Friday 30 October 2020

Busy Doing Nothing

In my two-days-a-week voluntary job helping in a warehouse, I occasionally encounter cages, tall metal-mesh containers on wheels to help in transporting goods around the building.  Usually these things have two fixed wheels and two that swivel and, as a result, rather like the proverbial recalcitrant supermarket trolley, a cage can sometimes seem to have a mind of its own when it comes to getting it to go where you want it.  In fairness, this - as in the retail comparison just made - is often the result of bad maintenance.  

[I once caused some amusement in the office when exasperated at the obstinacy of a plastic bin (the younger sibling of the cage).  After I'd used the contents of the bin, I went to the workshop area and borrowed a couple of spanners; returning to the empty container where I had left it, inverted on the office floor, I proceeded to remove one of the wheels from its bearing and unwind therefrom a pair of tights that had become entangled, before replacing it and returning a much healthier article to the parking area.]

Sometimes a loaded cage can be a heavy challenge for one person and a few weeks ago, my supervisor asked me to help her get one up a slope and through a narrow door.  With one of us pulling backward and the other pushing forward, and neither able to see what the other was doing, the task wasn't exactly easy for the two of us.  Once the slope had been negotiated and the cage was 'stuck' in the doorway, but at least on level ground, she left me to it, simply moving small obstacles out of my path as I steered it into place.

Afterwards, having thanked me for my help, she added, "I don't really know what would have made that job easier."  I fear my reply, though factual and constructive, was an impossibility and could certainly have been much better phrased.  "Having one mind between the two of us would have helped."  What I meant was that part of the difficulty was that, as each of us tried to work out which way to steer our own side, we were often working against each other instead of one taking the lead and instructing the other in a common plan.

As I recall this situation, my mind drifts back some thirty or forty years to a church 'event' that was carried out by a collection of eight men of varying abilities, assembled as a result of an appeal for volunteers, rather than a co-ordinated recruiting exercise.  The task was to remove the font from the place where it had stood for centuries to a new site some twenty yards or so distant, where it would be much more convenient in the late twentieth century.  

By some means now lost in the fogginess of memory, the eight of us had managed to lift this stone monster from the floor and were then guided by a ninth person (probably the parson) to convey it to precisely the right spot, and facing the correct way round, before allowing it to descend gently and safely to the floor.  I'm pleased to report that this was done with no injury to either carriers or carried and, so far as I know, it is still standing today where we left it all those years ago.

My point is, however, that it can sometimes make a job easier if one person is not actively engaged in its execution.  A more ancient example of this truth is a musical one that I'm pleased to say graces my somewhat esoteric collection of recorded music ... viz. the Sea Shanty.  Unversed as I am in nautical terms, I wouldn't know a sheet from a halyard, but I am aware that the hauling of a rope by a body of men is much more efficient if it follows a distinct and appropriate rhythm pounded out by the communal singing of a well known chorus, punctuated by pithy verses contributed by a non-pulling comrade, possibly armed with a squeeze-box.

A rambling - almost sea-faring! - tale like this has to have a moral to draw it to a conclusion and that is simply this.  When it comes to the defeat of our present arch-enemy, Covid-19, while the gallant efforts of the NHS and the test-and-trace people are on the 'doing end' of the fight, their efforts can be very much helped by the non-active participation of people like you and me, as we follow the mantra of keeping ourselves in our 2-metre spaces, washing our hands well and often, and wearing a mask when necessary.

Friday 23 October 2020

Cobblers' Children!

The proverb that gives me my title this week is centuries old.  One source places the earliest reference to it in a book of 1546 and another even suggests that a similar meaning is to be found in Holy Writ at Luke 4:23, but I think this is stretching the point somewhat.  The version I heard in my formative years ran, "Cobblers' children are always the worst shod", and it came to mind earlier this week as I found time to dabble in my favourite lockdown hobby, the family history.

In recent weeks I've had two major 'background' projects on the go, and these get neglected when they unearth something worthy of the diversion ... rather like the snow plough patrol that discovers a hole in the road and turns workers enjoying seasonal overtime back into road maintenance operatives on an emergency shift.

The first of these projects is to label all the unlabelled birth and death records that I've collected over the years with a reference to the subject characters in my database.  The other is adorning the database itself with reference to the appearance of each character in the censuses that took place during his/her lifetime ... if not all, then at least those that indicate a change of locality or an interesting occupation.

It was this latter that I was engaged on the other day when I came across a couple who were the parents of a sizeable family but oddly enough, my record showed no trace of their marriage.  Now this might be a fairly common situation today, but it was far less so in early-Victorian England.  Added to this was the fact that the woman was a sister of one of my great-great-grandmothers, i.e. a close enough family member to warrant all possible facts to have been documented and recorded.  On closer examination, my horror was extended by the absence of the deaths of either her or her husband and few, if any, birth references for their children!

What had gone wrong with my system?  The answer was simple, but no less incriminating.  The arrival of these 'characters' in my records was many years ago, when my known tree was expanding far more rapidly than is presently the case.  I had been in correspondence with two of their descendants, who had each provided details of their own families, linking back to this couple.  I had incorporated these names and dates into my database before hurriedly moving on to another letter or e-mail.  I had then been so engrossed in the further expansion of my tree that I never gave a thought to verifying and properly documenting the information I'd been given.

So, thank you, third cousins Brenda and John (some eighteen years late) for all these details.  I have at last filled in the missing link in our joint families.  I can now tell you that your great-great-grandparents were married in the June quarter of 1849, and confirm the legitimacy of each of you being my fourth cousin.

Saturday 17 October 2020

Back to School

I don't know about you, but I've found that, with the lockdown and the continued curtailment of many activities since it was supposed to have ended (never mind the restrictions that are likely to return soon, or have indeed already been re-imposed in many places), I've been finding many aspects of life growing stale.

One I have noticed particularly, although there is no actual restriction on all the component aspects, is cooking.  Never the world's greatest cook, I used to make a four-portion stew from time to time, eating one portion fresh and popping the rest into the freezer.  Nothing now prevents me getting the ingredients, and I certainly have the time, but stews haven't made a return to my agenda ... as yet.

Another aspect of life that had hit the doldrums until very recently, was my spiritual life.  When, almost overnight, churches were stopped from gathering for worship, we considered ourselves fortunate in having some clever techno-people in our congregation who very quickly - and with no little personal sacrifice - had systems up and running to provide streamed worship for any and all who liked to log in.  This proved a boon to many who suddenly found themselves confined.

It wasn't the same, by far, as being amidst the crowd, enjoying real coffee and chatter afterwards and so on, but it was much better than nothing.  When the churches were opened again for limited congregations, there was great excitement.  Conditions were changed, of course.  Seating was restricted and spread out to conform to social distancing, a strict regime of entry and exit was introduced and we all had to wear masks.  I understand that many felt the opposite to me about this situation and were glad to be back, however restricted.  For my part, I went along on that first morning but felt even more isolated than I had felt sitting at home watching on my computer screen.

In order to overcome this total disconnect, I tried to join a Zoom group, but was unable to do so.  My solution to this difficulty may or may not have something to do with years of using Excel. I've found that, if you can't get the system to do what you want with the most obvious formula, you see what other formulae are available and go about solving the problem by a different route.  

Without thought of the famous spreadsheet - initially, at any rate - I decided to see what Bible Study facilities might be available on line.  Many I looked at were aimed at totally new believers, or those seeking 'in the dark', as it were.  Some were so overtly American as to be off-putting.  Eventually I picked three, bookmarked them for future reference and set about the other end of the problem, sorting out my own life pattern to accommodate them.

That's where Excel did come in.  For many years now, I have used this 'wonder-toy' to compile a holiday programme, so I could see in one place where I was going day by day, with necessary post codes or public transport times to help get there,  what there was to see, how long I could stay there in order to be at the next site on time, and so on.  It was the work of an hour or so to extract from that the sort of simple chart that would be drawn in a school book at the start of a new year - and, in early October, the timing wasn't that far out either, come to that!

Allowing for two days working - that's one thing that, for me, has come back relatively unscathed by Covid precautions - and relatively few other regular commitments, it was easy to identify six suitably spaced slots that would enable me to allocate those three bookmarked websites to my use.  After trial and exchange, a pattern emerged that is uneven as it happens, with one website appearing three times a week, one twice and the other only once.  There is variety in the type of content, too, which should make keeping to the plan just that bit easier.

I've committed myself to a few weeks' trial and if, by the end of November, all seems to be working well, I'll stick to it.  If not, I may change things around and re-write the timetable, or think about something totally different.  Watch this space!

Saturday 10 October 2020

Strike a Light!

When I was privileged to be invited to take a late holiday a few weeks ago, I began to make plans.  Realising that my accommodation was, as I put it, 'halfway to anywhere' - i.e. a number of sites of interest would be more easily accessible from there than from home - my choice was wide.  A couple of definite bookings were made, many others noted as possible and, last but not least, I made a booking for Sunday lunch.

If I say that I knew the place well, it would be an exaggeration.  I had passed it many times, since it was just round the corner from the house where I would be staying, but I'd never been inside and had no idea either of their normal routines or, most definitely, how they were coping with the coronavirus restrictions.

If it comes to that, I have no idea how my 'local' is coping, either.  I was in the habit of going there most Sundays for lunch - so much so that I had become known as 'roast pork and half of cider' - but since mid-March I've not darkened their doors, firstly resorting of necessity to my own devices, and latterly preferring the security of home.

In no sense am I a 'social drinker'.  That half-pint of cider was my only alcoholic intake.  My regular £10 or so won't be the make-or-break factor in the pub's economy.  But I know that there are many, many others who, quite responsibly, enjoy the company and facilities provided by that and the whole industry of other licensed premises across Albion's fair land.

And, unlike me, thousands of people don't make a habit of a 10 o'clock bedtime.  (I find that reading in bed is about the only sure way of getting through any of the hundreds of books that I've acquired down the years.  OK - some of the larger tomes may take a number of weeks, and one or two have been given up on after a few boring chapters - but the alternative, i.e. sitting in the armchair, simply sends me to sleep.)

So, although its impact on my life is totally zero, I can readily see that the latest (supposed anti)-Covid-infection measure of making pubs and restaurants close at 10.0pm is ABSOLUTELY BONKERS!  Whatever the proportion is - and, of course, it will vary from one place to another - a large chunk of any pub's normal income will be achieved after that magic hour.

The financial pressure on the business of running a pub, already hit by the need for additional precautions and social distancing to provide a safe environment for a reduced number of customers, is therefore exacerbated by disallowing what is for many the busiest sector of their week.

And further - as that seasoned campaigner Daisy Cooper, MP, points out here - those leaving the pubs at this unsatisfactory closing time are exchanging the safety of a well-prepared drinking environment for crowded public transport and/or supermarket purchases for domestic consumption which invites further and greater risk of infection!

I can say no more ... beyond reporting that my holiday Sunday lunch at the Hayloft was perfectly prepared, perfectly safe and perfectly enjoyed!

Friday 2 October 2020

It's a Dying Trade!

I'm not talking about undertaking, as in the music-hall joke book; and this post - you'll be pleased to know - is not about Covid-19 either.  I watched something the other night about the canals that spread across this country towards the end of the eighteenth century.  Within little more than fifty years, they were beginning to decline as the steam age rose to precedence and a far greater network of iron 'roads' (yes, they were actually called roads) grew up to accommodate the railways that ousted the canals from their role as the major carrier of manufactured merchandise.

The railways had another great advantage over the canals ... they carried passengers, too.  People took advantage of the new faster means of getting from one part of the country to another.  And they weren't just for the well-to-do.  The Railway Regulation Act of 1844 demanded that the railway companies should provide one train per day in each direction on all of their lines at a cost of no more than one penny per mile, which brought such luxury within the means of the working classes.

It is said that, had it not been for the Second World War, the advance of the motor car in the early twentieth century would have had the same effect on the railways as they had had on the canals a century earlier.  As it was, many lines were dreadfully uneconomical long before Dr Beeching wielded his metaphorical axe in the mid-'sixties, wiping many thousands of miles of railway tracks not only off the map but, in many cases, off the face of the countryside with unseemly haste.

My theme today is the way that the advance of technology has caused major upheaval to the lives of a great swathe of our population from one age to another over the course of just a generation or so.  I've given just two examples above; I'm sure my reader can just as quickly add a couple more ... and a couple more!

Another such change that claimed my attention last week was in the realms of recreation.  The advent of the railways and the consequent ease of travel, preceded by only a few decades the first reductions in the working week.  Gradually, hour by painful hour, conditions improved; some employers were more generous than others but, in 1938, the Holidays with Pay Act gave those workers whose minimum rates of pay were fixed by trade boards, the right to one week's paid holiday per year.  This was like the firing of a starting pistol.

In many of the industrial areas of the north of England, it was realised that, with all the workforce wanting to take their holiday in the summer months, rather than reduce productivity significantly over a prolonged period, it would be better to close the factories completely for a whole week or more.  This not only benefited the employers, who could also arrange for major maintenance to be carried out when production was at a standstill, but it gave those employees who wished, the opportunity to take their holidays with their colleagues.  

The railways took advantage of this and arranged special trains to convey thousands of holidaymakers from the industrial centres to the coast, where many towns, Blackpool and Great Yarmouth in particular, had developed a new thriving industry catering for their needs.  This trend was not, of course, confined to the heavy industries.  All workers gradually became entitled to paid holiday in increasing amounts.  Soon it became the norm for some workers to have a summer and a winter holiday, and maybe two weeks could possibly be spent at the seaside instead of one!

There were people who, for a variety of reasons wouldn't wish, or perhaps weren't able to go to the seaside.  But they liked to keep up with the places their friends had visited and, from the last years of the nineteenth century, the picture postcard had become one of the easiest ways of achieving this.  It has been said that this was the distant forerunner of Facebook and Twitter, since a card could be posted one morning and be at the far end of the country by the next, or in a nearby town by the same afternoon!

You may remember a square-framed board, criss-crossed by a lattice of tapes, that would hang on the kitchen wall.  During the year, this would provide a suitable place to store correspondence: letters from friends near and far, or bills to be paid, and so on.  But, as the summer progressed, all the friends who had gone on their holidays would send their postcards and these would be carefully threaded on the board, making a colourful display to brighten the lives of those who were at home.

As the decades passed, in the same way as transport advances had led to the seaside holidays, so further advances, first of the motor car and later of passenger air flight, led to its demise.  A week at Clacton or Skegness gave way to a weekend in Paris or Stockholm, which in turn paled to insignificance against the attraction of a week in Cuba or a fortnight in Thailand.  For a while the cards got bigger and the scenes they portrayed less and less familiar, but it wasn't long before the humble postcard had given way to the holiday video, and the lattice board, having been quite empty for many years, was ousted when the kitchen was redecorated.