With all the twists and turns of parliamentary activity this week, coupled with a chest infection, it's little wonder that I haven't been sleeping too well. It's also a long while since I regaled my readers with my dreams ... so here goes!
The scene is somewhere near Sevenoaks in a couple of years' time; I'm outside a small greengrocer's shop. I can tell it's a greengrocer's by the sign that says, "H & B Cobb - Fruit & Veg" but the absence of any produce makes me question even that. I step inside and ask Henry Cobb, "How's business?" "Doing fine!" is the firm reply. I look around at the almost empty shelves and back to him in disbelief. "Turnover has shot through the roof!" he says, "I've got five tons of golden delicious arriving shortly. In fact," he turned to the window, where a white transit van had just pulled up, "that's them now - he told me he's got two left."
I was puzzled. That van couldn't carry five tons of anything; nor two tons for that matter. The door opened and the van driver entered, carrying a paper bag in one hand and a sack in the other. He put the bag on the counter and the sack on the floor and went out; seconds later he returned with another sack, which joined the first. "Here's the two that were left," he told the proprietor and added, pointing to the sacks, "and here's your SHIT." Unfazed by the remark, Henry told him "Thanks" and invited him to help himself to a cup of tea, "You know where it is." I wondered whether I'd heard correctly and peeked into one of the sacks. Neither was closed and each was stuffed full of little forms, neatly stapled in sets. On the top of each was the heading "Self Help In Transit".
When the driver re-appeared, mug in hand, Henry's concern was for the paper bag. "When you said you had two left, I thought you meant two hundredweight at least," he gestured to the bag, "not just two apples." He hesitated, and I could see the cogs turning. "I shall have to sell these for £15 or £20 each ... no. I'll shut the door and Brenda and I will spend the afternoon sorting this lot out. The apples will do for our lunch." He turned to me and laughed. "We call it 'shit-shovelling'" My blank look clearly demanded further explanation.
"Tom here has just been down to the lorry park. People go down there to get the produce as fresh as they can, straight from the trucks off the ferry. The buyers and the lorry drivers then fill in these chits, Tom collects them along with whatever stock they've got left and brings them to me, and the trucks spin round and get on the next ferry back to France. Two apples apart, I've got paperwork here for 5 tons of apples. We now contact the buyers to get paid for them." he smiled, "Simples!"
It might be simple to him; to me it seemed daft. I asked him how likely he was to get money on the face of these scraps of paper. "It depends. Most of the people I deal with are pretty honest, I can get about 70% out of these and that keeps me going. Some folks have a hard job to get 40 or 50%, and they suffer.
The scene changed to a lorry park just off the M20. I'd just come back with Tom to see where those SHITs had come from. As we approached the park, he'd pointed out a couple of tents with signs outside 'i-TURD' and said, "These are the cowboys ... don't trust them." We now walked up to a tidy wooden shed, with the same sign outside. Waiting to go in were pairs of mostly men, but a few women were amongst them, and I even spotted two women together. Tom explained, "The buyers go and deal with the truckers who've got what they want after they've seen the goods and reckon they're fair value. They then come here, and fill in the paperwork. They go back to the truck, the goods are exchanged for the papers - the SHIT - and the buyers go off happy.
"Then I come along, and meet the trucker who's supposed to be selling 5 tons of apples to Henry Cobb, and find he's got diddly squat left. Sometimes, like Henry was expecting, he'll have half a load, and I have to wait until I can get what's left into my van." I was beginning to see how it worked, but it all seemed very dodgy. Tom showed me what went on in the shed.
To my amazement, here was a most civilised set-up rather like the traffic offices I'd known in the past but, instead of smart computer systems, there were big ledgers and hand-written forms. I discovered that i-TURD stood for in-Transit Ultimate Receiver Delivery, which was printed on the top of the form that the truckers were completing. The buyers, the ones who would be taking goods away with them, completed a SHIT accepting receipt of the goods. The two completed forms were then taken to the desk, entered into the ledger, stamped and stapled together and given to the trucker. He then gave the goods to the buyer and kept the paperwork to pass to the courier ... Tom.
It was clearly a system that was open to misuse and fraud but, as I found out when I spoke again to Henry, it meant that goods got to the end-user quicker and in better condition that would be the case if they had to wait for the trucker to deliver them to him and him to arrange the deal with the buyer ... not to mention warehousing costs. It had grown up quickly and unofficially, but was now a recognised way of processing perishable goods. Yes, there were rogues, but they soon got their come-uppance one way or another.
"What about the tax-man?" I asked, "How do you keep track of everything?" For a brief moment Henry Cobb looked worried. "You're not from the Revenue, are you?" Being reassured that I was not, his face relaxed again and he made the common suggestion of a physical impossibility that that official might attempt, before explaining that he didn't bother to keep accounts. A lot of his business was in cash and, so long as he made enough to keep Brenda and himself, he was content to carry on that way.
Friday, 15 March 2019
Friday, 8 March 2019
The Calm Between two (or more!) Storms
After the excitement of two weeks ago with Muddy Mayhem and the FA Vase, last weekend was very much back to normal. There was no football to watch ... and the weather didn't encourage me to find any since it, too, was back to normal for the time of year. And on Sunday I resumed my fortnightly habit of a pub-lunch which, for one reason or another had lapsed for all of February. This week has seen a gradual build up of excitement once more, and not all of it good!
On Sunday evening the glint of something descending before me and the rustle of something behind drew my attention to a sinister pair of leaks in my bathroom ceiling. Some years ago, water had somehow found its way into the cavity between my ceiling and the floor of the flat above resulting in drips in my lounge. That was rapidly remedied and there has been no repetition of that trouble. Last summer, the overflow from the flat above was cascading a constant flow onto the parched grass beneath, making a distinct green 'oasis'. This, too, was put right and caused me no bother.
The tenant was somewhat shocked when I tapped on his door to advise him of the latest development and lost no time in alerting his landlord, who in turn called in a plumber. I wasn't around for the plumber's visit and have been unable to obtain further news, but the drips are still dripping, and my landlord's agent has taken the matter in hand. It's more of an annoyance than a threat of disaster, though, and life certainly hasn't been put on hold because of it.
There has been comparative excitement in my kitchen, too. Following a comment overheard at work about 'Pancake Day', I realised on Tuesday that there's nothing stopping me doing my own. After a joke I saw during the autumn - "I don't know; shops are getting madder than ever these days. Pancake Day is months away but the shops are already selling flour, milk and eggs!" - I know the essential ingredients so there's really no excuse. I'm pleased to say that the 'experiment' was successful, the only downside being some slight difficulty in breathing deeply for singing practice later that evening! And yesterday I was motivated to repeat an earlier success with apple crumble. Pleased with these two, however, I'm resting on my laurels and don't anticipate anything Cordon Bleu for a while yet!
This week, I made tentative enquiries about two new voluntary jobs, one with the Hospice where I'm already spending a day and a half a week, and the other as membership secretary for a particular organisation within the national umbrella of the Liberal Democrats. Both have been acknowledged, but it's early days for both of these, and there is as yet no further news of either. I'm amused by the way some things fall together; only hours after making the first of these enquiries, I was approached by the driving supervisor at the Hospice Distribution Centre, to advise me that his colleague will be on holiday next week and to ask if I would be able and/or willing to cover for him on Monday and Tuesday. Monday is usually a day that I reserve for 'church stuff' but, since there's none of that coming my way at the moment, I was pleased to agree to the challenge. I say 'challenge' because one of the shops that I shall have to visit has a very awkward rear access, and regular patrols by traffic wardens render its avoidance out of the question!
Next week sees our former curate being installed into her first living and I'm planning to make the trip down to Hampshire to add my support to that of others of our congregation. The only unknown aspect of the expedition is the effect of the 'Magic Motorway': the one that has no beginning and no ending (that isn't strictly true; just look on the map at A282, which links the two ends) and is commonly referred to as London's biggest car park. That isn't true either, for experience has taught me that, despite the predictable queues, sitting in them and putting up with the pressure is usually still quicker than coming off and trying to find a viable alternative route.
And following that journey it won't be long before the bell-ringers travel afield for our annual 'weekend away'. Watch this space for further news of that one!
On Sunday evening the glint of something descending before me and the rustle of something behind drew my attention to a sinister pair of leaks in my bathroom ceiling. Some years ago, water had somehow found its way into the cavity between my ceiling and the floor of the flat above resulting in drips in my lounge. That was rapidly remedied and there has been no repetition of that trouble. Last summer, the overflow from the flat above was cascading a constant flow onto the parched grass beneath, making a distinct green 'oasis'. This, too, was put right and caused me no bother.
The tenant was somewhat shocked when I tapped on his door to advise him of the latest development and lost no time in alerting his landlord, who in turn called in a plumber. I wasn't around for the plumber's visit and have been unable to obtain further news, but the drips are still dripping, and my landlord's agent has taken the matter in hand. It's more of an annoyance than a threat of disaster, though, and life certainly hasn't been put on hold because of it.
There has been comparative excitement in my kitchen, too. Following a comment overheard at work about 'Pancake Day', I realised on Tuesday that there's nothing stopping me doing my own. After a joke I saw during the autumn - "I don't know; shops are getting madder than ever these days. Pancake Day is months away but the shops are already selling flour, milk and eggs!" - I know the essential ingredients so there's really no excuse. I'm pleased to say that the 'experiment' was successful, the only downside being some slight difficulty in breathing deeply for singing practice later that evening! And yesterday I was motivated to repeat an earlier success with apple crumble. Pleased with these two, however, I'm resting on my laurels and don't anticipate anything Cordon Bleu for a while yet!
This week, I made tentative enquiries about two new voluntary jobs, one with the Hospice where I'm already spending a day and a half a week, and the other as membership secretary for a particular organisation within the national umbrella of the Liberal Democrats. Both have been acknowledged, but it's early days for both of these, and there is as yet no further news of either. I'm amused by the way some things fall together; only hours after making the first of these enquiries, I was approached by the driving supervisor at the Hospice Distribution Centre, to advise me that his colleague will be on holiday next week and to ask if I would be able and/or willing to cover for him on Monday and Tuesday. Monday is usually a day that I reserve for 'church stuff' but, since there's none of that coming my way at the moment, I was pleased to agree to the challenge. I say 'challenge' because one of the shops that I shall have to visit has a very awkward rear access, and regular patrols by traffic wardens render its avoidance out of the question!
Next week sees our former curate being installed into her first living and I'm planning to make the trip down to Hampshire to add my support to that of others of our congregation. The only unknown aspect of the expedition is the effect of the 'Magic Motorway': the one that has no beginning and no ending (that isn't strictly true; just look on the map at A282, which links the two ends) and is commonly referred to as London's biggest car park. That isn't true either, for experience has taught me that, despite the predictable queues, sitting in them and putting up with the pressure is usually still quicker than coming off and trying to find a viable alternative route.
And following that journey it won't be long before the bell-ringers travel afield for our annual 'weekend away'. Watch this space for further news of that one!
Friday, 1 March 2019
Language, Language, Language!
It's the Prime Minister of the 1960s and '70s, Harold Wilson, to whom is attributed the saying "A week is a long time in politics." It's a long time, too, in the life of this multi-faceted scribe, for whom the two sporting events that disrupted last weekend are already rapidly fading onto the crowded pages of history.
On Saturday, with nothing on the calendar, I had assigned myself just one task, the preparation of a guide to the pronunciation of Welsh for a friend for whom a change in her family dynamics has suddenly spawned an interest in the language. Foreigners learning to speak English have to cope with such confusing complications as the letters 'ough', in words like rough, through, nought, thorough and cough, and place names like Slough. Welsh, by contrast, is very much a phonetic language. With very few exceptions, the same letters are always pronounced the same way. However, a lot of them differ from the way those same letters are treated in English, so I decided to help my friend by adapting a few pages from my text book into a simple guide to the 'code' that is the key to such apparent puzzles as 'hamgyffred' (comprehension) and 'llwyddodd' (managed) and place names like Ystradgynlais.
As the morning wore on, though, I felt the need for a break and, realising that only a few miles down the road some of my friends from both work and church were taking part in a fund-raising event, I took time out to go and watch. Muddy Mayhem has been held for a number of years to support the work of the hospice situated just across the road from our church. It's a 5-kilometre obstacle race, enhanced, as the name suggests, by lots of mud. Last year it was held in the face of the 'Beast from the East'; this year the temperature was about 20 degrees higher so the mud was far less of a problem, although it did mean that the part of the course that went along a small stream was noticeably chilly ... as voiced by contenders using a variety of expressions when they entered it!
Sunday's excitement began with a slight rearrangement of my normal routine, as I forsook my usual duties on the end of a bell-rope for attendance at the early service in my own church, prior to a 10-mile drive up the road to board one of three coaches that conveyed team and supporters to Kent for a quarter-final tie in the FA Vase competition.
With the three other ties already decided on Saturday (each by a two-goal difference, as it happens: one 2-0 and the others both 3-1), Canterbury City, who ground-share with Faversham Town entertained the team that I support, Biggleswade FC (which is jointly managed by my former boss). It was the first time either team had got this far in the competition, so the stakes were high and the game was hard-fought before a crowd of just over 600.
The visitors opened in their usual confident style, scoring only 7 minutes into the game, and seemed to be holding their own against an opposition strengthened by the recent addition of incoming players from higher leagues. However an equalising goal in the dying minutes of the first half, matched by another just after the break, seemed to demoralise the boys in green. The player who had scored the opening goal joined us on our coach for a brief chat as we waited for our return journey and he explained that, while those who had been with the side since the club was formed three years ago knew how to keep their wits, re-group and fight back, some of those with less experience were 'running around like headless chickens' and, despite a valiant spell of constant pressure on the home goal in the last quarter of the game, the ball couldn't be persuaded to go in the right place to secure a replay.
While extremely disappointing (not the only description to be heard!) a 2-1 defeat meant that Biggleswade were the best losing team of the round, it also leaves them free to consolidate their position at the top of the South Midlands League with a view to securing promotion in a couple of months' time. For me, after a long and tiring day (I've never understood why road travel at 50 mph, whether driving or as a passenger, is so much more tiring than going 10 mph or more faster), I was able to resume the now familiar pattern I described here last week. Now I'm on the brink of another weekend, but this time with no sporting highlights in view.
On Saturday, with nothing on the calendar, I had assigned myself just one task, the preparation of a guide to the pronunciation of Welsh for a friend for whom a change in her family dynamics has suddenly spawned an interest in the language. Foreigners learning to speak English have to cope with such confusing complications as the letters 'ough', in words like rough, through, nought, thorough and cough, and place names like Slough. Welsh, by contrast, is very much a phonetic language. With very few exceptions, the same letters are always pronounced the same way. However, a lot of them differ from the way those same letters are treated in English, so I decided to help my friend by adapting a few pages from my text book into a simple guide to the 'code' that is the key to such apparent puzzles as 'hamgyffred' (comprehension) and 'llwyddodd' (managed) and place names like Ystradgynlais.
As the morning wore on, though, I felt the need for a break and, realising that only a few miles down the road some of my friends from both work and church were taking part in a fund-raising event, I took time out to go and watch. Muddy Mayhem has been held for a number of years to support the work of the hospice situated just across the road from our church. It's a 5-kilometre obstacle race, enhanced, as the name suggests, by lots of mud. Last year it was held in the face of the 'Beast from the East'; this year the temperature was about 20 degrees higher so the mud was far less of a problem, although it did mean that the part of the course that went along a small stream was noticeably chilly ... as voiced by contenders using a variety of expressions when they entered it!Sunday's excitement began with a slight rearrangement of my normal routine, as I forsook my usual duties on the end of a bell-rope for attendance at the early service in my own church, prior to a 10-mile drive up the road to board one of three coaches that conveyed team and supporters to Kent for a quarter-final tie in the FA Vase competition.
With the three other ties already decided on Saturday (each by a two-goal difference, as it happens: one 2-0 and the others both 3-1), Canterbury City, who ground-share with Faversham Town entertained the team that I support, Biggleswade FC (which is jointly managed by my former boss). It was the first time either team had got this far in the competition, so the stakes were high and the game was hard-fought before a crowd of just over 600.
The visitors opened in their usual confident style, scoring only 7 minutes into the game, and seemed to be holding their own against an opposition strengthened by the recent addition of incoming players from higher leagues. However an equalising goal in the dying minutes of the first half, matched by another just after the break, seemed to demoralise the boys in green. The player who had scored the opening goal joined us on our coach for a brief chat as we waited for our return journey and he explained that, while those who had been with the side since the club was formed three years ago knew how to keep their wits, re-group and fight back, some of those with less experience were 'running around like headless chickens' and, despite a valiant spell of constant pressure on the home goal in the last quarter of the game, the ball couldn't be persuaded to go in the right place to secure a replay.
While extremely disappointing (not the only description to be heard!) a 2-1 defeat meant that Biggleswade were the best losing team of the round, it also leaves them free to consolidate their position at the top of the South Midlands League with a view to securing promotion in a couple of months' time. For me, after a long and tiring day (I've never understood why road travel at 50 mph, whether driving or as a passenger, is so much more tiring than going 10 mph or more faster), I was able to resume the now familiar pattern I described here last week. Now I'm on the brink of another weekend, but this time with no sporting highlights in view.
Friday, 22 February 2019
Coif, Carry-cot and Cakes!
Under my newer, 'fuller' retirement régime, my week falls into two clear parts. There's the busy bit, from Tuesday morning until Friday lunchtime, and then there's the 'long weekend', which is the opportunity to fit in hobbies and favourite habits ... and general 'me'-time. It includes regular things like the monthly coffee morning at church, Sunday worship, the Monday morning breakfast and evening bell-ringing practice and also occasional one-offs.
This weekend has seen a sequence of those singular events. It started with the thrice-yearly family history meeting at which, instead of a routine talk from a visiting speaker, we were treated to a drama. At the appointed time, our guest was ushered in; he hesitated at the door, wearing ragged green trousers, a cloth hat under which was a white linen covering for his hair that he kept on even after removing the hat. He was carrying a large linen sack on his back and, together with long boots, he could have been a caricature of an out-of season father Christmas that had misfired in the costume department.
As I said, he hesitated at the door, giving us ample opportunity to take in his appearance. Seeing us seated in rows facing a couple of tables at the front, he asked, "Is this a court, then? Is the parish constable here?" Of course we had no reply ... as had we none to many of his questions, so he had to answer them himself, using quaint words and expressions that he had to explain with gestures as well as alternative phrases. The event had simply been billed as 'Life as a Vagrant in Elizabethan England', but this character certainly brought his topic to life as no other speaker has of late. He explained that his economy was based on theft, and unpacked his bag to show the sort of things that could be obtained by the cunning poor from the careless rich; and he explained some of the ploys and subterfuges that would be adopted to this end.
These thoughts set me up well for my Monday excursion to the record office in Bury St Edmunds. Here I fulfilled (most of) my planned task to verify some of the dates passed to me over the years by distant cousins from their own researches. Some had become subject of conflicting witness and, over time, one cousin in particular had grown a bad reputation with me for inaccuracies. It was therefore refreshing in a way to find in at least two of these conflicts that it had been her date that was supported by the registers rather than the other.
Highlight of this visit was the arrival during the afternoon of a ten-day-old baby in the tender care of her mother, and under the gentle supervision of her grandmother. The mother was a former member of staff at the office and her presence attracted the usual cluster of former colleagues and chorus of 'ooohs' and 'aaahs' before, eventually, they left and the normal silence of research was restored.
The evening was occupied by the Annual General Meeting of our bell-ringing guild. This was a typical example of the genre, taking almost an hour to deal with matters most of which had, in essence, been decided already by e-mail or through casual chatter. It would be wrong, however, to dismiss so curtly a cordial and much looked-forward-to gathering which, once the business was concluded, transmogrified into an occasion for eating, drinking and informal chatter about anything and everything ... sometimes even mentioning bells!
With such a colourful range of memories, I could then easily sink into the (still quite fresh) routine of the very 'fixed' part of the week, of volunteering and running my home and personal admin, with further excitement to look forward to on Sunday, as I re-arrange my attendance at worship in order to be one of about 160 or so who will be travelling down to Kent to watch a very important football match ... more news next week!
This weekend has seen a sequence of those singular events. It started with the thrice-yearly family history meeting at which, instead of a routine talk from a visiting speaker, we were treated to a drama. At the appointed time, our guest was ushered in; he hesitated at the door, wearing ragged green trousers, a cloth hat under which was a white linen covering for his hair that he kept on even after removing the hat. He was carrying a large linen sack on his back and, together with long boots, he could have been a caricature of an out-of season father Christmas that had misfired in the costume department.
As I said, he hesitated at the door, giving us ample opportunity to take in his appearance. Seeing us seated in rows facing a couple of tables at the front, he asked, "Is this a court, then? Is the parish constable here?" Of course we had no reply ... as had we none to many of his questions, so he had to answer them himself, using quaint words and expressions that he had to explain with gestures as well as alternative phrases. The event had simply been billed as 'Life as a Vagrant in Elizabethan England', but this character certainly brought his topic to life as no other speaker has of late. He explained that his economy was based on theft, and unpacked his bag to show the sort of things that could be obtained by the cunning poor from the careless rich; and he explained some of the ploys and subterfuges that would be adopted to this end.
These thoughts set me up well for my Monday excursion to the record office in Bury St Edmunds. Here I fulfilled (most of) my planned task to verify some of the dates passed to me over the years by distant cousins from their own researches. Some had become subject of conflicting witness and, over time, one cousin in particular had grown a bad reputation with me for inaccuracies. It was therefore refreshing in a way to find in at least two of these conflicts that it had been her date that was supported by the registers rather than the other.
Highlight of this visit was the arrival during the afternoon of a ten-day-old baby in the tender care of her mother, and under the gentle supervision of her grandmother. The mother was a former member of staff at the office and her presence attracted the usual cluster of former colleagues and chorus of 'ooohs' and 'aaahs' before, eventually, they left and the normal silence of research was restored.
The evening was occupied by the Annual General Meeting of our bell-ringing guild. This was a typical example of the genre, taking almost an hour to deal with matters most of which had, in essence, been decided already by e-mail or through casual chatter. It would be wrong, however, to dismiss so curtly a cordial and much looked-forward-to gathering which, once the business was concluded, transmogrified into an occasion for eating, drinking and informal chatter about anything and everything ... sometimes even mentioning bells!
With such a colourful range of memories, I could then easily sink into the (still quite fresh) routine of the very 'fixed' part of the week, of volunteering and running my home and personal admin, with further excitement to look forward to on Sunday, as I re-arrange my attendance at worship in order to be one of about 160 or so who will be travelling down to Kent to watch a very important football match ... more news next week!
Friday, 15 February 2019
When the Bus Stops
Three weeks ago I told how easily I had been persuaded some years ago to respond to an appeal by a young lady I'd never met, and delivered the prologue of last weekend's adventure. On that occasion I spoke of train tickets on my noticeboard and all being ready. The more I thought about it, however, the more I realised that all was not quite ready.
The direct trains I had booked in each direction were from the main line station some five miles or so from home and, to get there, I had to get a bus from my 'local' bus stop, which is an eight-minute walk away, across a railway footbridge. (There is a bus stop right outside my home from which the only service was only night and morning excluding weekends, and has now been completely withdrawn ... but now is not the time to decry cuts to public transport.)
Unfortunately, the most appropriate bus was scheduled to arrive at the train station at precisely the time the train would depart, so I had to set off half-an-hour earlier - at 8.15 - to catch the previous one. At the other end of the day, the last bus back home would leave the train station about a quarter of an hour after my train would leave York ... some two hours away! My first job on arriving at the station was thus to purchase a local ticket for a train home once the main line train had brought me that far. As luck (and the timetables) would have it, the local train left from the other side of the station at the same time as the York train was scheduled to arrive so, once more, I had to wait for the next one and I finally walked home from my local station about 9.0pm.
Once all these finer details had been arranged, the plan worked out perfectly, and the weather played ball too. By Peterborough we were travelling through bright sunshine, which held for most of the day. There was a football match that afternoon between Doncaster and Peterborough and for that section of the journey, in both directions, I had the 'company' of quite a lot of fans, who weren't the quietest of travel partners ... particularly on the alcohol-fuelled return journey!
I arrived at the 'capital of the north' at 11.30 and had over two hours to fill before the meeting began at 2.0, so I visited the National Railway Museum, which is quite close to the station. There's easily enough there to occupy the enthusiast for a whole day, and it gave me my desired interest ... and lunch besides.
Once I'd crossed the river (after a moment's unjustified panic that I might have found the wrong bridge), it was easy enough, thanks to my preliminary Google perusal, to find the hall where the meeting was to take place and, once my name was recognised, I was warmly welcomed and thanked for making the journey. The formalities were over in less than an hour and were richly supplemented by the opportunity to chat with Emily, the founder and organiser of The Bus Stop, and some of the other supporters to learn something of the detail of their operation.
The Bus Stop was founded in 2015 with the aim of working alongside local churches and schools to provide youth and community provision and education about the Christian faith. To do this it has operated within a 30-mile radius of York, making use of a converted double-decker bus, which was supplemented last year by the acquisition of a second bus, which operates in the Scarborough area. The first bus is now in need of some considerable work and one of their primary considerations is whether or not to replace it, perhaps with something a little smaller, while the long-term aim is to expand to a small fleet of vehicles to provide this service over a wider area. However, they have to walk before they can run, and slow development will inevitably be the best way.
I find myself strangely warmed to these people, living and working so far from me, and yet in circumstances not dissimilar to my own background. At such a distance, there is naturally very little I can actually do to help them, but I do ask you, dear reader, to take a look at their website - the link is a couple of paragraphs above - and if you are as attracted as I am to what they're trying so hard to achieve, you can give to the charity here.
The direct trains I had booked in each direction were from the main line station some five miles or so from home and, to get there, I had to get a bus from my 'local' bus stop, which is an eight-minute walk away, across a railway footbridge. (There is a bus stop right outside my home from which the only service was only night and morning excluding weekends, and has now been completely withdrawn ... but now is not the time to decry cuts to public transport.)
Unfortunately, the most appropriate bus was scheduled to arrive at the train station at precisely the time the train would depart, so I had to set off half-an-hour earlier - at 8.15 - to catch the previous one. At the other end of the day, the last bus back home would leave the train station about a quarter of an hour after my train would leave York ... some two hours away! My first job on arriving at the station was thus to purchase a local ticket for a train home once the main line train had brought me that far. As luck (and the timetables) would have it, the local train left from the other side of the station at the same time as the York train was scheduled to arrive so, once more, I had to wait for the next one and I finally walked home from my local station about 9.0pm.
Once all these finer details had been arranged, the plan worked out perfectly, and the weather played ball too. By Peterborough we were travelling through bright sunshine, which held for most of the day. There was a football match that afternoon between Doncaster and Peterborough and for that section of the journey, in both directions, I had the 'company' of quite a lot of fans, who weren't the quietest of travel partners ... particularly on the alcohol-fuelled return journey!
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| York's famous curved platform |
I arrived at the 'capital of the north' at 11.30 and had over two hours to fill before the meeting began at 2.0, so I visited the National Railway Museum, which is quite close to the station. There's easily enough there to occupy the enthusiast for a whole day, and it gave me my desired interest ... and lunch besides.
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| The River Ouse from Lendal Bridge |
The Bus Stop was founded in 2015 with the aim of working alongside local churches and schools to provide youth and community provision and education about the Christian faith. To do this it has operated within a 30-mile radius of York, making use of a converted double-decker bus, which was supplemented last year by the acquisition of a second bus, which operates in the Scarborough area. The first bus is now in need of some considerable work and one of their primary considerations is whether or not to replace it, perhaps with something a little smaller, while the long-term aim is to expand to a small fleet of vehicles to provide this service over a wider area. However, they have to walk before they can run, and slow development will inevitably be the best way.
I find myself strangely warmed to these people, living and working so far from me, and yet in circumstances not dissimilar to my own background. At such a distance, there is naturally very little I can actually do to help them, but I do ask you, dear reader, to take a look at their website - the link is a couple of paragraphs above - and if you are as attracted as I am to what they're trying so hard to achieve, you can give to the charity here.
Friday, 8 February 2019
A Week that Seems to Mirror the Last!
Last week's blog ended with the result of the first match in this year's Six Nations rugby football tournament. Rugby is a game I've often watched on TV, but don't really understand, have never played and have never watched live ... except here in Letchworth from the touchline of the nearby soccer pitch. However, to restore the balance, this week's story begins with the round ball.
One of the ways in which I spend my leisure time is to support a nearby football team. For many years I was a 'groundhopper', visiting many a ground solely for the experience of 'collecting' it; then, a few years ago, my former boss helped to found a new club based on a youth team that he had been running for a couple of years. Last weekend, Biggleswade FC - in only the third year of their existence - found themselves playing in the fifth round of the FA Vase.
To reach, in the previous season, the fourth round of this national competition for clubs playing below the top eight levels in the football pyramid was something of a triumph. On that occasion, they played away and were beaten by the eventual runners-up. To repeat the feat this year, and find themselves playing at home against a more local side, was an even greater success. The event attracted a record crowd, who saw them beat what many had seen as a stronger team ... certainly one from a more established base, the opposing club having been founded in the 1880s.
That record crowd was exceeded last Sunday as another competent opposition team were put to the sword (not, thankfully, in a literal sense!). Honours were even with no score at half time, but a second-half goal-fest saw the home team run out 6-1 winners! Excitement mounted over the next 24 hours waiting for the draw for the quarter-finals. With the winners of the two northern ties that were postponed until tomorrow being drawn against each other, the other three matches are clearly defined, and we now know that on 24th of February we will be travelling to Kent to watch them play against Canterbury City.
Also last week, I mentioned an unfortunate accident that befell the jumper I wear for work; sadly today a parallel situation evolved as I came home to discover that I had managed to get grease on the arm of my flourescent jacket. Although it's not an official requirement, I prefer to wear this on the van because it combines being lightweight and manoeuvrable with being wind- and waterproof. There was nothing else for it but another Friday laundry! Fortunately this proved totally successful and even as I write the bright and shining garment is drying across the room.
I spoke, too, about the way my weeks seem to have settled into a regular pattern; part of this is a Wednesday afternoon Bible study group, for which I am joined by a married couple from the other side of the town. We had decided that we wouldn't meet this week, having a 'half-term' break. They have the privilege of living in a small modern estate of retirement homes, and enjoy a number of useful common services with their neighbours. One of these benefits is a communal TV aerial system, which has to undergo regular, if infrequent, maintenance. The unfortunate timing of this event means that our meeting will now have to be cancelled next week as well!
One aspect of the week that is vastly different is yet to come. Last Saturday I was almost completely at home; tomorrow will see me spending almost twelve hours away from my desk, but I'll report on that next weekend!
One of the ways in which I spend my leisure time is to support a nearby football team. For many years I was a 'groundhopper', visiting many a ground solely for the experience of 'collecting' it; then, a few years ago, my former boss helped to found a new club based on a youth team that he had been running for a couple of years. Last weekend, Biggleswade FC - in only the third year of their existence - found themselves playing in the fifth round of the FA Vase.
To reach, in the previous season, the fourth round of this national competition for clubs playing below the top eight levels in the football pyramid was something of a triumph. On that occasion, they played away and were beaten by the eventual runners-up. To repeat the feat this year, and find themselves playing at home against a more local side, was an even greater success. The event attracted a record crowd, who saw them beat what many had seen as a stronger team ... certainly one from a more established base, the opposing club having been founded in the 1880s.
That record crowd was exceeded last Sunday as another competent opposition team were put to the sword (not, thankfully, in a literal sense!). Honours were even with no score at half time, but a second-half goal-fest saw the home team run out 6-1 winners! Excitement mounted over the next 24 hours waiting for the draw for the quarter-finals. With the winners of the two northern ties that were postponed until tomorrow being drawn against each other, the other three matches are clearly defined, and we now know that on 24th of February we will be travelling to Kent to watch them play against Canterbury City.
Also last week, I mentioned an unfortunate accident that befell the jumper I wear for work; sadly today a parallel situation evolved as I came home to discover that I had managed to get grease on the arm of my flourescent jacket. Although it's not an official requirement, I prefer to wear this on the van because it combines being lightweight and manoeuvrable with being wind- and waterproof. There was nothing else for it but another Friday laundry! Fortunately this proved totally successful and even as I write the bright and shining garment is drying across the room.
I spoke, too, about the way my weeks seem to have settled into a regular pattern; part of this is a Wednesday afternoon Bible study group, for which I am joined by a married couple from the other side of the town. We had decided that we wouldn't meet this week, having a 'half-term' break. They have the privilege of living in a small modern estate of retirement homes, and enjoy a number of useful common services with their neighbours. One of these benefits is a communal TV aerial system, which has to undergo regular, if infrequent, maintenance. The unfortunate timing of this event means that our meeting will now have to be cancelled next week as well!
One aspect of the week that is vastly different is yet to come. Last Saturday I was almost completely at home; tomorrow will see me spending almost twelve hours away from my desk, but I'll report on that next weekend!
Saturday, 2 February 2019
Panic, Custard and Rygbi
Now my retirement has settled down into a regular pattern, I come to a Friday afternoon and wonder, 'now what shall I blog about this week?' Yesterday I was thinking that so little had happened of note that I would have to resort - as I did when I was driving - to the diary. But now, of course, there is little recorded there either. By this morning, however, all had become clear; I had two items, one of shame the other of triumph upon which I could expand ... so here goes.
For a day and a half a week I volunteer at the distribution centre that serves a small chain of high street charity shops providing income for our local hospice. On Tuesdays I sit at a computer and on Friday mornings I'm out and about on one of their vans visiting some of the shops. When I got home yesterday, I was cold and tired. The ideal reviver, I decided, spotting a couple of spare donuts in the cupboard, was to cover these with custard to provide a suitable pudding to follow my lunch.
The trouble was that my feet were cold, too. Instead of taking the wise course and sitting at a table to consume my feast, I lounged in my office chair, with the feet on the heater beside the desk. It's an ideal posture for playing a game on my phone late at night, but not for eating custard-covered donuts! It only takes one dribble, doesn't it? Now, I've got one particular jumper that I keep for work (it's an old courier jumper and it's nice and warm) and I didn't fancy turning up in the office on Tuesday with a yellow stain on the front ... even though my day is mostly spent facing the wall.
So now, as I write, I'm surrounded by laundry, brought forward a few days instead of my usual habit of letting it dry overnight mid-week. And it was at this desk that my other 'topic' occurred last evening. My vicar and I have a standing joke regarding the Welsh language. Although she grew up in Wales, she's not a Welsh-speaker and, although I have a Welsh name, try as I might I can't find any Welsh ancestors and certainly didn't speak the language ... until I retired and decided I should learn it.
Last night saw the first match in this year's Six Nations tournament, in which Wales visited France. In the exciting build-up to the game an appropriate post appeared on Facebook from my clerical friend, to which I felt I had to respond ... in Welsh, of course! I've found that learning the language from the textbook has become rather boring of late, and it's degenerated to the same level as learning a computer program. If I have something to do, it's a challenge, and I then find out the way the program can be applied to do it. Last night, I knew what I wanted to say, and then had to find the words to use. A final check with the online translator and a last-minute correction - the curse of mutation puts many off Welsh! - and it was posted.
I then turned on the radio and heard the commentary on the exciting second half, in which Wales < spoiler alert! >
won 24-19! Cymru am byth!
For a day and a half a week I volunteer at the distribution centre that serves a small chain of high street charity shops providing income for our local hospice. On Tuesdays I sit at a computer and on Friday mornings I'm out and about on one of their vans visiting some of the shops. When I got home yesterday, I was cold and tired. The ideal reviver, I decided, spotting a couple of spare donuts in the cupboard, was to cover these with custard to provide a suitable pudding to follow my lunch.
The trouble was that my feet were cold, too. Instead of taking the wise course and sitting at a table to consume my feast, I lounged in my office chair, with the feet on the heater beside the desk. It's an ideal posture for playing a game on my phone late at night, but not for eating custard-covered donuts! It only takes one dribble, doesn't it? Now, I've got one particular jumper that I keep for work (it's an old courier jumper and it's nice and warm) and I didn't fancy turning up in the office on Tuesday with a yellow stain on the front ... even though my day is mostly spent facing the wall.
So now, as I write, I'm surrounded by laundry, brought forward a few days instead of my usual habit of letting it dry overnight mid-week. And it was at this desk that my other 'topic' occurred last evening. My vicar and I have a standing joke regarding the Welsh language. Although she grew up in Wales, she's not a Welsh-speaker and, although I have a Welsh name, try as I might I can't find any Welsh ancestors and certainly didn't speak the language ... until I retired and decided I should learn it.
Last night saw the first match in this year's Six Nations tournament, in which Wales visited France. In the exciting build-up to the game an appropriate post appeared on Facebook from my clerical friend, to which I felt I had to respond ... in Welsh, of course! I've found that learning the language from the textbook has become rather boring of late, and it's degenerated to the same level as learning a computer program. If I have something to do, it's a challenge, and I then find out the way the program can be applied to do it. Last night, I knew what I wanted to say, and then had to find the words to use. A final check with the online translator and a last-minute correction - the curse of mutation puts many off Welsh! - and it was posted.
I then turned on the radio and heard the commentary on the exciting second half, in which Wales < spoiler alert! >
won 24-19! Cymru am byth!
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