When the Doctor Calls

What do you call your rooms?  Names can vary according to use, and perhaps according to a former purpose that is no longer their use.  Take my present home, for example.  We found on line pictures from when it was sold a few years ago, when the room at the front was called the dining room, although it was farthest from the kitchen.  Many years ago my neighbour showed me her flat and I was surprised that, compared to mine, her use of the two rooms was reversed, so she had a large bedroom and a small lounge, while I had a large living area and slept in the smaller room.

A small cottage might have a parlour, a room in which to 'parley' or chat.  In large houses, of a size that I would only see as a tourist, there would almost certainly be a dining room and a drawing room, the latter not for artistic purposes but, as its former name suggests, one to which the ladies would 'withdraw' after a formal dinner, leaving the gentlemen to their own devices at the dining table.  And probably some at least of the bedrooms would have a dressing room next door.

The list of examples of such names is endless.  In my flat one room used to double up as dining room and lounge while, at the same time, one corner was my library and another provided my 'office' space.  Compared to those pictures I referred to, the room nearest the kitchen is now my dining room, although my flat-dwelling times are preserved in that one corner next to the window houses my desk and is therefore my 'office'.

After several house-moves when she was young, my mother lived from the age of eleven in a quite spacious town house that had formerly been two separate cottages, for it had two front doors opening on to the street, one in use, the other permanently closed.  Consequently there were two separate rooms into which those front doors would have opened.  In my early childhood I used to visit my grandparents there, and I quickly learned that one of these, the living room, was where all aspects of life took place, while the other was only used on special occasions and was known as 'the front room' ... despite it not being the only one to which that expression could literally apply.

It will be no surprise, therefore, when I tell you that the council house into which I was born, though it had two of what estate agents would call 'reception rooms', was organised in much the same way.  The larger of these, with windows to front and back, was the living room - sometimes described simply as 'the room', as opposed to 'the kitchen' - while the smaller one took on the 'very occasional use' role and was known as the 'sitting room'.  We were also privileged to have both front and back doors.  We always used the back door, never the front; visitors who knocked there were interrogated through an opened living room window.

And by now you are wondering how all this relates to my title ... patience, please, dear reader: I'm getting to that.  In my new home I have much more space than I did in the flat.  As a result, while most of my living is done in the dining room, the room at the front of the house (notice I don't call it 'the front room') is set aside, in a way following my mother's example, although not intentionally so.  But that's where the similarity ends.  I've adopted a fairly strict rule that the things I generally think of as 'work' end between six and seven o'clock, after which time I retreat to the lounge - that's the name I give it - where I read or watch videos or DVDs and generally chill out until bedtime.

Up to now, however, there had been one drawback to this comfortable ending of the day.  The cosiness of the lounge was undermined in that the door separating it from the dining room wouldn't shut.  The result, initially just visual but, as the autumn draws on, increasingly physical too, is quite chilling.  Yesterday morning a carpenter came to resolve this problem.  His visit was scheduled for 9.30 and at about 9.15, I deliberately unlocked the front door so that it should be ready for his arrival and thereafter wouldn't start anything least I should miss his knock.

Albeit a little late, the carpenter duly arrived, looked the offending door up and down and instantly decided what was needed.  Within the space of twenty minutes or so, he had removed the door, carried it out to his van, where he sliced a little off the bottom, trimmed some wood from where one of the hinges had been fitted, and replaced the door, which now functions perfectly.  He also noticed that the trims on the door handle were loose, so he applied some glue to fix them.  "Just leave them an hour or so and they'll be fine," he said ... and was off.

As I muttered to myself, "Now he's been, I can get on," I realised how closely his visit had resembled that of a doctor of sixty years ago.  My mother would unlock the front door to be ready for him and be quite ill at ease until he had been.  He would bustle in, black bag in hand, take a look at the patient, hear the narrative of symptoms, make a decision, leave a prescription and say, "take this three times a day until it's all gone, and he should be better by the end of the week."  And as she locked the front door behind him, those same words that I had used this morning would accompany her relief that his visit was over.  

Job done, on with the motley!

Trying to Help, and Wondering Later

Nine years ago - while I was still dashing about the country to earn a living as a same-day courier - I had just embarked in my 'spare' time on a project that took almost a year to complete.  One of the most significant false trails I'd followed in my family history researches derived from the fact that there were several families in the small Suffolk town of Stanton all bearing the same name. By the mid-nineteenth century they had become very distinct from one another and distant from what had probably been a common origin centuries earlier.

I decided that it would clarify things in my own mind, and possibly help others following the same name, to attempt a sort of 'one name study' of all the Sturgeons in Stanton during the 19th century.  By the following summer, I'd compiled a massive spreadsheet, and offered it via the internet to any who thought it might be useful.  I had about a dozen expressions of interest, and there the matter lay, done and dusted ...

... Until this week, that is.  I had an e-mail from a lady in Australia who has become confused by finding a number of family trees on a well-known website that purport to represent some of her ancestors, but with significant differences from her own understanding of her forbears.  She has had correspondence with the owners of some of these trees, who are adamant that 'she has got it wrong'.  Since some of her researches were based on the results of my project, she has come back to me for re-assurance that her version of the story is the right one, and that it is these other tree-owners who are mistaken.

This puts me in something of a dilemma.  My distribution of the results of my project was accompanied by the usual disclaimer that "while I have checked this data and believe it to be accurate, I can take no responsibility for any residual errors and it is for the user to check the details therein against their own research and with original sources where possible, before adding anyone in it to their own tree."  Although probably about 90% of the details included were not part of my own tree, I would hate to have misled anyone with it.  So I'm now wondering what errors I might have made.

If you've tried digging back through reams of correspondence and tried to follow lines of thought and research that many years' hectic living have forced into the farthest reaches of your memory, you'll have some idea how I feel as a new weekend dawns.  On one hand I'm fortunate that I don't have to take work into consideration now, as I did back then.  On the other hand, my 'normal' week is taken up with the many things that have filled my retirement, and these are not easily laid aside in order to do the necessary checking and re-checking.

At a personal level, I would like the satisfaction of saying, 'I know I'm right because of this, this and this.' and, although it won't further my own research, that end-result will motivate me in this un-sought task.  However, my enthusiasm is blended with the resentment that is echoed by one of the early sentences of my correspondent's e-mail: "I just wish people would check their facts properly before they put them on line!" and also the fear that the same condemnation could apply to me!

Switching Off and Switching On ... Tentacled Travelling!

Energy prices are set to go through the roof ... or so we're told.  It used to be said that the best way to ensure you're paying least for your gas and electricity was to switch suppliers.  I heard on the radio last week that this advice is now redundant; it's apparently best to stay put and stick it out.  Financial Health Warning: Please don't act on this 'reported' advice! 

I switched in about 2017 ... long enough ago not to remember which supplier I moved from.  Since then I had been a happy customer of Octopus.  When matters were finally settled for my move this summer, I called Octopus to arrange for them to provide me at my new home.  Sadly, when I explained that the house was fitted with a pay-as-you-go meter, they told me that their system couldn't cope with this.  I learned that the only thing I had to do was to change my account to payment by direct debit and then they would be able to pick up my supply.

The day after I signed the lease, I visited the house to deliver some advance possessions, measure the rooms for my furniture plan and check for curtain requirements ... and while there, I read the meters.  I had discovered that the fridge was running and I was anxious that the supply wouldn't be cut off if I didn't make a payment for electricity.  This would be using a system involving some kind of 'key' like a credit card that was completely foreign to me, and while I was still some distance away since the removal company wouldn't be able to fit me in for a couple of weeks.

During the next few days I made several efforts to contact British Gas to arrange the 'mode change'.  The only phone numbers I could find led to automated systems and the nearest I ever came to speaking to an actual person was an online chat facility.  Eventually, a whole week after reading the meters, I was finally satisfied that there was a functioning account, in my name, to supply electricity and gas under terms I thought I could understand.  Note my use of the word 'thought' there.

I began to make monthly payments by direct debit.  Slowly, it dawned on me that I had not one, but two separate accounts, one for each energy type.  The monthly payment was for electricity only and, despite a letter saying they would send a monthly statement, nothing arrived.  The account for gas would be paid by a separate, variable direct debit, against a monthly bill.  I received one such bill on 14th August, some 54 days after supply began, and payment was duly extracted from my bank a fortnight later.  Monthly bill? I don't think so.  Meanwhile I had still heard nothing at all about the electricity. 

If you're confused having read this far all at one go, imagine how I felt living through it day by uncertain and puzzling day!  In the early days of September, I received an e-mail from British Gas (no name, no location - just 'British Gas'), announcing that their prices would be increasing from a date in October.  I decided enough was enough.  It was time for me to fulfil my promise to return to Octopus.  I made the phone call, speaking directly to a human voice at the other end.  Certainly I could switch.  I followed up with an e-mail quoting my new address, the British Gas account numbers and that was it.  They would transfer my bank details from my now closed account, and the whole process would be done in about three weeks.  I marked my diary 'O-Day' with a smiley face and on that day I read the meters and sent them to Octopus.

The only things left to resolve were payments to and from British Gas.  I had an e-mailed bill for gas, which was paid by direct debit this week, a couple of weeks after the bill, as before.  I had a letter - again with no name, or sending address - regarding the electricity account, announcing 'We've now cancelled your direct debit'.  This was not strictly true: I had cancelled it as soon as I had a switch date from Octopus.  The letter suggested I could pay with a credit card either on line or by phone, or I could send a cheque to their payment centre.  This was the only address in the letter. 

I made unsuccessful attempts to obtain account details by phone and on line (both said there were no charges and a zero balance on my account, although the letter had said that my account was in credit by slightly more than the total of my three monthly payments).  I wrote a letter to them, pointing out that these two sources both disagreed with the figure on their letter, and asking them to deduct from the credit balance the charge for electricity in the last three months and "return the balance to my bank account within fourteen days."

I made no comment suggesting what action I might take if those fourteen days should pass with no result.  In truth I had no plan, but I felt that the 'legal-sounding' expression would add gravitas and might produce the right result.  Within three days I had an e-mail enclosing a proper statement and specifying the resulting balance that would be transferred to my account.  It arrived on Thursday of this week, before the fourteen days had elapsed.

After four years, I know I can trust Octopus to provide regular details of my account.  If I'm paying too much or too little, I can adjust my regular payment by sending them an e-mail.  I send them meter readings and within hours I get a statement based on the readings I've sent.  Nothing could be simpler.  Soon after the switch date, I received notice that my old direct debit would be reinstated, and earlier this week I was asked for meter readings.  These I supplied by return e-mail and the resulting statement shows that my single payment has been offset by the total of electricity and gas used since the switchover.

And am I better off from switching?  I have now had a chance to compare prices, too.  The charges per unit are lower than British Gas, even if only slightly - down by 0.08% for electricity and 0.61% for gas.  The standing charges, however, are much lower - gas down by 10.34% and electricity by a whopping 39.71%  The financial benefit may be small, but mentally, I'm much happier, knowing that I can monitor my costs regularly and reliably and that any query can be resolved by e-mail to and fro with a single definite operator.

I'm a happy bunny, dealing with eight super-efficient tentacles!

It All Needs to Change!

I'm presently suffering from three conflicting feelings ... call them emotions if you like.  First, at my age I'm reasonably content with life and I'm probably old enough not to be around when the worst of climate change takes effect.  Second, while I feel concern for those who are in need, I don't have any practical way to identify needy individuals in my immediate vicinity, and third, I don't have great physical energy, finance or particular skills to do much anyway.

It's an iceberg of a problem, this business of concern.  At least that's what I fear: there's probably far more for people to worry about than the few things that hit the headlines.  Outside of my own comfortable nest, there are three things in particular that worry me as I reflect upon the wider aspects of life in the autumn of 2021.  First, and perhaps most seriously, is the climate crisis.  Given the nations' track record following previous conferences, I find myself sceptical firstly about any positive outcome of the upcoming COP26 event in Glasgow, and secondly how many of any commitments that might be made there will actually come to pass.

My second major concern is the sequence of extreme measures that the present government of this country are adopting.  Let me give you just three examples.  One is measures against voter fraud, very much a solution in search of a problem, if ever there was one.  The likely outcome is that many will become disenfranchised and that few of these would be Tory voters, making the government's position more secure.  Another is the clause in the Policing Bill that will deprive individuals of the right to protest.  The third is the way that refugees are being treated.  I acknowledge that the arrival of Afghan refugees was somewhat thrust upon us, but news bulletins reveal that many are being herded into temporary accommodation, e.g. in tourist hotels, and simply left there with no plans or discussions with local authorities - and little or no economic assistance - to facilitate their integration into the local community.  

On the other hand we see boatload after boatload of asylum seekers arriving - or attempting to arrive - on our shores in the most dangerous manner.  The focus of all the action surrounding this situation is aimed at making it more difficult for these voyages to take place.  This just plays into the hands of the smugglers, who will devise other routes, more difficult, but more lucrative, and keep trying.  If these people - many of whom possess skills that we need! - were to be welcomed with open arms, there would be no market for smugglers, and an enhancement to our economic strategies into the bargain.

And my third major concern is our present economic situation.  Someone - and it's so long ago that I can't remember who or on what occasion, but its history doesn't undermine its relevance - once described the government as 'lurching from crisis to crisis with all the dignity of a ruptured duck on an ice rink!'  The proud claim of those who supported and contrived to achieve Brexit was that it would enable us to take back control ... of our trade, and our borders and, by implication, of our population, too.  

So far, trade with our most profitable partners has declined; what survives is burdened with a seemingly impenetrable cloak of new paperwork, and one of the most loyal sections of our multi-faceted nation has suffered the most stringent difficulties by the introduction of a border that they were told would never come about.  

Our borders - which I understand were never controlled before Brexit to the extent that was provided for by EU legislation - are now so unwelcoming that hoards of loyal citizens born elsewhere but happy to live, work and pay taxes here (and never had any need to get a British passport until Brexit came about) have now either been expelled or have decided voluntarily to go back to continental Europe.  The effect on our economy has been disastrous, The contribution to our social and economic structures that was being made by their skills and diligence has suddenly evaporated.  While there is a logical argument that British people should be doing jobs here, the management of this changeover has been far too precipitant - or non-existent! - and the time needed for our own nationals to gain those skills has never been taken into account.  In some cases - perhaps many, for all I know - there are no native-born applicants clamouring to replace these unappreciated, and now missing, workers.

Another - and more topical - strand to the economic situation is the removal of the temporary enhancement to Universal Benefit payments.  A woman interviewed on the radio this week admitted that, when the additional payment was introduced, it was indeed an 'extra' and enabled her to catch up on some outstanding bills.  However, increases in the price of food and in the general cost of living since that time has taken up that 'slack', and she is now back where she started; the removal of the enhancement, though not a surprise, hits her hard.  James O'Brien on LBC asked this week how many of those opposing the retention of the enhancement actually had any idea of the effect of the loss of £20 ... even on a single occasion, let alone every week.  It's all very well to say that the intention is for people to work harder and earn what they need to live on.  Many are doing their utmost already.  Many others either can't physically work and rely solely on benefits, and many who are in work can't increase their hours - even if they had the stamina to do so - because their present out-of-work time is committed to caring for either children or older family members.

Underlying all of these distressing situations, and the desire for change and improvement, is the need to reform our electoral system.  This would relieve, and hopefully remove, the dissatisfaction that many thousands feel that those whose decisions control their lives either don't listen to them, or don't care about them, or both.  Very few Tory MPs are willing to support, or give any thought to, the introduction of proportional representation (in other words making seats in Westminster match the way the population actually vote), knowing that any such a change would work against them and deprive them of the power they presently wield.

I don't often devote this blog to a political rant, but I'm tormented by those emotions that introduced this post.  There's guilt at my present comfortable situation, and frustration about not being in a position to help others.  Many years ago, in response to feelings like this, someone whose situation was far better than mine is now, and whom I greatly respected, told me, "I could sell my house and give away all my money, but what good would that do, other than make me part of a still unresolved problem?"  At least I can write about all these things and hope that others will read and react in the most constructive way they can.

You Wouldn't Catch Me Doing That!

A true expression of bravado, if ever there was one!  There are several possible meanings to it, possibly identified by the intonation of the speaker.  Spoken defiantly, it could indicate careful planning before the execution of something unlawful, ensuring so far as possible that the speaker wouldn't be observed or apprehended.  Spoken in a spirit of self-confidence, it could imply that he or she would not consider actions that could result in the situation being referred to, or would take precautions to avoid that result.  Or, a stage further, it could be said with self-deprecation, and suggest a reluctance to offer or apply for a position or office that would lead to such a situation.

These are words that have come to my mind in a number of ways just lately.  Some apply to me, some to others about me or involved with me.

There are rules governing all we do in life, some general, some specific; some enforceable in law, others depending on courtesy.  In the voluntary work I'm doing at present, I began earlier in the year doing what, in effect, amounted to copy-typing material in a foreign language.  Specific rules dictated what to type in certain circumstances, such as printing instructions that had to be inserted amongst the text; ensuring the correct positioning of punctuation, and so on.  All these were on top of typing the correct letters, with the correct accents, in the first place.  The key thing emphasised in my training was checking: reviewing and correcting in order that the end result was as accurate as possible.

I have now been moved to the next stage in the process.  Everything is typed twice, by different people, and I'm now presented with two separate sets of documents, to compare to each other as well as to the original, with the objective of producing one final version that is an accurate and usable digital version of the printed original provided.  I can see now the importance of the checking!  Some of the errors I'm having to correct would require little checking by the typist to spot and put right before submission, and I find myself saying, "You wouldn't catch me doing that!"

Soon after arriving in my new home, several days of rain revealed the need for some attention to the roof.  As I watched this being carried out, with one man standing at the foot of the ladder for safety while his colleague actually repaired the flashing and applied sealant where necessary, I found myself coping with a variety of emotions.  One was envy, another was fear.  Once on holiday, I lay flat on my stomach and looked straight down the face of the Pont du Gard; I may even have taken a picture ... I can't clearly remember.  As a bell ringer I have often emerged from the top of a church tower to admire the view, but always from the safety of the surrounding parapet.  Watching that roofer walking with apparent abandon up and down the sloping tiles, I recalled days in the school gym, clinging to the top of a climbing rope, and my palms go wet even now as I remember both occasions over fifty years apart.

You wouldn't catch me doing that!

The pattern I've developed over the few months I've been here is to visit the supermarket for my grocery shopping every other Monday, and every other visit - i.e. once a month - I go across the road before returning home and fill up with petrol.  I presently have something less than half a tank of fuel in my car.  I hope to fill up this coming Monday, but if I can't, and the situation is not resolved by the time the tank is empty, I shall have to resort to plan B ... which has yet to be determined.  There are many reasons for the present crisis, which I don't propose to rehearse here.  Suffice to say that one of the most critical is a shortage of HGV drivers.

When I was driving I was fortunate to be using a vehicle that was unregulated.  However, the threat of that changing sent me to research the regulations that might have been extended in my direction.  Baffling doesn't begin to describe them.  In addition to these - with the underlying threat that failure to comply could mean the revocation of the driver's HGV licence - are the conditions under which those heavy haulage drivers have to work.  

I read a most informative summary on social media recently, posted by a British driver who regularly travels to other countries.  The regulations state that breaks must be taken regularly and some are specifically to be taken away from the vehicle.  The need to complete jobs in the least time possible, and fit in as much work as possible, all adds to the pressure to find somewhere to take the necessary breaks, whether for half-an-hour or a number of hours.  In this country, it could mean finding a motorway service station (with a hefty parking charge), or a roadside lay-by (if there's room).  If the rest period is to include a night's sleep, this is hardly likely to be sound and refreshing beside a busy main road! (I know - I've tried it!)  Put together several days like this up and down the country, and the need for proper sleep, washing facilities etc. builds up, not just physically, but mentally, too.  Drivers with families to get home to are under even greater pressure.

In France, Germany and other countries, said this driver, there are few main roads without a convenient spread of purpose built refuges for this purpose, certainly with toilets and often with showers, proper beds, and provision for a hot meal.  Those countries recognise that these men - and women! - are key to the smooth running of the economy and look after them.  For too long Britain has taken lorry drivers for granted.  They have to make do with what facilities they can scavenge, which is why thousands have left the road and let their licences lapse.  

The present temporary visa scheme, when it eventually get under way, will, I fear, be treated by foreign drivers with contempt.  Those who are already driving for other employers won't be interested, and those who aren't have either found other work or will look at the possibility of eight, maybe ten weeks' work in British conditions - with which they are probably familiar - with no guarantee of anything beyond Christmas ... and think that it's just not worth the hassle.

Someone asked me the other day if I had been tempted to help fight the present shortage.  When I was driving, I heard stories from parcels drivers (DPD, Hermes and the like) of being challenged to make well over 100 deliveries a day or lose pay; my reaction to them was that I couldn't stand that pressure.  My answer to this challenge was gladness that I never had an HGV licence, so wouldn't qualify, but given the conditions I've seen and heard about ... "You wouldn't catch me doing that!"