Everyone is entitled to his or her opinion, of course and, for many, politics is either a complete mystery or is plainly understood as one lying idiot talking against another (rarely is it face to face!). For anyone holding either of these opinions the mere mention of politics is an incentive to switch off. For some the switch-off is literal, causing a changed TV channel or a blank screen, while others simply glaze over and think of a sunlit beach or the beauty of nature until it passes.
It's an ideal time just now, if you can stand it, to offer a personal view. If I'm honest, I can't blame those 'off-switchers' one little bit and, for many years, I was one of their number. That said (and I'm sure this snatch appeared on this blog some years ago), I've always voted Liberal, and have taken a mild interest in their fortunes (or lack of them) over the past forty-odd years. I never knew how my parents voted ... I guess Labour, but that is only a guess. I remember my father once telling me that his father - he died when I was only a year old, so I never knew him - always spoke well of the 'Little Welshman' (i.e. David Lloyd George).
For years my political interest was purely mathematical ... remember that Swingometer on the TV coverage decades ago? This view peaked when I found I was able to listen to RTE on my radio as I drove around the country, and I followed the Irish General Election in 2007 intently, supporting what I heard by online research about their voting system, a proportional system called the Single Transferable Vote. There each constituency elects four or five members, ensuring that virtually everyone is represented by someone of their own persuasion ... something I've never experienced in fifty years of adulthood!
Looking back from now, I can't be clear whether it was my recollection about my grandfather, or the Irish system, or simply the devastating cut in the number of Liberal Democrat MPs in the 2015 General Election, about which something clearly had to be done. Whatever had led to my decision, that last was the actual trigger! On the day after the election, I enrolled as a member of the Party. Soon I began to get emails, and later that year I went along to a meeting where a local branch was being created. There were many new faces, and among them a couple of people I knew. I soon got to know a few more!
The following year, I was persuaded to join the branch committee and allowed my name to appear on a ballot paper for the District Council elections. One summer's evening in 2018, as I was leaving the theatre in the town, I was spotted by our chairman. He quickly explained that the secretary had resigned and asked if I would be able to take the minutes at our meeting in a few days' time. The rest, as they say, is history, and I've now been the branch secretary for a year and a half.
Administration is one thing, but what does it achieve? From the outset, I needed to do something. I quickly discovered that I couldn't cope with the twists and turns in and out of gateways to go delivering leaflets and I knew that I don't have the personality to get involved with canvassing. So I became an itinerant helper with the operation of election campaigns. My first venture was just after the famous Brexit Referendum in 2016, when the Prime Minister resigned and there was a by-election in his constituency, Witney in Oxfordshire. I realised that this was a driveable distance from home and, over three weeks, I spent a total of four days in their office, albeit staying one night at a charming little B&B near Swindon, and making a 'mini-holiday' out of it.
The next spring came an impromptu General Election, where I found that the candidate in St Albans - much nearer home - was the daughter of someone I was at school with, so I went there for a week, commuting on a daily basis and I've just started an elaborate plan of helping there again for three days a week to fit in with my other commitments.
Meanwhile, there have been other excursions. This summer I spent a couple of days in the lovely countryside of eastern Wales, staying at a B&B in Llandrindod Wells and helping in the Brecon & Radnorshire by-election. In Sheffield in September, there was great uncertainty whether there would be a by-election or an imminent General Election and I found it convenient when house-sitting for my cousin's holiday, to commute in that direction for a couple of days helping a campaign that had been reduced to a gentle simmer.
All in all, it's a wonderful combination. There's the underlying feeling of 'doing something to help' while, at the same time, the mundane duties and growing friendships with new colleagues are an adventure of themselves. And if - as in the case of Wales and Sheffield - there's equally attractive scenery as a backdrop to it all, that's an added bonus! To me politics is far more than talking and a cross on a ballot paper!
Saturday, 16 November 2019
Friday, 8 November 2019
Operation Overload?
Somebody famous once said, "You know what will happen if you do that again!" Or at least, if no one did, someone ought to have done. While I feel, partly, as if I'm in the 'doing it again' camp, at the same time I'm on the 'but this time it's different because ...' team. Before I put flesh on the bones of that enigma, I'm going to tell you a story. See if you can guess the end from the beginning.
To protect the identity of the central character of my tale, I'm going to call her Anita, which isn't her name. I recently undertook the now annual task of identifying those of the regular and devoted worshippers at my church who would be willing to venture up hill and down dale across the length and breadth of our parish to deliver the church Christmas cards. It sounds demanding, I know, put like that, but in reality, it's all quite flat, and over the years I've split it into walks of between 50 and 150 homes, so no one should be engaged in the task for much more than a couple of hours.
The sales pitch must have been much more persuasive than I'd thought, for Anita boldly came up to me after the launch the other week and said 'I'll do some', whereupon I gladly slotted her into my programme and thought no more of it ... until ... I envisage that, after she'd got home, Anita was chatting to her husband over Sunday lunch, and realised that her life as a working mother-of-three offered little or no 'spare' time that wasn't already taken up by the almost countless tasks that beset ladies in that situation. A couple of days later a crie-de-coeur arrived in my inbox, saying, "I can't realistically see how I'm going to find the time to do this, please remove me from your list.
At this point - my story now ended - I recall a conversation (or at least part of a conversation) with one of my fellow-helpers at the drop-in where I spend my Thursday mornings. I forget what had prompted my comments, but it was directed towards the fact of me living alone. I told her that my life is full enough already, and if 'Miss Right' - or, more realistically at my age, the former Mrs Was-Right-Once - should come into view this minute, I wouldn't have the time to devote to building a new relationship.
You see, I have form. My life has more than once been through this cycle, and by now I should know better. Gradually I've taken on one social commitment after another until my life has been so full, I realise that things that ought to be taking pride of place, like family and relationships, have been squeezed out. Then, in order to try to rectify matters, to restore the proper balance, you might say, I've shed things abruptly, causing problems to other people in so doing.
The drop-in started a couple of years ago, almost to the day, as it happens. With almost two years of retirement behind me, I heard of a plan to explore this possibility, hopefully to be run by volunteers from the churches in the town. While it was outside of my comfort zone, I could see both the value and the necessity of the project and felt I ought to help. I attended the preliminary meetings and was eventually drawn into the operating team. Now, not only do I find it rewarding, but I can see clearly how my own behaviour patterns have changed for the better as a result of this involvement.
This was only one of a number of new ventures to become part of an active retirement. Finding time heavy on my hands, I began working at the warehouse run by the local hospice to serve its retail shops in the business of raising funds for the caring work that is its focus. Originally this was on Tuesdays and Friday mornings, but recently I've switched from a Friday morning shift to one on Thursday afternoons, giving me a 'clear' four-day weekend. Only now, of course - you won't be surprised by this - I'm itching to fill those days, too.
With the General Election now at last declared, I've made plans to repeat my involvement of June 2017, when I spent a week or so helping my school-friend's daughter who is contesting the nearby seat of St Albans. This time, of course, the time I can spare for this purpose has to be fitted around a now firmly constructed pattern of voluntary work. It goes without saying that I've readily decided to sacrifice my 'extended weekends' - or at least the extensions themselves, i.e. Fridays and Mondays - and to these I have added some Tuesdays and some Thursdays, limiting the impact on the respective charities to what I hope is an acceptable pattern.
Now, on the brink of executing this plan, I'm looking back at the 'form-book'. Have I over-filled my week? Can I fit all that needs to be done 'on the home front' into the three remaining days, which already carry some regular commitments I wasn't willing to sacrifice? On the other hand, as many thought in 1914, 'It'll all be over by Christmas'. That wasn't, of course, but this is finite, and will be. On that truism stands my 'this time it's different' philosophy. I hope it proves to be the case.
To protect the identity of the central character of my tale, I'm going to call her Anita, which isn't her name. I recently undertook the now annual task of identifying those of the regular and devoted worshippers at my church who would be willing to venture up hill and down dale across the length and breadth of our parish to deliver the church Christmas cards. It sounds demanding, I know, put like that, but in reality, it's all quite flat, and over the years I've split it into walks of between 50 and 150 homes, so no one should be engaged in the task for much more than a couple of hours.
The sales pitch must have been much more persuasive than I'd thought, for Anita boldly came up to me after the launch the other week and said 'I'll do some', whereupon I gladly slotted her into my programme and thought no more of it ... until ... I envisage that, after she'd got home, Anita was chatting to her husband over Sunday lunch, and realised that her life as a working mother-of-three offered little or no 'spare' time that wasn't already taken up by the almost countless tasks that beset ladies in that situation. A couple of days later a crie-de-coeur arrived in my inbox, saying, "I can't realistically see how I'm going to find the time to do this, please remove me from your list.
At this point - my story now ended - I recall a conversation (or at least part of a conversation) with one of my fellow-helpers at the drop-in where I spend my Thursday mornings. I forget what had prompted my comments, but it was directed towards the fact of me living alone. I told her that my life is full enough already, and if 'Miss Right' - or, more realistically at my age, the former Mrs Was-Right-Once - should come into view this minute, I wouldn't have the time to devote to building a new relationship.
You see, I have form. My life has more than once been through this cycle, and by now I should know better. Gradually I've taken on one social commitment after another until my life has been so full, I realise that things that ought to be taking pride of place, like family and relationships, have been squeezed out. Then, in order to try to rectify matters, to restore the proper balance, you might say, I've shed things abruptly, causing problems to other people in so doing.
The drop-in started a couple of years ago, almost to the day, as it happens. With almost two years of retirement behind me, I heard of a plan to explore this possibility, hopefully to be run by volunteers from the churches in the town. While it was outside of my comfort zone, I could see both the value and the necessity of the project and felt I ought to help. I attended the preliminary meetings and was eventually drawn into the operating team. Now, not only do I find it rewarding, but I can see clearly how my own behaviour patterns have changed for the better as a result of this involvement.
This was only one of a number of new ventures to become part of an active retirement. Finding time heavy on my hands, I began working at the warehouse run by the local hospice to serve its retail shops in the business of raising funds for the caring work that is its focus. Originally this was on Tuesdays and Friday mornings, but recently I've switched from a Friday morning shift to one on Thursday afternoons, giving me a 'clear' four-day weekend. Only now, of course - you won't be surprised by this - I'm itching to fill those days, too.
With the General Election now at last declared, I've made plans to repeat my involvement of June 2017, when I spent a week or so helping my school-friend's daughter who is contesting the nearby seat of St Albans. This time, of course, the time I can spare for this purpose has to be fitted around a now firmly constructed pattern of voluntary work. It goes without saying that I've readily decided to sacrifice my 'extended weekends' - or at least the extensions themselves, i.e. Fridays and Mondays - and to these I have added some Tuesdays and some Thursdays, limiting the impact on the respective charities to what I hope is an acceptable pattern.
Now, on the brink of executing this plan, I'm looking back at the 'form-book'. Have I over-filled my week? Can I fit all that needs to be done 'on the home front' into the three remaining days, which already carry some regular commitments I wasn't willing to sacrifice? On the other hand, as many thought in 1914, 'It'll all be over by Christmas'. That wasn't, of course, but this is finite, and will be. On that truism stands my 'this time it's different' philosophy. I hope it proves to be the case.
Friday, 1 November 2019
Smaller than Mine!
A couple of weeks ago, I reported disposing of some excesses from my personal library, to the extent that a whole bookcase had been made redundant. A friend had been enquiring recently whether anyone had a bookcase, because she found herself in need of one. I asked if this need had been met or whether mine might thus find a new home. Sadly it wasn't the right size, but she did suggest a possible outlet for it. I investigated and subsequently made an arrangement for it to be collected. These things are never instant, of course, but by 10.0 this morning it was gone.
I'm not actively down-sizing in the accepted sense ... I can't imagine living in a smaller home than at present! That said, I'm well aware that many of my possessions - like those books - are surplus to my actual requirements, and may find fresh ownership over the coming months. I'm also well aware that many people do live in smaller accommodation than mine ... and not always by choice.
In my kitchen - and in fact, in daily use - I have a certain spoon. On first glance, it is just another teaspoon. It's marked 'stainless steel' and bears a number '18/0'. I like it because the handle is slightly longer than usual, making it able to reach to the very bottom of a jam jar. Its only 'distinguishing marks' are a few scratches on the back of the bowl, that constant use and washing up are slowly removing.
Those scratches remind me where I got it some ten years or so ago: it had caught my eye, just laying there bright and shiny on the car park as, having just returned from a delivery, I walked from my van to the office. Its scratches and their probable cause, the spoon's presence on the car park, remind me too of someone who might possibly have been its previous owner ... although, like a found coin, there is no way of establishing this one way or the other.
Like me, he was a courier driver and, like me, he was prepared to drive long distances and long hours in order to make a living. But that's where the resemblance ended. Peca - I never knew him by any other name - was about half my age, give or take five years or so, tall, dark-haired and athletic. From his accent, I should say he was of east European origin, but I don't ever recall chatting to him. He had little English beyond the vocabulary necessary to doing his work. Neither do I know how it was that he suddenly appeared in our Garden City. I imagined that he was a refugee, or a migrant, who had arrived with sufficient funds to acquire a van, and little more.
Somehow, Peca had discovered the same business that it had been my good fortune to trip over when I had been out of work some years earlier. Like me, he had found our boss welcoming so long as we did what we were asked, and unquestioning as to what went on in our lives outside of our driving. So far as Dave was concerned, if we did a job well, we were likely to get it again and, if we didn't, he'd think twice not only about our repeating the same job, but also about doing anything of a similar nature or for the same customer. It was, after all, his reputation on the line, and his business that would bear the consequences of a less than perfect service!
That determined my attitude while I did that work. I tried always to be polite and efficient and my efforts were rewarded. I took little interest in the other drivers and - as a recent post here recognised - tended to be very inward looking beyond the work itself. It was some while, therefore, before I realised that, at about the time when Peca had appeared on the scene, so too a large and scruffy white van had become noticed in the corner of the car park. To all intents and purposes, it had been abandoned. So far as I knew it didn't belong to us, was always there and was never seen going off on a job. It seems that, for the early part of his time with us, that stationary vehicle was Peca's home.
How long it stayed there, I couldn't say. Certainly not all the time Peca was with us. Where he moved to, I have no idea. Eventually, as he became more familiar with our language, and our ways, Peca became more assertive, more willing to object if he didn't like something, and there were disagreements between him and some of the other drivers, and between him and Dave, the boss. Finally, after upsetting an important customer - I don't know how - he was told not to darken our doors again.
Sometimes when I look at that spoon, I recall a lonely immigrant living in a van. I remember the odd journey I made when it was necessary to spend a few cold hours trying to sleep in the back of my van and the desperation that made me drive on, although not really refreshed, simply because that was the only way to get warm again. And I imagine how unattractive it must have been to know that it would be the same the next night ... and the next ...
And it's frightening to realise that there are those in our community today, who find themselves in the same plight ... for whatever reason. It may only be one morning a week, but it's a privilege to play a small part in an operation called Ark that can offer a crumb of comfort and hope for such folks.
I'm not actively down-sizing in the accepted sense ... I can't imagine living in a smaller home than at present! That said, I'm well aware that many of my possessions - like those books - are surplus to my actual requirements, and may find fresh ownership over the coming months. I'm also well aware that many people do live in smaller accommodation than mine ... and not always by choice.
In my kitchen - and in fact, in daily use - I have a certain spoon. On first glance, it is just another teaspoon. It's marked 'stainless steel' and bears a number '18/0'. I like it because the handle is slightly longer than usual, making it able to reach to the very bottom of a jam jar. Its only 'distinguishing marks' are a few scratches on the back of the bowl, that constant use and washing up are slowly removing.
Those scratches remind me where I got it some ten years or so ago: it had caught my eye, just laying there bright and shiny on the car park as, having just returned from a delivery, I walked from my van to the office. Its scratches and their probable cause, the spoon's presence on the car park, remind me too of someone who might possibly have been its previous owner ... although, like a found coin, there is no way of establishing this one way or the other.
Like me, he was a courier driver and, like me, he was prepared to drive long distances and long hours in order to make a living. But that's where the resemblance ended. Peca - I never knew him by any other name - was about half my age, give or take five years or so, tall, dark-haired and athletic. From his accent, I should say he was of east European origin, but I don't ever recall chatting to him. He had little English beyond the vocabulary necessary to doing his work. Neither do I know how it was that he suddenly appeared in our Garden City. I imagined that he was a refugee, or a migrant, who had arrived with sufficient funds to acquire a van, and little more.
Somehow, Peca had discovered the same business that it had been my good fortune to trip over when I had been out of work some years earlier. Like me, he had found our boss welcoming so long as we did what we were asked, and unquestioning as to what went on in our lives outside of our driving. So far as Dave was concerned, if we did a job well, we were likely to get it again and, if we didn't, he'd think twice not only about our repeating the same job, but also about doing anything of a similar nature or for the same customer. It was, after all, his reputation on the line, and his business that would bear the consequences of a less than perfect service!
That determined my attitude while I did that work. I tried always to be polite and efficient and my efforts were rewarded. I took little interest in the other drivers and - as a recent post here recognised - tended to be very inward looking beyond the work itself. It was some while, therefore, before I realised that, at about the time when Peca had appeared on the scene, so too a large and scruffy white van had become noticed in the corner of the car park. To all intents and purposes, it had been abandoned. So far as I knew it didn't belong to us, was always there and was never seen going off on a job. It seems that, for the early part of his time with us, that stationary vehicle was Peca's home.
How long it stayed there, I couldn't say. Certainly not all the time Peca was with us. Where he moved to, I have no idea. Eventually, as he became more familiar with our language, and our ways, Peca became more assertive, more willing to object if he didn't like something, and there were disagreements between him and some of the other drivers, and between him and Dave, the boss. Finally, after upsetting an important customer - I don't know how - he was told not to darken our doors again.
Sometimes when I look at that spoon, I recall a lonely immigrant living in a van. I remember the odd journey I made when it was necessary to spend a few cold hours trying to sleep in the back of my van and the desperation that made me drive on, although not really refreshed, simply because that was the only way to get warm again. And I imagine how unattractive it must have been to know that it would be the same the next night ... and the next ...
And it's frightening to realise that there are those in our community today, who find themselves in the same plight ... for whatever reason. It may only be one morning a week, but it's a privilege to play a small part in an operation called Ark that can offer a crumb of comfort and hope for such folks.
Friday, 25 October 2019
Feeding Young Minds
Scarcely a day goes by in these times that we don't hear something about foodbanks. On one hand they are a very good thing: they provide an essential lifeline for families or individuals who find themselves unable to cope with the basic necessities of normal life. On the other hand they are a bad thing, since their very existence is a condemnation of the social and economic structure that has led to this situation in the first place. Had the nation's affairs been better managed, there would be no need for foodbanks at all.
However, we are where we are. For centuries there have been two distinct classes in our society: the haves and the have-nots. The rebellion led by Robert Kett in July & August of 1549 features prominently in the history of my native Norfolk and, nationally, what schoolboy hasn't heard of Wat Tyler and the Peasant's revolt of June, 1381? (I wonder, though, whether that features in today's curriculum.)
As the son of a farm worker, I grew up very much aware of being one of the 'have-nots'. I remember at primary school the acute embarrassment when, having passed the pre-requisite hearing test, I had to report that my mother couldn't afford the few pence that would enable me to have violin lessons. Little more than a decade later came the shock of discovering that, only a year or so out of school, I was earning - or at least getting paid! - more than my father.
In later years, as I drew towards retirement after having been at work almost constantly, as one situation had followed another, for all but a few weeks of my adult life, I came to realise that there was now a new underclass, who were much worse off than me. It placed upon me a responsibility that I had been given no idea how to deal with.
From time to time, since I started writing these pieces, I've drawn upon my dreams for inspiration. I'm firmly of the opinion that, as the mind unwinds during our sleeping hours, it throws together random thoughts, people and instances from a wide variety of times in our past, from childhood to yesterday. The juxtaposition of these snippets can provide some quite bizarre 'stories' that are usually beyond our complete recall upon waking.
Sometimes, I remember two faces that I've known years and miles apart appearing in the same 'scene'. On other occasions, I might call to mind a complete act of the night's nonsense play, although, in reciting it to myself, I'm aware that I've incorporated a waking link to make 'sense' of the whole thing; and I've lost count of the times when it seems quite clear that I've visited some fictitious place before and know what is - or isn't - round a corner or through a door.
In my 'dream theatre' the other night, I found myself at some kind of children's party. I had been engaged by the parents to bring along the presents that they had provided, rather like Santa Claus (although there was neither sight nor sense of a white-trimmed red cloak). After the party, I tried to load the contents of those presents back into the car. But now, of course, they had all been unwrapped, played with and, in some cases, broken, and they would no longer fit into the same space. I had to remove those in the worst condition and throw them away, sensing the possible disappointment of some of the children as a result.
I don't hold to the theory that dreams are always 'sent' to inform us of something important; but sometimes I find that the thoughts evoked by their recollection can lead to something positive and maybe helpful. In this case, I was aware that the parents had spent a fortune on the presents while, once the children had satisfied their curiosity about what was inside, they didn't appreciate the toys and had swiftly moved on to investigate the next parcel.
I have little to do with children in my waking life. Nevertheless, I believe that many of the families who 'have' (going back to the introductory thoughts above), spend sums on their children that are extravagant and can appear to be unlimited, with the result that the young ones grow up with a range of unreal expectations. When, as young adults, they discover that they can't have every last thing they desire, this realisation causes a variety of social problems. It's better, perhaps, for such loving parents to express that love not in physical possessions but in providing their children with attitudes and strategies that will enable them to deal wisely and generously with the real world that they will later find surrounding them.
However, we are where we are. For centuries there have been two distinct classes in our society: the haves and the have-nots. The rebellion led by Robert Kett in July & August of 1549 features prominently in the history of my native Norfolk and, nationally, what schoolboy hasn't heard of Wat Tyler and the Peasant's revolt of June, 1381? (I wonder, though, whether that features in today's curriculum.)
As the son of a farm worker, I grew up very much aware of being one of the 'have-nots'. I remember at primary school the acute embarrassment when, having passed the pre-requisite hearing test, I had to report that my mother couldn't afford the few pence that would enable me to have violin lessons. Little more than a decade later came the shock of discovering that, only a year or so out of school, I was earning - or at least getting paid! - more than my father.
In later years, as I drew towards retirement after having been at work almost constantly, as one situation had followed another, for all but a few weeks of my adult life, I came to realise that there was now a new underclass, who were much worse off than me. It placed upon me a responsibility that I had been given no idea how to deal with.
From time to time, since I started writing these pieces, I've drawn upon my dreams for inspiration. I'm firmly of the opinion that, as the mind unwinds during our sleeping hours, it throws together random thoughts, people and instances from a wide variety of times in our past, from childhood to yesterday. The juxtaposition of these snippets can provide some quite bizarre 'stories' that are usually beyond our complete recall upon waking.
Sometimes, I remember two faces that I've known years and miles apart appearing in the same 'scene'. On other occasions, I might call to mind a complete act of the night's nonsense play, although, in reciting it to myself, I'm aware that I've incorporated a waking link to make 'sense' of the whole thing; and I've lost count of the times when it seems quite clear that I've visited some fictitious place before and know what is - or isn't - round a corner or through a door.
In my 'dream theatre' the other night, I found myself at some kind of children's party. I had been engaged by the parents to bring along the presents that they had provided, rather like Santa Claus (although there was neither sight nor sense of a white-trimmed red cloak). After the party, I tried to load the contents of those presents back into the car. But now, of course, they had all been unwrapped, played with and, in some cases, broken, and they would no longer fit into the same space. I had to remove those in the worst condition and throw them away, sensing the possible disappointment of some of the children as a result.
I don't hold to the theory that dreams are always 'sent' to inform us of something important; but sometimes I find that the thoughts evoked by their recollection can lead to something positive and maybe helpful. In this case, I was aware that the parents had spent a fortune on the presents while, once the children had satisfied their curiosity about what was inside, they didn't appreciate the toys and had swiftly moved on to investigate the next parcel.
I have little to do with children in my waking life. Nevertheless, I believe that many of the families who 'have' (going back to the introductory thoughts above), spend sums on their children that are extravagant and can appear to be unlimited, with the result that the young ones grow up with a range of unreal expectations. When, as young adults, they discover that they can't have every last thing they desire, this realisation causes a variety of social problems. It's better, perhaps, for such loving parents to express that love not in physical possessions but in providing their children with attitudes and strategies that will enable them to deal wisely and generously with the real world that they will later find surrounding them.
(Written with apologies and acknowledgement that many parents are already doing this!)
Friday, 18 October 2019
Eye off the Ball!
Last Saturday, I watched a football match at a lower league than is lately my custom. The difference was more noticeable than I'd expected. As I mused later, on each team there were three or four players who 'knew what they were doing' or, as one player who had been substituted at half-time, was already changed and was watching the closing stages from the stand, observed, 'they think football'. One evidence of this was the way that some would turn their heads away and let the high ball hit their head, rather than skilfully use their head to affect the direction of the ball's travel.
The same trait can be devastating in cricket, where it's imperative for the batsman to keep his eye on the ball from bowler's hand to bat, or risk it passing him by and splattering his wicket ... or worse, hitting him on the head!
It's true of life, too, as I discovered twice this week. I recently realised that in a collection of about 900 books that adorn my flat, there are several that either will never get read, or have been read and are unlikely to be read again. Consequently I've sold a few on line, and donated a far greater number to charities in the town, with the knock-on effect that the total has reduced by about 15% and one complete bookcase has been made redundant. As I went through this exercise, I disposed of volumes that I had bought as a result of a passing whim, or a project long since abandoned either through lack of interest or the counter-attraction of something else.
During the course of this moderate de-cluttering exercise, I shed a lot of loose papers, too. The discovery amidst them of one snippet that I wanted to keep sent me to what passes for a diary, since that seemed the most appropriate place to store my find. As I searched for the exact spot, I browsed some of the writings of what is now very much a passed age. There was very little of interest to the modern, happily-retired me. It was virtually all work-related: picked this up, waited for that, went to one place, then another; expressions of frustration at having to wait hours for something to turn up ... no indication of how those hours were spent, or the passing of the seasons.
That said, there was the occasional note of relief, for it happened that the right spot for that discovered document was but days away from the momentous occasion - reported on this blog at some time, I'm sure - when I at last broke through a significant brick-wall in my family research and discovered my great-uncle at Colchester barracks in the 1871 census ... he who had been so elusive since his last record at home ten years earlier.
The impression given by that diary record of only eight years ago was, however, of someone almost completely inward-looking; even that sliver of relief was self-focused. Who else, after all, would be interested in an ordinary nineteenth-century soldier whose greatest achievement (so far as I've been able to find out, anyway) was to drop a target on his trigger-finger and thus gain his discharge, enabling him to settle down to a quiet family life in a small Irish town?
For many a year, I fear, I had taken my eye off the 'ball' of normal life. And, although I'm only too aware of many things that lack the ideal level of attention, I'm glad to say that - in my own opinion, at least - I've been able to achieve a much more balanced existence in my retirement.
The same trait can be devastating in cricket, where it's imperative for the batsman to keep his eye on the ball from bowler's hand to bat, or risk it passing him by and splattering his wicket ... or worse, hitting him on the head!
It's true of life, too, as I discovered twice this week. I recently realised that in a collection of about 900 books that adorn my flat, there are several that either will never get read, or have been read and are unlikely to be read again. Consequently I've sold a few on line, and donated a far greater number to charities in the town, with the knock-on effect that the total has reduced by about 15% and one complete bookcase has been made redundant. As I went through this exercise, I disposed of volumes that I had bought as a result of a passing whim, or a project long since abandoned either through lack of interest or the counter-attraction of something else.
During the course of this moderate de-cluttering exercise, I shed a lot of loose papers, too. The discovery amidst them of one snippet that I wanted to keep sent me to what passes for a diary, since that seemed the most appropriate place to store my find. As I searched for the exact spot, I browsed some of the writings of what is now very much a passed age. There was very little of interest to the modern, happily-retired me. It was virtually all work-related: picked this up, waited for that, went to one place, then another; expressions of frustration at having to wait hours for something to turn up ... no indication of how those hours were spent, or the passing of the seasons.
That said, there was the occasional note of relief, for it happened that the right spot for that discovered document was but days away from the momentous occasion - reported on this blog at some time, I'm sure - when I at last broke through a significant brick-wall in my family research and discovered my great-uncle at Colchester barracks in the 1871 census ... he who had been so elusive since his last record at home ten years earlier.
The impression given by that diary record of only eight years ago was, however, of someone almost completely inward-looking; even that sliver of relief was self-focused. Who else, after all, would be interested in an ordinary nineteenth-century soldier whose greatest achievement (so far as I've been able to find out, anyway) was to drop a target on his trigger-finger and thus gain his discharge, enabling him to settle down to a quiet family life in a small Irish town?
For many a year, I fear, I had taken my eye off the 'ball' of normal life. And, although I'm only too aware of many things that lack the ideal level of attention, I'm glad to say that - in my own opinion, at least - I've been able to achieve a much more balanced existence in my retirement.
Friday, 11 October 2019
Keeping the Score
Last week I trailed my diary for the coming days; I can now report back. I mentioned my plans to join friends on Saturday for the annual autumn ringing outing. Unlike the ill-fated visit to Warwickshire in the spring (where I tripped and fell after lunch, causing some weeks of discomfort), this was an unqualified success. We had gloriously sunny weather and the pub where we had lunch was conveniently close to the church with good food and good service. Even the challenge posed by the bells themselves didn't defeat us. The first ring were a bit heavy for some of us but, as the day progressed, we found lighter bells that were more welcome.
At our weekly practice before the outing, my friend Bob had suggested that I might like to revise some of the compositions that he knew I had conducted in the past ... although recently, with our efforts being geared to teaching new ringers, I had not been called upon in this way. He planned to invite me to do so at some point on our outing.
Now, on five bells (with the sixth and heaviest bell keeping time at the end of each change), 120 possible sequences, or changes, can be rung. There are many different patterns in which this can be achieved; each different pattern is called a method. In their simple form most methods only provide 30 or 40 of these sequences, and to obtain the full 120 changes, known as an extent or, in the older parlance, a 'six-score' requires a number of alterations in the pattern, which is where the conductor comes in.
Bob had spoken of an ancient method that we ring called Grandsire, of which there are ten different ways that the six-score can be achieved, some more complex than others. It was one of these more complex compositions that I had revised and prepared. I was, I admit, apprehensive about doing this, having been out of practice for so long. In fact, I'm not sure that I have ever successfully called this particular composition in the past. I confess that I was therefore pleased to have a band of strong ringers around me to achieve the feat this time.
I also mentioned last week my planned attendance at the funeral of a 95-year-old friend. This, too, was blessed with fine weather, despite a forecast of rain spreading from the west. As was expected, the formalities included reminiscences from family members, son, daughter and grandchildren and all was executed without a hitch. I diverted slightly from my 200-mile return journey to visit a nearby abbey ruin for a few minutes reflection as I explored the site.
I think it was the next day when I was once more reminded of the passage of years, and the approaching completion of the psalmist's allotted 'threescore years and ten', when my new driving license fluttered onto my doormat. With such thoughts in my head, did I really need a friend to comment within a day or so about 'becoming a grandmother again'? I recalled that my granddaughter - of whom I've heard nothing for years - is now 22 years old and, for all I know, I could be a great-grandfather!
Perhaps the balance was restored yesterday, when another friend proudly displayed pictures of her daughter, whose boy-friend had last weekend descended to one knee and made a proposal of marriage. I was reassured that the niceties of a former age have not totally evaporated when my friend explained that the young man had earlier spoken to her husband upon the subject. I recalled that I had done the same thing some two-score and eight years ago ... and even then was thought of as 'old-fashioned'!
At our weekly practice before the outing, my friend Bob had suggested that I might like to revise some of the compositions that he knew I had conducted in the past ... although recently, with our efforts being geared to teaching new ringers, I had not been called upon in this way. He planned to invite me to do so at some point on our outing.
Now, on five bells (with the sixth and heaviest bell keeping time at the end of each change), 120 possible sequences, or changes, can be rung. There are many different patterns in which this can be achieved; each different pattern is called a method. In their simple form most methods only provide 30 or 40 of these sequences, and to obtain the full 120 changes, known as an extent or, in the older parlance, a 'six-score' requires a number of alterations in the pattern, which is where the conductor comes in.
Bob had spoken of an ancient method that we ring called Grandsire, of which there are ten different ways that the six-score can be achieved, some more complex than others. It was one of these more complex compositions that I had revised and prepared. I was, I admit, apprehensive about doing this, having been out of practice for so long. In fact, I'm not sure that I have ever successfully called this particular composition in the past. I confess that I was therefore pleased to have a band of strong ringers around me to achieve the feat this time.
 |
| Easby Abbey, North Yorkshire |
I think it was the next day when I was once more reminded of the passage of years, and the approaching completion of the psalmist's allotted 'threescore years and ten', when my new driving license fluttered onto my doormat. With such thoughts in my head, did I really need a friend to comment within a day or so about 'becoming a grandmother again'? I recalled that my granddaughter - of whom I've heard nothing for years - is now 22 years old and, for all I know, I could be a great-grandfather!
Perhaps the balance was restored yesterday, when another friend proudly displayed pictures of her daughter, whose boy-friend had last weekend descended to one knee and made a proposal of marriage. I was reassured that the niceties of a former age have not totally evaporated when my friend explained that the young man had earlier spoken to her husband upon the subject. I recalled that I had done the same thing some two-score and eight years ago ... and even then was thought of as 'old-fashioned'!
Friday, 4 October 2019
Annual Adjustments
"C'est aujourd'hui le 1er Octobre", the teacher wrote on the blackboard. She then read it aloud - I can remember it now - and explained that this was the day when pupils at all French schools returned after the long summer break. I've no idea whether this is still the case but it certainly makes a lot of sense that the whole nation operates in unison in this way ... as any parent with children at school in different counties will agree.
Whether or not, it's certain that the start of October marks a significant turning point in the year. Evenings are becoming dark earlier; by the time I've had my evening meal and washed up, I need a light to see my keyboard. Mornings have already become dark. We have a weekly church breakfast at 6.30 on Mondays and for several weeks we have arrived in the dark; we now have to leave for work or home afterwards also in darkness!
And there are cold bursts, too. The other morning I woke up aware that I'd not been properly asleep for some while. I realised that I was cold and, with several hours before 'getting-up time', I was forced to dig out a blanket to throw across the bed to afford any possibility of further sleep. It used to be a tradition that there was no heat in school until the start of October; this discipline is one that has followed many into adulthood, me included. I remember giving way soon after the start of last September, but I did stick it out until Tuesday this year, and a resolve that it was still not really required - accompanied by a Wednesday switch-off - didn't last and it's now on again ... this time for the duration.
The arrival of the heating season in my home was accompanied by a slight re-arrangement of furniture to allow the heat better to permeate into the rooms. This was particularly necessary in the bedroom, where 'stuff' had been allowed to accumulate close to the heater. This isn't very effective anyway, being both too small for the size of the room (in my chilled but unskilled opinion) and tucked away in an outside corner. In order to sort things out in the most useful combination, I bought a new extension lead long enough to run around the edge of the room to feed, among other things, the clock-alarm beside my bed.
Unplugging this, of course meant that, when it was plugged in again, the clock would need to be re-set. I decided to be lazy, with the clocks 'falling back' at the end of the month, and set it for GMT. I thought it would be easy enough to add on an hour when I look at it for the time. It was about 8.30 last evening when I suddenly heard voices coming from the bedroom and realised that all was not as it should be. Not only had I set the clock element for 'AM', when it was already afternoon: I had also mis-calculated the hour difference and set the alarm for 7.30 to get me up at 6.30, when I should have set it for 5.30! By this morning, all was working as it should, thank goodness.
Another seasonal change that will come into effect next week concerns what I call 'work', my volunteering activities at the local hospice warehouse. Instead of working on the vans on Friday mornings, visiting the high street shops, I've arranged to fill a vacant slot indoors on a Thursday afternoon, thus giving me clear Fridays to match the clear Mondays at the other end of the week as well as keeping me from getting cold and wet in the winter weather.
I described it as a seasonal change but it might become permanent, because it also relieves me from the mental strain of dealing with a variety of 'pre-loved' items that are no longer required and have been carefully packed and parted with in the hope of their finding appreciative new homes but when they arrive at the warehouse, those with far more experience that I can see that this will never happen and consign them to re-cycling straightway. I say mental strain, I suppose because I've inherited in my growing up the wartime concept of 'make do and mend'. While not actually mending things these days, the practice has evolved into one of being content with something secondhand if it will do the job. Therefore the thought of replacing something that is still working by a flash new article smacks of vanity and waste.
If you're wondering how that squares with my driving around in a new car, see my earlier blog here, explaining why this was a necessity. While you're doing that, I'll drive off with my friends tomorrow to the ringers' annual autumn outing.
Whether or not, it's certain that the start of October marks a significant turning point in the year. Evenings are becoming dark earlier; by the time I've had my evening meal and washed up, I need a light to see my keyboard. Mornings have already become dark. We have a weekly church breakfast at 6.30 on Mondays and for several weeks we have arrived in the dark; we now have to leave for work or home afterwards also in darkness!
And there are cold bursts, too. The other morning I woke up aware that I'd not been properly asleep for some while. I realised that I was cold and, with several hours before 'getting-up time', I was forced to dig out a blanket to throw across the bed to afford any possibility of further sleep. It used to be a tradition that there was no heat in school until the start of October; this discipline is one that has followed many into adulthood, me included. I remember giving way soon after the start of last September, but I did stick it out until Tuesday this year, and a resolve that it was still not really required - accompanied by a Wednesday switch-off - didn't last and it's now on again ... this time for the duration.
The arrival of the heating season in my home was accompanied by a slight re-arrangement of furniture to allow the heat better to permeate into the rooms. This was particularly necessary in the bedroom, where 'stuff' had been allowed to accumulate close to the heater. This isn't very effective anyway, being both too small for the size of the room (in my chilled but unskilled opinion) and tucked away in an outside corner. In order to sort things out in the most useful combination, I bought a new extension lead long enough to run around the edge of the room to feed, among other things, the clock-alarm beside my bed.
Unplugging this, of course meant that, when it was plugged in again, the clock would need to be re-set. I decided to be lazy, with the clocks 'falling back' at the end of the month, and set it for GMT. I thought it would be easy enough to add on an hour when I look at it for the time. It was about 8.30 last evening when I suddenly heard voices coming from the bedroom and realised that all was not as it should be. Not only had I set the clock element for 'AM', when it was already afternoon: I had also mis-calculated the hour difference and set the alarm for 7.30 to get me up at 6.30, when I should have set it for 5.30! By this morning, all was working as it should, thank goodness.
Another seasonal change that will come into effect next week concerns what I call 'work', my volunteering activities at the local hospice warehouse. Instead of working on the vans on Friday mornings, visiting the high street shops, I've arranged to fill a vacant slot indoors on a Thursday afternoon, thus giving me clear Fridays to match the clear Mondays at the other end of the week as well as keeping me from getting cold and wet in the winter weather.
I described it as a seasonal change but it might become permanent, because it also relieves me from the mental strain of dealing with a variety of 'pre-loved' items that are no longer required and have been carefully packed and parted with in the hope of their finding appreciative new homes but when they arrive at the warehouse, those with far more experience that I can see that this will never happen and consign them to re-cycling straightway. I say mental strain, I suppose because I've inherited in my growing up the wartime concept of 'make do and mend'. While not actually mending things these days, the practice has evolved into one of being content with something secondhand if it will do the job. Therefore the thought of replacing something that is still working by a flash new article smacks of vanity and waste.
If you're wondering how that squares with my driving around in a new car, see my earlier blog here, explaining why this was a necessity. While you're doing that, I'll drive off with my friends tomorrow to the ringers' annual autumn outing.
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