In general terms, I'm content with my present life in the First Garden City. Most of my modest needs are catered for in the town, and those that aren't can find satisfaction nearby. Occasionally, though - and especially when there are blue skies overhead like those this glorious summer has brought - I yearn for cornfields. Yesterday afternoon I actually drove out to find one to walk around.
That yearning for the wide East Anglian skies was heightened last weekend when much of our church family migrated to Letton Hall for two days of great teaching, fabulous fellowship ... and a great deal of equally fabulous food! My mind, however, was to a certain extent focused a few miles away. I had taken with me a slim book, most of which I read during free time over the weekend. It told the story of Lucilla Reeve, a strong-willed woman who, in 1938, had exchanged a job as a land agent for the role of farmer, and taken over one of the properties she had formerly administered.
Little did she know that, within five years, the village where she had been born, the one where she now lived and worked, and four more would be under military occupation, with all the inhabitants cleared out on just a few weeks' notice to find homes elsewhere, and with precious little by way of compensation. Lucilla Reeve took a few belongings, samples of the crops she had grown on her farm, and scraped a living just outside the cleared area. "It's all right," they had been told by their landlord (who lost his own home at the same time), "You can come back when the war is over." It never happened, of course.
Although the fundamental reason for the expulsion of civilians was their own safety, it soon became apparent that the military training for which the area had been commandeered would be impossible if they were to keep to their initial undertaking that the homes would be left intact. On Armistice Day, 1950 Lucilla Reeve took her own life. Many believe that the loss of her farm was a major factor in this tragedy. She is buried at the corner of the churchyard of St Andrew's church, Tottington.
After the end of World War II came the Cold War, Northern Ireland, the Falklands, the Balkans and Iraq. While the homes of the original villages of Buckenham Tofts, Langford, Stanford, Sturston, Tottington and West Tofts are now just humps in the ground, a new 'village' has been built, representing a typical settlement in Afghanistan, complete with street markets, lots of signs in Arabic and even a mosque ... all in the cause of urban warfare training.
Each of the villages had its own church; two of these had already disappeared before the nineteenth century, but the remaining four are carefully protected by the Ministry, with high fences and severely restricted access. The roofs of the larger two have been replaced by blastproof panels in the style of pantiles. The villages themselves will never be re-habited. While the material losses of the individuals was, in the overall scheme of things, minimal, what was destroyed was the sense of community, as they were scattered far and wide across the county and beyond. In their absence, the old, and largely unmechanised, farm and village life of pre-war Norfolk disappeared for ever. The only civilian connection with the area now is a fast-declining sentimental link with family graves and the memory of Breckland childhoods that are now eight and nine decades into history.
The occasional visits allowed by the MOD to the area usually merit a mention in the local press. It was just such a report that prompted my interest in what had hitherto simply been a blank area on the map, and my purchase of the book that I took with me last weekend. Although my journey to our retreat venue passed close by, I knew that it would be pointless to engage in a sightseeing diversion. For one thing my curiosity relates only to the past, and there is no longer a past to be seen, and for another, I have no personal interest in the villages at all, save for the basic one of filling in a gap in awareness about my native county.
It's true what they say about many a birthplace - "You can take the boy out of Norfolk (or wherever), but you can't take Norfolk out of the boy!"
Friday, 13 July 2018
Thursday, 5 July 2018
One Mistake and Two Surprises
It was with some trepidation that, on an autumn morning nearly twelve years ago, I crossed the threshold of a new church ... and a new phase of my life. I was warmly greeted by a lady named Ann, who spotted the cross I always wear, put two and two together and made five. She had clearly been watching out for a visiting preacher representing one of our supported societies, took me for him and asked, "Are you our visitor?"
Unsurprisingly, when hearing a new voice, what I heard was the more expected, "Are you a visitor?" When I told her I was, she ushered me to a seat next to where she would be sitting. It wasn't until I didn't get up to deliver the sermon that she realised her error. From that day, we've never exchanged more than a smile of recognition - perhaps recalling our first meeting - and the usual friendship of fellow worshippers ... until last weekend.
For some months now, I've been volunteering at a weekly drop-in at our local Salvation Army. As a result, I received an invitation to a concert and strawberry tea at their hall last Sunday, in support of their nationwide social work. I arrived in good time and was settling into my seat when Ann arrived with two friends whom I recognised from the church. By then the hall was getting full and they were scattered among the spare seats.
The concert included a visiting group of ladies, one of whom introduced them individually. One was said to come from my home town in Norfolk, where she was engaged to the bandmaster. Through social media, I was almost certain that my second cousin, whom I knew to belong to the band, held that post, and afterwards I approached this singer to enquire further. It turned out that I was correct in my assumption, and that the two of us are shortly to become related. Naturally, she was agog to know more and, in the crowd, we resolved to meet outside for a chat after we had gathered some food.
As I emerged into the garden, I was spotted by Ann who, in the way of these gatherings, recognised a fellow church-member and invited me to join her and her friends at one of the tables. When our plates were empty, she offered to get refills, since I was chatting to someone else at the table. After a while, my new-found cousin-to-be approached, saying, "I'm going to stick near you, there's lots I need to write down!" She also wanted a photograph, so we engaged the help of one of the local corps who had been filming the concert, who drew us into the shade and obliged us in this.
We chatted amiably about the many ways in which her fiance and I were linked, through relationship and also the fact that he would know my daughter but not me. And then out of the blue came Ann, again bearing food. She handed over a strawberry crumble saying, "there were only two left ... I thought you might like the last one!" I was so overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness of this caring octogenarian, whom I've had virtually nothing to do with in these twelve years, that I fear my reaction may have been less grateful than was due!
Unsurprisingly, when hearing a new voice, what I heard was the more expected, "Are you a visitor?" When I told her I was, she ushered me to a seat next to where she would be sitting. It wasn't until I didn't get up to deliver the sermon that she realised her error. From that day, we've never exchanged more than a smile of recognition - perhaps recalling our first meeting - and the usual friendship of fellow worshippers ... until last weekend.
For some months now, I've been volunteering at a weekly drop-in at our local Salvation Army. As a result, I received an invitation to a concert and strawberry tea at their hall last Sunday, in support of their nationwide social work. I arrived in good time and was settling into my seat when Ann arrived with two friends whom I recognised from the church. By then the hall was getting full and they were scattered among the spare seats.
The concert included a visiting group of ladies, one of whom introduced them individually. One was said to come from my home town in Norfolk, where she was engaged to the bandmaster. Through social media, I was almost certain that my second cousin, whom I knew to belong to the band, held that post, and afterwards I approached this singer to enquire further. It turned out that I was correct in my assumption, and that the two of us are shortly to become related. Naturally, she was agog to know more and, in the crowd, we resolved to meet outside for a chat after we had gathered some food.
 |
| with my cousin-to-be |
As I emerged into the garden, I was spotted by Ann who, in the way of these gatherings, recognised a fellow church-member and invited me to join her and her friends at one of the tables. When our plates were empty, she offered to get refills, since I was chatting to someone else at the table. After a while, my new-found cousin-to-be approached, saying, "I'm going to stick near you, there's lots I need to write down!" She also wanted a photograph, so we engaged the help of one of the local corps who had been filming the concert, who drew us into the shade and obliged us in this.
We chatted amiably about the many ways in which her fiance and I were linked, through relationship and also the fact that he would know my daughter but not me. And then out of the blue came Ann, again bearing food. She handed over a strawberry crumble saying, "there were only two left ... I thought you might like the last one!" I was so overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness of this caring octogenarian, whom I've had virtually nothing to do with in these twelve years, that I fear my reaction may have been less grateful than was due!
Sunday, 1 July 2018
A Special Post on the 102nd Anniversary
My great-uncle George, born in Suffolk, was discharged from the 27th Regiment in Enniskillen on 24th March 1876 and settled there. I've often wondered whether, as he grew up, my father was aware that he had Irish cousins; I certainly don't recall his ever mentioning them. George was some 16 years older than my grandfather, and had probably already left home when he was born.
One of those Irish cousins, George's tenth child and fourth son Henry, joined the 1st Battalion of the Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers (RIF). His brother Samuel (almost three years older) served in the 2nd Battalion; it's not clear whether they enlisted together because their service records were probably destroyed by fire during the Second World War. It seems unlikely, however, since Samuel died on 16th May 1915, and is commemorated on the Le Touret Memorial
In September 1914, as part of Kitchener's New Army, the 36th (Ulster) Division was formed by uniting three existing regiments, the Royal Irish Fusiliers, the Royal Irish Rifles and the RIF and supplementing their numbers with thirteen new battalions formed from the Ulster Volunteer Force. (The UVF had been set up in 1912/13 to oppose home rule for Ireland.)
The Division trained near the north Down coast, on the Clandeboye estate, part of the town of Bangor. In 1861 the then owner of the estate commissioned a tall folly, which he named Helen's Tower in memory of his mother. The distinctive shape of the tower, rising above the countryside would have been familiar to the soldiers, and for many would have been their last sight of their homeland as they left for England and, subsequently, the Western Front.
It had been considered that the men of the New Army were insufficiently trained and their battle tactics orders were more strict and regimented than those of the regulars. However, on July 1st 1916, the 36th Division disobeyed these orders and, during the heavy bombardment that took place before zero hour at 7.30, they advanced by pushing forward small trenches and cutting the barbed wire. Thus, when bugles sounded the Advance' and the other divisions formed up in waves for a walk across no man's land, the Ulstermen sprang forward and rushed the German front line.
Had they followed orders and attacked under creep bombardment - intelligence being so bad - they would have come under bombardment from 'friendly fire' at the German front line. Instead, the result was that they captured a long section of the enemy's front line. Theirs was the only division of their corps to gain its opening day objective, which they did "by a combination of sensible tactics and Ulster dash", as one historian has expressed it.
In the first two days, the division overall lost 5,500 officers and men, either killed, wounded or missing; in the whole five months and more of the Somme campaign, the Inniskillings suffered the loss of 296 dead. 233 of these died on that very costly opening day, including my cousin, Lance-Corporal Henry Evans.
Those who died on the Somme but have no known grave are commemorated at Thiepval. The site of the Schwaben redoubt, against which the Ulster Division advanced on the first day is marked by the Ulster Memorial Tower, an exact replica of Helen's Tower, near which they had trained.
One of those Irish cousins, George's tenth child and fourth son Henry, joined the 1st Battalion of the Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers (RIF). His brother Samuel (almost three years older) served in the 2nd Battalion; it's not clear whether they enlisted together because their service records were probably destroyed by fire during the Second World War. It seems unlikely, however, since Samuel died on 16th May 1915, and is commemorated on the Le Touret Memorial
In September 1914, as part of Kitchener's New Army, the 36th (Ulster) Division was formed by uniting three existing regiments, the Royal Irish Fusiliers, the Royal Irish Rifles and the RIF and supplementing their numbers with thirteen new battalions formed from the Ulster Volunteer Force. (The UVF had been set up in 1912/13 to oppose home rule for Ireland.)
The Division trained near the north Down coast, on the Clandeboye estate, part of the town of Bangor. In 1861 the then owner of the estate commissioned a tall folly, which he named Helen's Tower in memory of his mother. The distinctive shape of the tower, rising above the countryside would have been familiar to the soldiers, and for many would have been their last sight of their homeland as they left for England and, subsequently, the Western Front.
It had been considered that the men of the New Army were insufficiently trained and their battle tactics orders were more strict and regimented than those of the regulars. However, on July 1st 1916, the 36th Division disobeyed these orders and, during the heavy bombardment that took place before zero hour at 7.30, they advanced by pushing forward small trenches and cutting the barbed wire. Thus, when bugles sounded the Advance' and the other divisions formed up in waves for a walk across no man's land, the Ulstermen sprang forward and rushed the German front line.
Had they followed orders and attacked under creep bombardment - intelligence being so bad - they would have come under bombardment from 'friendly fire' at the German front line. Instead, the result was that they captured a long section of the enemy's front line. Theirs was the only division of their corps to gain its opening day objective, which they did "by a combination of sensible tactics and Ulster dash", as one historian has expressed it.
 |
| Ulster Memorial Tower |
Those who died on the Somme but have no known grave are commemorated at Thiepval. The site of the Schwaben redoubt, against which the Ulster Division advanced on the first day is marked by the Ulster Memorial Tower, an exact replica of Helen's Tower, near which they had trained.
(Much of the detail for this post and the picture, which is published under
Creative Commons Attribution Harm@frielink.net at the English language Wikipedia,
has been obtained from Wikipedia. Other sources include
the Commonwealth War Graves Commission website and personal research.)
Friday, 29 June 2018
The Marvels of Freecycle and our Magnificent NHS!
A few months ago, I announced the sad demise of my computer, and its replacement by a smaller and (hopefully) more capable one. So, at least, it has proved thus far. Meanwhile, its predecessor has lain gathering dust, propped uselessly against the wall. I had made approaches to a charity about it being taken for scrap, but there was the question of removing all my personal data from a machine that refused to start ... a question to which no answer has been found.
Last week's exercise of clearing the corner where it had been parked brought its fate to the fore once again. I decided that the only way to secure my data was to remove the hard disk which contained it. This I did, surprisingly without damaging the remainder of the apparatus, as I had feared. My first thought - of then taking the heartless cadaver to the local tip - was now put aside in favour of trying to help someone else, and I advertised it on Freecycle, fully explaining its shortcomings.
I had an amazing fourteen replies, some saying they wanted it for a relative if it could be resurrected, others longer and shorter, down to a simple 'yes please.' Allowing time for those who only see posts on a daily digest to respond, I chose one and e-mailed him, suggesting times when he could collect it. When these had elapsed without his knock on my door or a responding e-mail, I chose a second name from my list, phoned her to arrange an 'appointment', and waited, feeling more confident this time of its disposal. This was achieved earlier today.
The outcome of my second doctor's visit following my post-holiday infection was a second blood test, to confirm an anticipated change as a result of defeating the infection. A subsequent call from the surgery led to an appointment yesterday morning 'to discuss the results of the blood test'. In the meantime I had developed a cold that I had been unable to shake off. Gradually this got worse and by Tuesday night I was feverish. Shivering at bedtime is not to be expected when the temperature outside is in the mid-to-high twenties Centigrade!
I stuck it out until yesterday's appointment; the doctor I saw has his office upstairs and, by the time I arrived at his door I was gasping. He bade me sit down and asked 'how are you?' I almost fell onto the chair, and said, 'not good!' After going through all the usual checks, scrolling through notes of my recent visits and so on, he prescribed antibiotics to attack the chest infection and steroids to calm the asthma, made arrangements for a chest x-ray and further blood tests ... and for the practice nurse to put me on a nebuliser.
Now, I have seen one of these in action in the hospital but never personally experienced its effect. I entered the room a gasping wreck and emerged ten minutes later emerged, breathing freely, ready to march off for my medication. The doctor said it would 'open up the airwaves' and, by golly, it did!
The next step was to drive to the local hospital for the X-ray. This, too, was a new experience for me. I was gently urged into position against the machine by the warm fingertips of the nurse, told to hold my breath ... and it was done. A complete contrast was the following visit to pathology. Here I was politely told - with apologies - that there would be a wait of at least an hour-and-a-half. Had I realised that this would be the case, I would have gone there first and had the X-ray during my wait. I got a drink and sat nearby reading a story on the Kindle app on my phone. What a blessing that phone has been!
After the hour-and-a-half, I returned and was eventually called after another forty minutes. I was welcomed by a nurse with a broad smile and, during her most efficient conduct of the routine process, was amused by - and drawn into - affectionate banter between her and her colleague. With pressure like that, it was a tonic both for them and for me, and good that it was possible!
Now feeling much better, but definitely still with a long way to go, I can join in our church's monthly day of prayer, although not fasting this time owing to the needs of the medication.
Last week's exercise of clearing the corner where it had been parked brought its fate to the fore once again. I decided that the only way to secure my data was to remove the hard disk which contained it. This I did, surprisingly without damaging the remainder of the apparatus, as I had feared. My first thought - of then taking the heartless cadaver to the local tip - was now put aside in favour of trying to help someone else, and I advertised it on Freecycle, fully explaining its shortcomings.
I had an amazing fourteen replies, some saying they wanted it for a relative if it could be resurrected, others longer and shorter, down to a simple 'yes please.' Allowing time for those who only see posts on a daily digest to respond, I chose one and e-mailed him, suggesting times when he could collect it. When these had elapsed without his knock on my door or a responding e-mail, I chose a second name from my list, phoned her to arrange an 'appointment', and waited, feeling more confident this time of its disposal. This was achieved earlier today.
The outcome of my second doctor's visit following my post-holiday infection was a second blood test, to confirm an anticipated change as a result of defeating the infection. A subsequent call from the surgery led to an appointment yesterday morning 'to discuss the results of the blood test'. In the meantime I had developed a cold that I had been unable to shake off. Gradually this got worse and by Tuesday night I was feverish. Shivering at bedtime is not to be expected when the temperature outside is in the mid-to-high twenties Centigrade!
I stuck it out until yesterday's appointment; the doctor I saw has his office upstairs and, by the time I arrived at his door I was gasping. He bade me sit down and asked 'how are you?' I almost fell onto the chair, and said, 'not good!' After going through all the usual checks, scrolling through notes of my recent visits and so on, he prescribed antibiotics to attack the chest infection and steroids to calm the asthma, made arrangements for a chest x-ray and further blood tests ... and for the practice nurse to put me on a nebuliser.
Now, I have seen one of these in action in the hospital but never personally experienced its effect. I entered the room a gasping wreck and emerged ten minutes later emerged, breathing freely, ready to march off for my medication. The doctor said it would 'open up the airwaves' and, by golly, it did!
The next step was to drive to the local hospital for the X-ray. This, too, was a new experience for me. I was gently urged into position against the machine by the warm fingertips of the nurse, told to hold my breath ... and it was done. A complete contrast was the following visit to pathology. Here I was politely told - with apologies - that there would be a wait of at least an hour-and-a-half. Had I realised that this would be the case, I would have gone there first and had the X-ray during my wait. I got a drink and sat nearby reading a story on the Kindle app on my phone. What a blessing that phone has been!
After the hour-and-a-half, I returned and was eventually called after another forty minutes. I was welcomed by a nurse with a broad smile and, during her most efficient conduct of the routine process, was amused by - and drawn into - affectionate banter between her and her colleague. With pressure like that, it was a tonic both for them and for me, and good that it was possible!
Now feeling much better, but definitely still with a long way to go, I can join in our church's monthly day of prayer, although not fasting this time owing to the needs of the medication.
Friday, 22 June 2018
The Virgin Cometh
"'Twas on a Tuesday morning, the engineer came round; he searched in ev'ry corner, and look at what he found!" I have to begin this post with an apology to Michael Flanders (1922-1975) for that awful parody.
It all began a couple of weeks ago. For quite a while, I'd been pestered by nuisance calls from legitimate businesses, trying to sell life assurance, funeral cover, or PPI claims, or else doing market research. It got to the point where these had reached 20 in five days, and I resorted to the Telephone Preference Service. This can take up to a month to permeate all the systems that respond to it, so I was disappointed, but not surprised, to receive what appeared to be yet another of these.
I was about to hang up on this polite young lady, when she said she was calling from Virgin Media. Now, over the years, I've received countless large white envelopes from Virgin, containing all sorts of offers and inducements to persuade me to subscribe to their services. That's just the ones I'd opened. I got into the habit of seeing the name, and putting them into recycling unopened. I had associated Virgin with television. Having not had a television set myself for many years, and not wishing to depart from my happy telly-free life-style, I had seen no point in exploring their services.
However, this was the first time that I had actually been phoned by Virgin! This novelty, coupled by the sweetness of Sabrina's voice, persuaded me to listen. I explained my absence of need for television, and my objection to paying for services I would never use, and was offered a bespoke package of what I do need at a price which will save me £250 a year compared to what I have been paying BT! What's not to like? Following all the appropriate caveats, I signed up that very day.
Thus it was that, at about 10.0 on Tuesday morning, the Virgin engineer arrived. I had not be told specifically what the installation entailed, only that according to their records, the Virgin fibre-optic service had already been provided to the block of flats where I live. As soon as he entered the lounge, he began looking around the walls and spotted in the corner, where it had been hidden behind a bookcase ever since I'd moved in, a plastic box of what I had concluded all those years ago to be 'television gubbins', and therefore not required.
His fumbling investigation told him that its contents were now out of date and that, to replace them, he would need the bookcase to be moved. While he went to his van to get his tools, I set to work to unload well over 100 books and shift the double bookcase out of his way. Once the wi-fi hub had been installed and tested, I began to replace the bookcase. Behind my back, he was peering behind another bookcase ... the Virgin telephone point there had completely escaped my memory, but now it suddenly assumed an unexpected importance. Although I never use my landline, this had to be made live to complete the installation process. Thus several more metres of shelf-space had to be cleared and shifted!
By 10.45, the engineer had completed his work and departed, leaving my lounge in chaos. It was a good opportunity for a clean-up, though. At 12.15, with the books replaced, several large cobwebs hoovered up, and order restored, I was inspired to further clearing operations after lunch, and a number of unwanted items are now queuing up for disposal. I found lurking behind some of the books, a solo book-end in the form of a metal cockerel. His mate had fallen awkwardly some years since, and lost its base.
I realised the potential for this redundant rooster to have a new career as a doorstop - or simply an ornament - in someone else's home, so offered it on Freecycle. I was amazed at the level of response it generated. At the same time, I had spotted the offer of a USB keyboard which would enable me to do certain tasks that my new laptop can't manage and, within a few hours the other day, a profitable 'exchange' was effected, as first the bird was collected and then I drove a few miles across town to pick up the keyboard.
Like all clouds, the chaos of Tuesday quickly showed its silver lining!
It all began a couple of weeks ago. For quite a while, I'd been pestered by nuisance calls from legitimate businesses, trying to sell life assurance, funeral cover, or PPI claims, or else doing market research. It got to the point where these had reached 20 in five days, and I resorted to the Telephone Preference Service. This can take up to a month to permeate all the systems that respond to it, so I was disappointed, but not surprised, to receive what appeared to be yet another of these.
I was about to hang up on this polite young lady, when she said she was calling from Virgin Media. Now, over the years, I've received countless large white envelopes from Virgin, containing all sorts of offers and inducements to persuade me to subscribe to their services. That's just the ones I'd opened. I got into the habit of seeing the name, and putting them into recycling unopened. I had associated Virgin with television. Having not had a television set myself for many years, and not wishing to depart from my happy telly-free life-style, I had seen no point in exploring their services.
However, this was the first time that I had actually been phoned by Virgin! This novelty, coupled by the sweetness of Sabrina's voice, persuaded me to listen. I explained my absence of need for television, and my objection to paying for services I would never use, and was offered a bespoke package of what I do need at a price which will save me £250 a year compared to what I have been paying BT! What's not to like? Following all the appropriate caveats, I signed up that very day.
Thus it was that, at about 10.0 on Tuesday morning, the Virgin engineer arrived. I had not be told specifically what the installation entailed, only that according to their records, the Virgin fibre-optic service had already been provided to the block of flats where I live. As soon as he entered the lounge, he began looking around the walls and spotted in the corner, where it had been hidden behind a bookcase ever since I'd moved in, a plastic box of what I had concluded all those years ago to be 'television gubbins', and therefore not required.
His fumbling investigation told him that its contents were now out of date and that, to replace them, he would need the bookcase to be moved. While he went to his van to get his tools, I set to work to unload well over 100 books and shift the double bookcase out of his way. Once the wi-fi hub had been installed and tested, I began to replace the bookcase. Behind my back, he was peering behind another bookcase ... the Virgin telephone point there had completely escaped my memory, but now it suddenly assumed an unexpected importance. Although I never use my landline, this had to be made live to complete the installation process. Thus several more metres of shelf-space had to be cleared and shifted!
By 10.45, the engineer had completed his work and departed, leaving my lounge in chaos. It was a good opportunity for a clean-up, though. At 12.15, with the books replaced, several large cobwebs hoovered up, and order restored, I was inspired to further clearing operations after lunch, and a number of unwanted items are now queuing up for disposal. I found lurking behind some of the books, a solo book-end in the form of a metal cockerel. His mate had fallen awkwardly some years since, and lost its base.
I realised the potential for this redundant rooster to have a new career as a doorstop - or simply an ornament - in someone else's home, so offered it on Freecycle. I was amazed at the level of response it generated. At the same time, I had spotted the offer of a USB keyboard which would enable me to do certain tasks that my new laptop can't manage and, within a few hours the other day, a profitable 'exchange' was effected, as first the bird was collected and then I drove a few miles across town to pick up the keyboard.
Like all clouds, the chaos of Tuesday quickly showed its silver lining!
Friday, 15 June 2018
Never a Dull Moment
Soon after I retired - far sooner than I had anticipated - I joined the throng of people who have chorused, "I don't know how I found the time to work!" This week has once again proved the truth behind that comment, showing how easy it is to take on one thing after another that can utilise whatever skills and interests the earlier part of life has sharpened.
I have to admit, though, that the weekend definitely finished in 'relax mode', with a lovely picnic on the common, enjoying good food and sunshine with the opportunity to watch other people enjoying themselves with frisbees, racquets and balls, before returning home to listen to cricket commentary on the radio.
After the usual men's breakfast, the 'working' week began with two virtually free days on my calendar. The only blemishes on the Monday and Tuesday pages were a choral practice on Monday evening, facing the initial challenges posed by two new pieces of music, and a visit to my GP on Tuesday morning, this being by way of a follow-up to a nasty, but thankfully brief, infection that I suffered immediately after my holiday.
The bulk of those two days could therefore be spent at my desk, working first on my 'other blog' (see the side-panel to your right), and then devising and developing a Bible study to occupy my home group in the last two weeks of the present term.
My writing skills were also called into play on Wednesday evening, when it was confirmed that the secretary of our local Liberal Democrat branch had had to stand down. A couple of whispers to that effect in brief encounters with the chairman during the past week had warned me to go along to the committee meeting that evening suitably equipped to take the minutes.
Yesterday gave me particular pleasure both morning and evening, albeit in entirely different ways. The morning found me helping once more at the drop-in for the vulnerable people in our neighbourhood and this week I had the privilege of joining in a deep and satisfying, if not conclusive, conversation.
In the evening I took a drive over to Haverhill (only about an hour away) where the family history society's regular meeting featured a talk about the TV/radio series 'Dad's Army', which was based on the Home Guard. The speaker had certainly researched his theme well, and the talk was accompanied by a magnificent array of artefacts that we examined closely over coffee and biscuits afterwards.
Today will feature the preparations necessary in advance of the church's annual Fun Day, when we open our doors and hearts to the community, providing lots of family entertainment - and a barbecue - free of charge.
I have to admit, though, that the weekend definitely finished in 'relax mode', with a lovely picnic on the common, enjoying good food and sunshine with the opportunity to watch other people enjoying themselves with frisbees, racquets and balls, before returning home to listen to cricket commentary on the radio.
After the usual men's breakfast, the 'working' week began with two virtually free days on my calendar. The only blemishes on the Monday and Tuesday pages were a choral practice on Monday evening, facing the initial challenges posed by two new pieces of music, and a visit to my GP on Tuesday morning, this being by way of a follow-up to a nasty, but thankfully brief, infection that I suffered immediately after my holiday.
The bulk of those two days could therefore be spent at my desk, working first on my 'other blog' (see the side-panel to your right), and then devising and developing a Bible study to occupy my home group in the last two weeks of the present term.
My writing skills were also called into play on Wednesday evening, when it was confirmed that the secretary of our local Liberal Democrat branch had had to stand down. A couple of whispers to that effect in brief encounters with the chairman during the past week had warned me to go along to the committee meeting that evening suitably equipped to take the minutes.
Yesterday gave me particular pleasure both morning and evening, albeit in entirely different ways. The morning found me helping once more at the drop-in for the vulnerable people in our neighbourhood and this week I had the privilege of joining in a deep and satisfying, if not conclusive, conversation.
In the evening I took a drive over to Haverhill (only about an hour away) where the family history society's regular meeting featured a talk about the TV/radio series 'Dad's Army', which was based on the Home Guard. The speaker had certainly researched his theme well, and the talk was accompanied by a magnificent array of artefacts that we examined closely over coffee and biscuits afterwards.
Today will feature the preparations necessary in advance of the church's annual Fun Day, when we open our doors and hearts to the community, providing lots of family entertainment - and a barbecue - free of charge.
Friday, 8 June 2018
How Long Does it Take to ...?
It was a warm sunny day probably about 35 years ago. The old box camera was about to be thrown out, when one of us realised that there was still a film in it. Now you may remember the old reel-to-reel films labelled 127 or 120. This was old enough to be a 120. You could take eight pictures on a reel, then it had to be taken to the shop to have it processed before you could see what the pictures looked like. Well, we were curious to see what was on those exposed frames. There were about four or five shots left, so the children were paraded in the garden in silly poses just to use the film up. A week later, we collected the pictures: same children, but aged about six or seven years different from one picture to the next.
That thought came to mind this week when another long-delayed exercise was brought to the fore. It's a measure of how long ago it began if I tell you that, on the top of a bookcase in my bedroom is a cardboard box in which was purchased a cheap stereo that was junked at least five years ago. Given the usual life of these things, that means the box entered my life perhaps three or four years earlier, and it was kept because it was the ideal size to house my collection of audio cassette tapes.
It must have been shortly after this that I sought a means of converting those precious recordings into computer files. Having found something to do the job, I spent the winter's Sunday afternoons listening to some of these old tapes as they were converted, labelled and stored on my computer. I still listen to some of them now. The trouble was the time that it took, and you had to keep an eye on it all the while it was running, so as to note the point at which a new song began. This meant there was little else that could be done at the same time. Boredom set in, and the equipment sat on the shelf for many years ... until this week.
I was taken in recently by an advert (how many times has that been the case!) for a gizmo that would make this conversion. From the write-up it sounded just what I needed to finish that long-outstanding job. I sent off for it, and waited. On Tuesday it arrived. Imagine my horror when I realised that here - all the way from China - was another copy of the same little machine! If someone has a store of cassettes they'd like to convert to mp3 files ... make me an offer. I guarantee that it will do the job, but don't think it will happen overnight, or in the proverbial twinkling of an eye!
My latent enthusiasm was re-kindled, however, and I spent a hectic afternoon trying to remember the techniques and settings that were required ... that's after downloading and installing the latest version of the software program! After about five hours of trial and error, I was able to complete the transfer of the third of a five-cassette pack, that had been left half finished all those years ago. There are still two more 90-minute cassettes to do ... and then another 90 or so waiting in that big box.
I wonder how many weary winter afternoons that will take? I'm afraid to do the maths!
That thought came to mind this week when another long-delayed exercise was brought to the fore. It's a measure of how long ago it began if I tell you that, on the top of a bookcase in my bedroom is a cardboard box in which was purchased a cheap stereo that was junked at least five years ago. Given the usual life of these things, that means the box entered my life perhaps three or four years earlier, and it was kept because it was the ideal size to house my collection of audio cassette tapes.
It must have been shortly after this that I sought a means of converting those precious recordings into computer files. Having found something to do the job, I spent the winter's Sunday afternoons listening to some of these old tapes as they were converted, labelled and stored on my computer. I still listen to some of them now. The trouble was the time that it took, and you had to keep an eye on it all the while it was running, so as to note the point at which a new song began. This meant there was little else that could be done at the same time. Boredom set in, and the equipment sat on the shelf for many years ... until this week.
I was taken in recently by an advert (how many times has that been the case!) for a gizmo that would make this conversion. From the write-up it sounded just what I needed to finish that long-outstanding job. I sent off for it, and waited. On Tuesday it arrived. Imagine my horror when I realised that here - all the way from China - was another copy of the same little machine! If someone has a store of cassettes they'd like to convert to mp3 files ... make me an offer. I guarantee that it will do the job, but don't think it will happen overnight, or in the proverbial twinkling of an eye!
My latent enthusiasm was re-kindled, however, and I spent a hectic afternoon trying to remember the techniques and settings that were required ... that's after downloading and installing the latest version of the software program! After about five hours of trial and error, I was able to complete the transfer of the third of a five-cassette pack, that had been left half finished all those years ago. There are still two more 90-minute cassettes to do ... and then another 90 or so waiting in that big box.
I wonder how many weary winter afternoons that will take? I'm afraid to do the maths!
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