laurie rescue her sister!

Unsurprisingly, I can't recall a similar drama in my own past.  However, there are a number of incidents that were disasters when they happened but, looking back, I can see how the passage of time and other events have rendered their effect less significant than seemed to be the case at the time.  It may be a good thing that we can't always tell what is just around the corner!

What's New, Pussy-cat?

To a title like that, readers 'of a certain age' will respond, "wa-a, wa-a-aa-a wa!"  I suppose I must be of that same 'certain age' even to suggest that, but I'm not sure what that age actually is.  Anyway, for me, the answer is definitely an unmusical "nothing!".  Now that the multiple festive hype is over, and life is back to normal, it's definitely 'same old, same old'.

A number of sources close to my normal way of life have been suggesting that the key word for 2020 is 'forward' and indicating that I should be looking forward to what is to come instead of back to what is past.  While there is obvious wisdom to this, because what is past cannot be affected one jot by looking back to it, thinking, regretting or worrying about it, thus far into the new year I've seen little hint of anything to which to look forward.

This is therefore a post about nothing or, at least, nothing of significance.  I returned from my midwinter break on Wednesday afternoon and the next morning the old routines kicked in.  The hours at the drop-in were highlighted by the dismantling of a decorated tree, and packing away a typical stable display.  There was some amusement over the problems of being unable to sleep in a house where all the spare rooms are allocated to visitors.  "You just have to lay still, grin and bear it," we were told, "because there's nowhere to go and any movement will disturb someone else who is asleep!"  One person turned up to be advised about a personal matter; he and another had breakfast, and I left early to do some shopping.

The afternoon at the hospice warehouse followed much the same course as usual.  My new colleague still hasn't been allocated his own computer log-in, so every time his screen went dead he had to call the supervisor to come and log him in again.  My manager is bemoaning the fact that she is overweight and needs to diet before taking part in the 'Muddy Mayhem' event at the end of February.  This isn't helped by a colleague telling of a friend who lost four stone following a particular diet that involves eating copious amounts of something that my manager doesn't like.

Today's post brought the second of two parcels I'd been expecting from the other side of the world.  Much on-line purchasing is made on impulse, but the time it takes to deliver the goods means that that inspiration, and the enthusiasm-fired skill learned from an on-screen guide at the time of order has evaporated by they arrive.  It was typical, therefore, that, of the two, one was perfect for its purpose while the other will sit in the drawer unused, simply because I can't figure out how it works!

I was going to make a couple of financial phone-calls today, but I find myself questioning whether or not it's right to do so, and so have parked them until next week, by which time my doubts may have become concrete or have evaporated.

And it's the holiday-booking season.  Catalogues have been arriving, the contents of some of which look attractive, but are clearly too expensive to contemplate.  Others - the majority - just don't appeal and have been binned.  Given the way the recycling facilities around here have been abused in recent weeks, I can't afford the luxury of binning too much because I fear there will be nowhere to empty the bin!

Life goes on, its 'excitement' unabated ... as you can tell.