Last week was typical. It was a bit of a 'parson's egg', i.e. good in parts. It provided some surprises, and brought blessings too. Monday and Tuesday were both slow, with an empty trip to King's Lynn on Monday to collect some brackets for a building site in St Albans, and the delivery of a tender to Bexhill-on-Sea on Tuesday.
A couple of weeks ago, I finally made the decision to invest in a Dart-tag, making it easier to pass through the tolls at the QEII Bridge, and bringing with it a small discount on the charge. This was largely prompted by the increase in the toll fee from £2.00 to £2.50 each way. With the tag I only pay £2.19. When the tag arrived, the accompanying instructions said to install it behind the rear-view mirror; this puzzled me a little, since I don't have one in the van. They went on to refer to a protective coating at the top of the windscreen and, thinking that the black patch at the top of my windscreen (where the mirror would have been) would come into this category, I avoided this and stuck the tag below the sun visor.
Reflecting upon this decision, I wondered whether this would in fact still be within this 'protected area', and to be on the safe side I called the Dart people to make sure. I was told, yes, it would be in the protected area, and I ought to have stuck it in the blackened section, because that was not subject to the protective coating, which interferes with the recognition technology. However, when I answered the question of what van I have, I learned that this might be OK, since the protective coating on Vauxhalls isn't as impenetrable as some other models.
Now, since fitting the tag I hadn't needed to use the crossing so there had been no opportunity to try it out, until the visit to Bexhill on Tuesday. I chose a pay-lane, and drove cautiously up to the barrier, with money to hand in case it didn't work. Nothing happened, and I reached the point where payment would have to be made. My hand reached to the window winder to open it ... and then 'beep', the barrier lifted, and the display changed from 'Van - £2.50' to 'Dart-tag Thank you.' It had worked after all. I enjoyed a similar, but a little more confident, experience a couple of hours later when I returned, my delivery made.
Wednesday brought a 'blast from the past'. I was sent to a firm just by the A1 at Huntingdon with some electronic equipment. It's a job I've done several times before and I knew that, despite the high level of security, it's a doddle. This time, however, there were two additional items that had to be taken to their sister operation near Eye, Suffolk. The last time I was at that particular site was some 24 years ago when, as a wannabe spreadsheet consultant, I'd secured a six-week assignment to stand in for an ex-employee to help in the completion of their annual budget. It had been my first introduction to the wonders of the Lotus Symphony program.
But that wasn't to be my only dip into the past that day. After a delivery in the centre of Norwich, I was sent to the outskirts of the city to collect some 'dead' computer equipment. When I arrived, I realised that the property was adjacent to a factory where I had had a job interview in 1985! On that occasion I didn't get the job, but last week I did get the computers - thirteen boxes and a few bits and pieces, that filled my van, and stayed there until the next morning when I could deliver them to a recycling operation quite close to our office.
Being so close, and with a magazine overdue to be read, I decided to spend Thursday's waiting time at the office, instead of coming home again. It was an eye-opening reminder of how blessed I am under this new régime to spend such a good time at home. My family history work has progressed remarkably over the summer months, at the cost of keeping up to date with reading matter. I was also reminded how boring it was waiting at the office; there are only so many pages that can be read at a sitting, and the mind seeks other diversions. I was very glad at 11.30 to be sent out on a job. In fact, it was not one job, but two, and went a great way towards balancing out the shortage of work earlier in the week. I left home turf with two small boxes, one for the centre of Birmingham, the other for a dentist in Warrington, and was home about 9.30pm.
Friday was similarly balanced. I wasn't called until 2.30pm, but the job was far better than I'd expected so late in the day, and necessitated taking a box of components to a shopping centre in the middle of Gloucester. By the time I'd beaten the traffic, the site staff had all gone home, but a phone call had advised me to leave the goods with the security staff, who readily accepted them. I was glad not to be too late home, because I knew I had an early start the following morning.
My plan for Saturday was to visit the Suffolk Family History Fair at Needham Market, and it began quite successfully. I arrived about ten minutes before opening time, but this didn't hinder my access for, along with a number of other early-birds, I was allowed to move freely around the stalls from the off. There were talks in an adjacent room, too. The first speaker had written the story of her Suffolk family, and prepared it as an illustrated book to give to her present day family, many of whom live far from this area, and to whom it would all be a 'different place'. The second 'talk' was, in fact, a dramatic performance of a number of Suffolk tales and legends, some of which have parallels in many other places. It was both interesting and amusing, and received much well-deserved applause at the end.
After lunch, my week took a different course from my plans. In order to see round the rest of the Fair and make some purchases, I had skipped the Society's AGM, which was being held in the same room where the talks had taken place. When I arrived once more for the afternoon talk, the only empty seat was one by the door, with a poor view of the screen. This made little difference, however, because the speaker was one I'd heard before, and his delivery quite uninspiring. I found myself nodding off, realised that there were better uses for my time, and prepared to leave, glad that I was seated near the door. As I packed up my things as quietly as possible, I noticed that I had awoken the lady next to me!
Thus it was that, after the journey home, there was time to fulfil a number of essential chores before bedtime, and leave Sunday that oasis of tranquility that it's supposed to be and, thankfully for me, usually is. Now to execute what that complacency has left behind!
Tuesday, 23 October 2012
Sunday, 14 October 2012
A Family Affair, but ...
Last Monday evening, upon my arrival at bellringing practice, I announced that I was there only as a result of the financial crisis in the health service - I like being melodramatic on occasions. Asked how this was, I explained that I ought by then to have been driving north to catch the 0400 ferry from Cairnryan to deliver something medical (I knew not what) at Queen's Hospital, Belfast in the morning. However, when I left the office the job had yet to be confirmed, and I later had a call to say that it wouldn't be happening - their budget wouldn't extend to a courier delivery, however urgent it might be. I later discovered that I'd got the name wrong anyway - it's actually the Royal Victoria Hospital, but that's irrelevant to my tale.
This is only the latest of a number of recent episodes that are in keeping with an interest I've developed over the last half dozen years or so in all things Irish. Last weekend saw the return for the winter months to the airwaves of RTÉ Radio 1 of The History Show. One of the features of the first programme in the series, which I listened to as a podcast during the week, focussed on the Famine of the 1840s and included a graphic description of the sort of hovels in which the poorest people of rural Ireland were living at the time. There was also a mention of various centenaries that will be marked in coming years, and of the recent centenary celebrations in Belfast of the signing in September 1912 of the Ulster Covenant. These included a surprisingly peaceful march through Belfast by about 30,000 Unionists, to the accompaniment of several marching bands. That event even made the national news bulletins on the day.
As I'd tracked my father's family through the 19th century, I had noted the absence of my great-uncle George from among them. For many years I had assumed that he had died and that I simply hadn't picked up his death in the records. Last year I discovered what had happened him. In one last push to try to settle the mystery, I found that he'd joined the army, and had been discharged because of injury in 1876, to settle in Enniskillen, Co. Fermanagh. In recent months I've been tracing the lives of some of his nine children, although this is difficult without easy access to the General Record Office of Northern Ireland (GRONI) in Belfast. Last weekend I discovered that two of his sons (my father's cousins) had died in World War I, one on the first day of the Battle of the Somme in 1916, the other in northern France some thirteen months previously.
In one of my earliest blogs (you can re-read it here), I wrote about a perceived unfairness regarding Northern Ireland and its being part of the United Kingdom. Perhaps one of the most public expressions of this - and it's my guess one of the least recognised - was seen this summer in connection with the Olympic Games. What was 'our' team called? 'Team GB'. And what do those letters stand for? Great Britain, which is the name of the larger of these two islands off the north-west coast of Europe. The other is Lesser Britain, or more commonly Ireland. The country being represented by Team GB is the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. So why wasn't it called Team UK?
Going back to the Ulster Covenant ... how many UK citizens are aware of it, I wonder. And yet, only just beyond living memory, this was one of the key events in a schism that has shaped our country as it is today, and gave birth to one of the few countries of Europe that has known continuous peace for almost ninety years. I don't propose to turn this blog into a history lesson - let those readers who are interested research it for themselves. Suffice to say that it's a wonder to me why the Unionist majority in Northern Ireland remain so steadfast about being part of the UK, when those this side of the North Channel seem consistently to ignore them, rarely include their affairs in our news bulletins, and I suspect that if truth were told, would rather they just weren't there to embarrass us.
As I've researched what I must call the 'Irish branch' of my family, I've found myself wondering about their feelings, their attitudes to what was going on around them. How Irish were they? What did they reckon to the possibility of being governed by a parliament in Dublin? I've now discovered that at least two followed their father into the Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers (although when he was under arms it was still known as the 27th Regiment of Foot). Their mother was born in Fermanagh (probably in Enniskillen) only years after the worst of the famine, and all the children were born in Enniskillen. But still I ask, how Irish were they? Three of the four eldest girls married men who had been born in England, one in Battersea, one in Liverpool (although of an Irish family), and one a soldier born in Hampshire.
My great-aunt died in 1906, and when I couldn't find her husband in the 1911 census, I concluded that he and at least the two younger children might have travelled to England and become lost in the hundreds of Evanses recorded here. As I wondered how to segregate these individuals from the host, I now find that the records for the two sons killed in the war show that - on enlistment, at least - their father was still living in Enniskillen. There are clearly many questions still to be answered, and as many if not more that will never be answered, but that won't stop me wondering!
This is only the latest of a number of recent episodes that are in keeping with an interest I've developed over the last half dozen years or so in all things Irish. Last weekend saw the return for the winter months to the airwaves of RTÉ Radio 1 of The History Show. One of the features of the first programme in the series, which I listened to as a podcast during the week, focussed on the Famine of the 1840s and included a graphic description of the sort of hovels in which the poorest people of rural Ireland were living at the time. There was also a mention of various centenaries that will be marked in coming years, and of the recent centenary celebrations in Belfast of the signing in September 1912 of the Ulster Covenant. These included a surprisingly peaceful march through Belfast by about 30,000 Unionists, to the accompaniment of several marching bands. That event even made the national news bulletins on the day.
As I'd tracked my father's family through the 19th century, I had noted the absence of my great-uncle George from among them. For many years I had assumed that he had died and that I simply hadn't picked up his death in the records. Last year I discovered what had happened him. In one last push to try to settle the mystery, I found that he'd joined the army, and had been discharged because of injury in 1876, to settle in Enniskillen, Co. Fermanagh. In recent months I've been tracing the lives of some of his nine children, although this is difficult without easy access to the General Record Office of Northern Ireland (GRONI) in Belfast. Last weekend I discovered that two of his sons (my father's cousins) had died in World War I, one on the first day of the Battle of the Somme in 1916, the other in northern France some thirteen months previously.
In one of my earliest blogs (you can re-read it here), I wrote about a perceived unfairness regarding Northern Ireland and its being part of the United Kingdom. Perhaps one of the most public expressions of this - and it's my guess one of the least recognised - was seen this summer in connection with the Olympic Games. What was 'our' team called? 'Team GB'. And what do those letters stand for? Great Britain, which is the name of the larger of these two islands off the north-west coast of Europe. The other is Lesser Britain, or more commonly Ireland. The country being represented by Team GB is the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. So why wasn't it called Team UK?
Going back to the Ulster Covenant ... how many UK citizens are aware of it, I wonder. And yet, only just beyond living memory, this was one of the key events in a schism that has shaped our country as it is today, and gave birth to one of the few countries of Europe that has known continuous peace for almost ninety years. I don't propose to turn this blog into a history lesson - let those readers who are interested research it for themselves. Suffice to say that it's a wonder to me why the Unionist majority in Northern Ireland remain so steadfast about being part of the UK, when those this side of the North Channel seem consistently to ignore them, rarely include their affairs in our news bulletins, and I suspect that if truth were told, would rather they just weren't there to embarrass us.
As I've researched what I must call the 'Irish branch' of my family, I've found myself wondering about their feelings, their attitudes to what was going on around them. How Irish were they? What did they reckon to the possibility of being governed by a parliament in Dublin? I've now discovered that at least two followed their father into the Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers (although when he was under arms it was still known as the 27th Regiment of Foot). Their mother was born in Fermanagh (probably in Enniskillen) only years after the worst of the famine, and all the children were born in Enniskillen. But still I ask, how Irish were they? Three of the four eldest girls married men who had been born in England, one in Battersea, one in Liverpool (although of an Irish family), and one a soldier born in Hampshire.
My great-aunt died in 1906, and when I couldn't find her husband in the 1911 census, I concluded that he and at least the two younger children might have travelled to England and become lost in the hundreds of Evanses recorded here. As I wondered how to segregate these individuals from the host, I now find that the records for the two sons killed in the war show that - on enlistment, at least - their father was still living in Enniskillen. There are clearly many questions still to be answered, and as many if not more that will never be answered, but that won't stop me wondering!
Friday, 5 October 2012
Beginnings and Endings
The other weekend I took myself off to Great Yarmouth, firstly to do some research and take some pictures in connection with the family history project I mentioned a few weeks ago, and secondly to watch a football match, the local FA Vase derby match between Yarmouth and Gorleston. The football ground is quite close to the seafront, and an attraction built during that 'other' depression in the 1930s to give the unemployed something to occupy their time and talents, the Venetian Waterways. After the match, I took time out to wander down memory lane and get some photos of this tourist feature that, I realised, had played a significant part in my childhood.
It seemed that, every time I've been to Yarmouth in recent years, my wanderings have taken me past the Waterways. This, though, was the first time I'd actually set foot inside the gate for several decades. I felt a sense of peace and happiness there, thinking of the boats that had carried holidaymakers around the site, and the illuminated figures that once adorned the banks. It was fun to cruise past these in the dark evenings, watching with some excitement another boatload going down the opposite stretch of the layout, which consists of a sort of double figure-8. On each island between these canals was a neat shelter, within which adults took their ease, courting couples delighted in each other's company, and children could scamper to their delight and to the annoyance of everyone else.
The shelters are still there, and seem to be well cared for. It was with a tinge of sadness, however, that I noted that there were no signs of either the boats or the bank-side figures. When I got home, I found that there is a facebook page for the Waterways, and that it is still an operating feature of the resort - it just happened to be closed that afternoon. The people running it now have even restored boats to the waters, too!
On my journey home, I gave some thought to the question, just what was it about the Waterways that I found so poignantly personal, and that gave me such happiness? Eventually I came to some conclusions; we used to come for a week to Yarmouth every summer from my fourth to fourteenth year at least, and probably before and after as well, if truth be told. And somehow, it's these summer holidays that remind me specially of my father. As a farm worker, dad worked a 48-hour week in those days; during my earlier years, at certain seasons, I saw little of him at all, because I would be in bed before he got home from work. When he was at home, he was always busy, usually outside on the garden, where I was forbidden to go for fear of either getting dirty or trampling on the growing vegetables ... or both!
At holiday times, dad was released from both work and garden; like it or not, he was ours, mum's and mine! I could enjoy his presence, chatter to him about my world, and he seemed to take it all in, and paid attention to me. Any other time he would be distracted by the day to day 'stuff' that adults always seemed to put first. But for that one week in the year we were a proper family, and it wasn't until now, looking back, that I realised just how important that was to me.
Turning to the other end of life, I'm hoping not to end my days in the flat - nice though it is - where I'm living now. I've yet to find the ideal home of my dreams (maybe never will), but I believe it will be in a village or small town. Today, I delivered in a part of a town not far from here that I'd not seen before, and as I began my return journey, I spotted a row of four bungalows. If possible, you should read the rest of this with the Welsh accent that suddenly, and inexplicably, came to my mind as I thought these words. Perhaps it was something of my unknown future echoing my undiscovered heritage!?
"These almshouses are lovely and quiet. The neighbours are near enough to be handy when you want, and there's a school across the road to give you a bit of young life to look at ... so long as they behave themselves. There's a nice broad avenue to walk down, and a little shop for your essentials. It's all very convenient; and there's a chapel down at the end of the road. Primitive Methodist, it says it is - built in 1910 - not old enough to be falling down, but old enough to have been refurbished: comfortable."
And that last word, quietly satisfied, had four evenly-stressed syllables.
It seemed that, every time I've been to Yarmouth in recent years, my wanderings have taken me past the Waterways. This, though, was the first time I'd actually set foot inside the gate for several decades. I felt a sense of peace and happiness there, thinking of the boats that had carried holidaymakers around the site, and the illuminated figures that once adorned the banks. It was fun to cruise past these in the dark evenings, watching with some excitement another boatload going down the opposite stretch of the layout, which consists of a sort of double figure-8. On each island between these canals was a neat shelter, within which adults took their ease, courting couples delighted in each other's company, and children could scamper to their delight and to the annoyance of everyone else.
The shelters are still there, and seem to be well cared for. It was with a tinge of sadness, however, that I noted that there were no signs of either the boats or the bank-side figures. When I got home, I found that there is a facebook page for the Waterways, and that it is still an operating feature of the resort - it just happened to be closed that afternoon. The people running it now have even restored boats to the waters, too!On my journey home, I gave some thought to the question, just what was it about the Waterways that I found so poignantly personal, and that gave me such happiness? Eventually I came to some conclusions; we used to come for a week to Yarmouth every summer from my fourth to fourteenth year at least, and probably before and after as well, if truth be told. And somehow, it's these summer holidays that remind me specially of my father. As a farm worker, dad worked a 48-hour week in those days; during my earlier years, at certain seasons, I saw little of him at all, because I would be in bed before he got home from work. When he was at home, he was always busy, usually outside on the garden, where I was forbidden to go for fear of either getting dirty or trampling on the growing vegetables ... or both!
At holiday times, dad was released from both work and garden; like it or not, he was ours, mum's and mine! I could enjoy his presence, chatter to him about my world, and he seemed to take it all in, and paid attention to me. Any other time he would be distracted by the day to day 'stuff' that adults always seemed to put first. But for that one week in the year we were a proper family, and it wasn't until now, looking back, that I realised just how important that was to me.
Turning to the other end of life, I'm hoping not to end my days in the flat - nice though it is - where I'm living now. I've yet to find the ideal home of my dreams (maybe never will), but I believe it will be in a village or small town. Today, I delivered in a part of a town not far from here that I'd not seen before, and as I began my return journey, I spotted a row of four bungalows. If possible, you should read the rest of this with the Welsh accent that suddenly, and inexplicably, came to my mind as I thought these words. Perhaps it was something of my unknown future echoing my undiscovered heritage!?
"These almshouses are lovely and quiet. The neighbours are near enough to be handy when you want, and there's a school across the road to give you a bit of young life to look at ... so long as they behave themselves. There's a nice broad avenue to walk down, and a little shop for your essentials. It's all very convenient; and there's a chapel down at the end of the road. Primitive Methodist, it says it is - built in 1910 - not old enough to be falling down, but old enough to have been refurbished: comfortable."
And that last word, quietly satisfied, had four evenly-stressed syllables.
Saturday, 29 September 2012
The Old and the New: then and now
Today is Michaelmas Day. Put liturgically, it's the Feast Day of St Michael and All Angels, but here is not the place to go into that. In terms of my own recollections and present experience, it's more particularly Old Michaelmas. That's to distinguish it from New Michaelmas, of course. Although it's known as 'New', the term is actually 260 years old and, to be fair, is probably not in very common use at all today. Some of my readers will have already done the maths, realised that 260 years ago was 1752, and made another quick calculation to find out when New Michaelmas is (... or was.)
For the benefit of those less intuitive, let me put you out of your misery and tell you that it's 11th October. Significantly, that's in twelve days' time, reflecting the fact that, in 1752, the day after 2nd September was 14th September, as Great Britain took a major step in international relations and leapt from the old Julian calendar to join our European neighbours in the Gregorian system that they had been using since Elizabethan times. However, we British are a stubborn race, and heels were dug in to preserve certain aspects of our national heritage from the effects of that change. That's why our tax year ends on 5th April.
Until then, New Year's Day was celebrated on 25th March, liturgically the Feast of the Annunciation - supposedly the day on which the Angel Gabriel visited Mary to tell her that she was going to have a baby, who would be Jesus, the Christ. So, if 25th March was New Year's Day, the year would have ended on 24th: 24th March 1751 - already known for (confusing) clarification as 1751/2 - had been followed by 25th March 1752. However, the British (and stubborn) Government, while re-naming the dates to align with the rest of the world, didn't want to lose out on tax revenue, even for one year, so they tacked those twelve 'lost' days onto the end of the year, making their books up to the 5th April. And if one year ... then all years had to follow suit. And while we were about it, why not declare that for all other purposes the year would henceforward begin at the beginning, on 1st January, right in the middle of winter - which was when most people were celebrating it anyway, since there was little else to do at that time.
So, what was the significance of Michaelmas - whether old or new? Simply, it was half-way between one year-end and the next; being just after the harvest, and thus at the end of the farming year, it was also a convenient point for land to change hands, for rents to be calculated and for workers to move from one boss to another. For financial reasons, workers were often taken on from Michaelmas to the end of harvest. Since entitlement to welfare payments depended on their being in employment for more than a year with the same employer, it was important to be able to declare that you had been in post for 'a year and a day.' Hence there were 'hiring fairs' across the country, where men - and sometimes women, too - would gather, carrying symbols of their trade, and farmers could take their pick of the available talent. Terms would be agreed, and a new year's work begun.
In my own childhood, being the son of a farm worker who, while not directly affected by these affairs, was aware of them through family talk and the culture in which he had grown up, I heard comments and phrases that were part of that culture too. For instance, as today's date was noticed on the daily paper, my father might comment, 'Old Michaelmas today.' Occasionally, if I had been helping him in the garden, and had done well what had been asked of me, he might tell me, 'you'll be kept on.' In other words, going back to those times long past, a good worker would be spared the uncertainty of the hiring fair, and an appreciative employer would promise him in advance the security of another year's engagement.
And what of today? As I wrote the last paragraph, I realised that in some ways the same practice persists in the matter of professional footballers and the transfer market. At the end of the season, a contract might be offered to a good player to keep him with the team for whom he had performed well, rather than risk losing him to another club whose manager had noticed his prowess with admiration and envy. For me, personally, it's also a time of renewal and/or re-engagement, for on 'New Michaelmas' eve' my annual subscription to Find my Past expires, and on the same day the insurance on my van is due for renewal. I've already had the papers, and this year I'm facing an almost 20% premium increase - Ouch!
More news next week, when I've recovered from the £-shock!
For the benefit of those less intuitive, let me put you out of your misery and tell you that it's 11th October. Significantly, that's in twelve days' time, reflecting the fact that, in 1752, the day after 2nd September was 14th September, as Great Britain took a major step in international relations and leapt from the old Julian calendar to join our European neighbours in the Gregorian system that they had been using since Elizabethan times. However, we British are a stubborn race, and heels were dug in to preserve certain aspects of our national heritage from the effects of that change. That's why our tax year ends on 5th April.
Until then, New Year's Day was celebrated on 25th March, liturgically the Feast of the Annunciation - supposedly the day on which the Angel Gabriel visited Mary to tell her that she was going to have a baby, who would be Jesus, the Christ. So, if 25th March was New Year's Day, the year would have ended on 24th: 24th March 1751 - already known for (confusing) clarification as 1751/2 - had been followed by 25th March 1752. However, the British (and stubborn) Government, while re-naming the dates to align with the rest of the world, didn't want to lose out on tax revenue, even for one year, so they tacked those twelve 'lost' days onto the end of the year, making their books up to the 5th April. And if one year ... then all years had to follow suit. And while we were about it, why not declare that for all other purposes the year would henceforward begin at the beginning, on 1st January, right in the middle of winter - which was when most people were celebrating it anyway, since there was little else to do at that time.
So, what was the significance of Michaelmas - whether old or new? Simply, it was half-way between one year-end and the next; being just after the harvest, and thus at the end of the farming year, it was also a convenient point for land to change hands, for rents to be calculated and for workers to move from one boss to another. For financial reasons, workers were often taken on from Michaelmas to the end of harvest. Since entitlement to welfare payments depended on their being in employment for more than a year with the same employer, it was important to be able to declare that you had been in post for 'a year and a day.' Hence there were 'hiring fairs' across the country, where men - and sometimes women, too - would gather, carrying symbols of their trade, and farmers could take their pick of the available talent. Terms would be agreed, and a new year's work begun.
In my own childhood, being the son of a farm worker who, while not directly affected by these affairs, was aware of them through family talk and the culture in which he had grown up, I heard comments and phrases that were part of that culture too. For instance, as today's date was noticed on the daily paper, my father might comment, 'Old Michaelmas today.' Occasionally, if I had been helping him in the garden, and had done well what had been asked of me, he might tell me, 'you'll be kept on.' In other words, going back to those times long past, a good worker would be spared the uncertainty of the hiring fair, and an appreciative employer would promise him in advance the security of another year's engagement.
And what of today? As I wrote the last paragraph, I realised that in some ways the same practice persists in the matter of professional footballers and the transfer market. At the end of the season, a contract might be offered to a good player to keep him with the team for whom he had performed well, rather than risk losing him to another club whose manager had noticed his prowess with admiration and envy. For me, personally, it's also a time of renewal and/or re-engagement, for on 'New Michaelmas' eve' my annual subscription to Find my Past expires, and on the same day the insurance on my van is due for renewal. I've already had the papers, and this year I'm facing an almost 20% premium increase - Ouch!
More news next week, when I've recovered from the £-shock!
Saturday, 22 September 2012
Is this Normality again?
It's been one of those deceptive weeks when things have seemed quite slow, and yet achievement has been made. After complaining, for example, that the previous Monday had been completely dead, this one was quite full. It began with only an hour or so's wait before I was sent to Bedford with a load of empty cartons from one of our local firms. This is a job I've done before - it's always easier second time and following - so I was ready to misread SatNav's instructions to go to a housing estate on the other side of the road! (Maybe that was one of the errors that TomTom's maps carried over to Apple for their new phone app!)
I'd scarcely got back from that, when I was sent back to Bedford to collect some computer spares for a nationally-known organisation based in Folkestone. While I was on my way with this, came a call to divert into Stevenage to collect some labels for a firm situated by the Thames, not far from the Dartford Crossing. I was just back from Kent in time to change and go ringing. This was as well, for it was an enjoyable practice, with just enough ringers present to make good exercise for all, with one or two to 'stand behind' and guide those still in learning mode.
Tuesday began with a delivery to Northampton with a collection in Wellingborough on the way back, and then came the longest job of the week, collecting in Baldock and then Bishop's Stortford for a delivery in Derbyshire. This was to a lighting firm, and I arrived just after 6.0 pm., by which time it should have been closed for the night, and would have been apart from their waiting for a delivery (other than the one I'd brought), for which a lorry was being delayed in the yard. On the way there I had a call giving me details of a job for Wednesday morning; when I arrived in Royston to collect this, at 8.30am, the office called to ask about my delivery last evening in Derbyshire. They'd just had an e-mail from the idiots (sorry: our esteemed clients) for whom we did the job, saying that they believed the place would be closed - could we please re-schedule delivery for this morning! After setting things to rights, I went in to collect the next job and carry on as normal.
That afternoon found me in Kent again, and provided another late night. Thursday started with a tight run to get a tender to King's Lynn by noon, and ended with deliveries in Peterborough and Soham, and Friday fell into what has of late become the pattern for the last day of the working week, with half-a-dozen fairly local jobs fitted into a long day, setting out at 7.0am, taking me to destinations ranging from Northampton to southern Essex, and ending back home at 9.30pm.
I'd put off until this morning the inevitable call to BT about the broadband problem I've mentioned recently, but by now matters had come to something of a head, and on three occasions yesterday I had discovered that there was now no link to the internet at all, which perhaps added urgency to my actions. The call resulted in extensive tests and investigations, which led eventually to my discovery that there is enough cable to run the broadband hub in the lounge where the computer is, but plugged directly into the main socket in the hall, instead of using an extension cable (probably in excess of ten years old) that had previously served to bridge that gap. Now, at least, I'm back in the situation I was a week ago, and am awaiting another call back from BT to carry on the investigations. To be honest, I wouldn't be too disheartened if it were left as it is at present, since the only thing I'm really missing is the use of iPlayer, and in all honesty there have to be better uses for my time and, if I'm desperate for visual entertainment, there's a shelf of DVDs in the bedroom, some of which have yet to be watched for the first time!
I'd scarcely got back from that, when I was sent back to Bedford to collect some computer spares for a nationally-known organisation based in Folkestone. While I was on my way with this, came a call to divert into Stevenage to collect some labels for a firm situated by the Thames, not far from the Dartford Crossing. I was just back from Kent in time to change and go ringing. This was as well, for it was an enjoyable practice, with just enough ringers present to make good exercise for all, with one or two to 'stand behind' and guide those still in learning mode.
Tuesday began with a delivery to Northampton with a collection in Wellingborough on the way back, and then came the longest job of the week, collecting in Baldock and then Bishop's Stortford for a delivery in Derbyshire. This was to a lighting firm, and I arrived just after 6.0 pm., by which time it should have been closed for the night, and would have been apart from their waiting for a delivery (other than the one I'd brought), for which a lorry was being delayed in the yard. On the way there I had a call giving me details of a job for Wednesday morning; when I arrived in Royston to collect this, at 8.30am, the office called to ask about my delivery last evening in Derbyshire. They'd just had an e-mail from the idiots (sorry: our esteemed clients) for whom we did the job, saying that they believed the place would be closed - could we please re-schedule delivery for this morning! After setting things to rights, I went in to collect the next job and carry on as normal.
That afternoon found me in Kent again, and provided another late night. Thursday started with a tight run to get a tender to King's Lynn by noon, and ended with deliveries in Peterborough and Soham, and Friday fell into what has of late become the pattern for the last day of the working week, with half-a-dozen fairly local jobs fitted into a long day, setting out at 7.0am, taking me to destinations ranging from Northampton to southern Essex, and ending back home at 9.30pm.
I'd put off until this morning the inevitable call to BT about the broadband problem I've mentioned recently, but by now matters had come to something of a head, and on three occasions yesterday I had discovered that there was now no link to the internet at all, which perhaps added urgency to my actions. The call resulted in extensive tests and investigations, which led eventually to my discovery that there is enough cable to run the broadband hub in the lounge where the computer is, but plugged directly into the main socket in the hall, instead of using an extension cable (probably in excess of ten years old) that had previously served to bridge that gap. Now, at least, I'm back in the situation I was a week ago, and am awaiting another call back from BT to carry on the investigations. To be honest, I wouldn't be too disheartened if it were left as it is at present, since the only thing I'm really missing is the use of iPlayer, and in all honesty there have to be better uses for my time and, if I'm desperate for visual entertainment, there's a shelf of DVDs in the bedroom, some of which have yet to be watched for the first time!
Sunday, 16 September 2012
Uncle on the Run!
It's been some while since my last 'confession', i.e. a blog where I've told you what's been going on in the last week. In some ways that's because nothing really spectacular has come my way, in others, it's because my mind (if not my body) has been occupied.
This business of a change to my broadband provider that I described in my last blog, still hasn't come to a proper conclusion. I haven't been able to watch a programme on iPlayer yet, although I have managed to catch about a dozen minute-or-two snatches of a one-hour programme in between trying one strategy after another to resolve the underlying problem. While this problem has been going on at home, and soaking up much more of my time at the desk than usual, I've found that my mind wanders back to it while I'm driving, too. I usually switch off the radio or mp3-player in the last mile or so before reaching a destination, so I can fully focus on the job in hand. The other day I was several miles into the return journey before I realised that I hadn't switched the radio on again, and by then I'd missed what was an interesting programme!
As I said, not a lot of interest has happened workwise, so keen 'courier-observers' will not have missed much. In fact, Monday last week was totally empty, apart from a 4.30pm call advising me that, 'Today has been a bit dead ...,' (I knew that already), '... but can you be in West Bromwich at this address ... for 9.0 tomorrow morning.' If only there were a little more notice of empty days, one could prepare for them. I suppose it'll be the same for death ... one day.
One thing that has been something of a triumph this week relates to my family history. I can't remember whether I have told you, dear reader, about my great-uncle George. He was last heard of in his native village in Suffolk at the age of 7, when he was recorded in the 1861 census. Last heard of, that is, until last summer when I had what I had determined would be my last shot at locating him in the next census ten years later. Miracle of miracles, there he was in Colchester Barracks, a private soldier in the 27th Regiment of Foot (which later became the 1st Battalion, the Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers.)
It was then the work of but a few minutes to discover that he'd been discharged from the regiment in March 1876, following an accident with a target, and gave his future dwelling place as Enniskillen, Co. Fermanagh. Subsequent research revealed that he had married a local girl there at Christmas, and was listed in the 1901 census still living in Enniskillen with his wife and nine children. I learned of the marriage of his two eldest daughters and the death of his wife during the next ten years, one daughter living with her family in Belfast, the other in Dartford, Kent. Of George and the rest of the family there was no sign. He'd disappeared - again!
Last weekend I discovered that the Irish civil registration indexes up to 1958 are now available on familysearch, the website of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints (Mormons), whose beliefs have led to their becoming one of the major sources worldwide of family history information. I spent much of my otherwise 'dead' Monday seeing what I could find about George and his family, and in particular discovered that two more of his daughters had married before records for what became Northern Ireland disappeared in 1922. Unfortunately, the records that were available to search didn't give the name of their respective husbands.
The reply to an e-mail to the General Record Office of Northern Ireland was less than helpful, indicating that I would need to actually visit GRONI if I wanted to learn more with minimal expenditure (which the cost of getting there would outweigh at the outset!) Back to the internet and, more in hope than expectation, I posted an enquiry on a mailing list I'd joined last autumn for this very purpose
This business of a change to my broadband provider that I described in my last blog, still hasn't come to a proper conclusion. I haven't been able to watch a programme on iPlayer yet, although I have managed to catch about a dozen minute-or-two snatches of a one-hour programme in between trying one strategy after another to resolve the underlying problem. While this problem has been going on at home, and soaking up much more of my time at the desk than usual, I've found that my mind wanders back to it while I'm driving, too. I usually switch off the radio or mp3-player in the last mile or so before reaching a destination, so I can fully focus on the job in hand. The other day I was several miles into the return journey before I realised that I hadn't switched the radio on again, and by then I'd missed what was an interesting programme!
As I said, not a lot of interest has happened workwise, so keen 'courier-observers' will not have missed much. In fact, Monday last week was totally empty, apart from a 4.30pm call advising me that, 'Today has been a bit dead ...,' (I knew that already), '... but can you be in West Bromwich at this address ... for 9.0 tomorrow morning.' If only there were a little more notice of empty days, one could prepare for them. I suppose it'll be the same for death ... one day.
One thing that has been something of a triumph this week relates to my family history. I can't remember whether I have told you, dear reader, about my great-uncle George. He was last heard of in his native village in Suffolk at the age of 7, when he was recorded in the 1861 census. Last heard of, that is, until last summer when I had what I had determined would be my last shot at locating him in the next census ten years later. Miracle of miracles, there he was in Colchester Barracks, a private soldier in the 27th Regiment of Foot (which later became the 1st Battalion, the Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers.)
It was then the work of but a few minutes to discover that he'd been discharged from the regiment in March 1876, following an accident with a target, and gave his future dwelling place as Enniskillen, Co. Fermanagh. Subsequent research revealed that he had married a local girl there at Christmas, and was listed in the 1901 census still living in Enniskillen with his wife and nine children. I learned of the marriage of his two eldest daughters and the death of his wife during the next ten years, one daughter living with her family in Belfast, the other in Dartford, Kent. Of George and the rest of the family there was no sign. He'd disappeared - again!
Last weekend I discovered that the Irish civil registration indexes up to 1958 are now available on familysearch, the website of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints (Mormons), whose beliefs have led to their becoming one of the major sources worldwide of family history information. I spent much of my otherwise 'dead' Monday seeing what I could find about George and his family, and in particular discovered that two more of his daughters had married before records for what became Northern Ireland disappeared in 1922. Unfortunately, the records that were available to search didn't give the name of their respective husbands.
The reply to an e-mail to the General Record Office of Northern Ireland was less than helpful, indicating that I would need to actually visit GRONI if I wanted to learn more with minimal expenditure (which the cost of getting there would outweigh at the outset!) Back to the internet and, more in hope than expectation, I posted an enquiry on a mailing list I'd joined last autumn for this very purpose
Thursday, 6 September 2012
Well, doctor, it's like this ...
Have you ever had one of those aches - like a sprain, I suppose - that come from a definite cause, and give you great discomfort at the drop of a hat (or brick!)? For what seems ages you struggle to cope with it, do things differently, or avoid tackling certain things altogether. You moan and groan, wishing that whatever it was that caused it hadn't been done, that you had been more careful, and so on. Then, just as you forget to moan, you suddenly realise that the pain is gone, that life is back to normal, and gradually you no longer recall just how incapacitated you were when the problem was at its peak.
The last fortnight has been a bit like that for me. But I didn't drop anything on my feet, or bend over too much and strain my back. No, it's not been a physical problem at all, but I have certainly done my share of moaning, cursing and muttering ... and it's not all over yet, although it is getting better.
It all stemmed from a phone call I had whilst driving along a few weeks ago. It was from someone at Orange, putting to me what seemed at the time an attractive offer for a new contract to combine my broadband service with my telephone landline. He went through all the points, the terms and the benefits, as I drove round the M25, and said he'd send me an e-mail with all the details. It occurred to me that he hadn't asked for my e-mail address, so I asked him if he had this. Yes, he said, and referred to one that was many years out of date. I spelled out for him my present e-mail, and he quoted it back to me character by character. I began to relax, thinking of all the money I was about to save.
A couple of weeks passed. I received the letter I'd been advised would arrive from BT saying, in effect, 'sorry to see you go', and I pushed it to the back of my desk thinking I ought to file it somewhere 'one day.' Then as I left for work one morning, it happened to catch my eye and I quickly read through it again. 'If you wish to change your mind,' it said, 'let us know before 4.0 pm on ...' and I read that day's date. Suddenly I realised that I'd not seen that e-mail from Orange. I had no point of contact with them; I had no idea whether the changeover that they had spoken of was in hand or not, and within hours my BT line would be discontinued. PANIC! Fortunately I was only going on a short job, and as soon as I got back I called the number in the BT letter.
The lady on the other end couldn't have been more understanding. Within seconds, the threat to my landline was averted, and I was back to the status quo ante. Once this was secure, she picked up on my explanation of what had gone before and, quite naturally, asked if I had thought about bringing my broadband to BT instead. She then outlined a package that was as beneficial as that offered by Orange and, when I decided to accept it, told me that all I'd have to do would be to get a migration code from Orange. When I told her I had no contact number for them, she gave me the number, and even managed to put me through!
After a couple of calls to Orange, involving countless explanations and transfers, I learned that they wouldn't be able to give me the code over the phone, but would post it to me. Apparently their contract was in operation, they were on the brink of sending me the equipment, and as a result there would now be a cancellation charge - was I sure I wanted to make this move? They offered no explanation why I had received neither any written confirmation nor the promised e-mail. I felt it important to stand on a point of principle and against bad practice, and told them yes, I would proceed with BT. A few days later, I received the code in the post, but not before another call came from Orange, telling me the code was on its way, repeating the threat of a cancellation charge, and giving me one final opportunity to change my mind. It's too late, I told them, and noted when it arrived that the migration code hadn't actually been posted until the day after that call!
Immediately, I called BT and explained that I now had the necessary code and was ready to proceed on the terms they had outlined. I was told that there was now an even better deal available, involving six months' free broadband. There followed a succession of letters and e-mails from BT that couldn't but underline to me the wisdom and confidence of choosing to consolidate my position with them. And at the end of these, at the beginning of last week, the box arrived - early on the appointed day - containing the new broadband hub. Installation was straightforward, following the instructions provided, and I felt cock-o'-the-walk.
Then began my 'sprain', the sting in the tail of the whole exercise. All the literature had indicated that for about ten days following installation, I would notice that the internet speed would be 'slow and erratic, sometimes even stopping'. True on all counts. It reminded me of many years ago when I had a dial-up modem that played a familiar tune as it dialled into the provider. Sometimes it seemed to forget I was there, until I jiggled the cursor on the screen. Now, though, there is nothing I can do but wait. Social media sites have been slow to load; my bank connection has been timed out before I've completed the log-in process, and You-tube and i-player have presented me with black screens for minutes on end, and 'reception' has been jerky to standstill in quality when it does begin. Downloading a podcast has been an absolute nightmare - with the 'time remaining' for a 60-minute programme varying from twenty minutes to several days, and changing wildly every few seconds! I've lost count of the times I've given up, closed the internet window and got on with something else.
In the last couple of days, however, I've noticed a distinct improvement in most of the services and websites that I use regularly. Response times are nowhere near as quick as they used to be, but I have to admit that, equally, they are by no means as tortoise-like as they were at the beginning of last week. Most things are usable again, and for that I'm so grateful that I'm telling you all about it!
The last fortnight has been a bit like that for me. But I didn't drop anything on my feet, or bend over too much and strain my back. No, it's not been a physical problem at all, but I have certainly done my share of moaning, cursing and muttering ... and it's not all over yet, although it is getting better.
It all stemmed from a phone call I had whilst driving along a few weeks ago. It was from someone at Orange, putting to me what seemed at the time an attractive offer for a new contract to combine my broadband service with my telephone landline. He went through all the points, the terms and the benefits, as I drove round the M25, and said he'd send me an e-mail with all the details. It occurred to me that he hadn't asked for my e-mail address, so I asked him if he had this. Yes, he said, and referred to one that was many years out of date. I spelled out for him my present e-mail, and he quoted it back to me character by character. I began to relax, thinking of all the money I was about to save.
A couple of weeks passed. I received the letter I'd been advised would arrive from BT saying, in effect, 'sorry to see you go', and I pushed it to the back of my desk thinking I ought to file it somewhere 'one day.' Then as I left for work one morning, it happened to catch my eye and I quickly read through it again. 'If you wish to change your mind,' it said, 'let us know before 4.0 pm on ...' and I read that day's date. Suddenly I realised that I'd not seen that e-mail from Orange. I had no point of contact with them; I had no idea whether the changeover that they had spoken of was in hand or not, and within hours my BT line would be discontinued. PANIC! Fortunately I was only going on a short job, and as soon as I got back I called the number in the BT letter.
The lady on the other end couldn't have been more understanding. Within seconds, the threat to my landline was averted, and I was back to the status quo ante. Once this was secure, she picked up on my explanation of what had gone before and, quite naturally, asked if I had thought about bringing my broadband to BT instead. She then outlined a package that was as beneficial as that offered by Orange and, when I decided to accept it, told me that all I'd have to do would be to get a migration code from Orange. When I told her I had no contact number for them, she gave me the number, and even managed to put me through!
After a couple of calls to Orange, involving countless explanations and transfers, I learned that they wouldn't be able to give me the code over the phone, but would post it to me. Apparently their contract was in operation, they were on the brink of sending me the equipment, and as a result there would now be a cancellation charge - was I sure I wanted to make this move? They offered no explanation why I had received neither any written confirmation nor the promised e-mail. I felt it important to stand on a point of principle and against bad practice, and told them yes, I would proceed with BT. A few days later, I received the code in the post, but not before another call came from Orange, telling me the code was on its way, repeating the threat of a cancellation charge, and giving me one final opportunity to change my mind. It's too late, I told them, and noted when it arrived that the migration code hadn't actually been posted until the day after that call!
Immediately, I called BT and explained that I now had the necessary code and was ready to proceed on the terms they had outlined. I was told that there was now an even better deal available, involving six months' free broadband. There followed a succession of letters and e-mails from BT that couldn't but underline to me the wisdom and confidence of choosing to consolidate my position with them. And at the end of these, at the beginning of last week, the box arrived - early on the appointed day - containing the new broadband hub. Installation was straightforward, following the instructions provided, and I felt cock-o'-the-walk.
Then began my 'sprain', the sting in the tail of the whole exercise. All the literature had indicated that for about ten days following installation, I would notice that the internet speed would be 'slow and erratic, sometimes even stopping'. True on all counts. It reminded me of many years ago when I had a dial-up modem that played a familiar tune as it dialled into the provider. Sometimes it seemed to forget I was there, until I jiggled the cursor on the screen. Now, though, there is nothing I can do but wait. Social media sites have been slow to load; my bank connection has been timed out before I've completed the log-in process, and You-tube and i-player have presented me with black screens for minutes on end, and 'reception' has been jerky to standstill in quality when it does begin. Downloading a podcast has been an absolute nightmare - with the 'time remaining' for a 60-minute programme varying from twenty minutes to several days, and changing wildly every few seconds! I've lost count of the times I've given up, closed the internet window and got on with something else.
In the last couple of days, however, I've noticed a distinct improvement in most of the services and websites that I use regularly. Response times are nowhere near as quick as they used to be, but I have to admit that, equally, they are by no means as tortoise-like as they were at the beginning of last week. Most things are usable again, and for that I'm so grateful that I'm telling you all about it!
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