The received wisdom regarding a bulging wardrobe is to consider whether you've worn a garment in the last six/twelve/eighteen/twenty-four months (choose your own threshold) and, if you haven't worn it, get rid of it. In my case, the last time I purged my T-shirt drawer, it was a case of 'if it hasn't got a hole where it shouldn't have a hole'. All the intact ones were kept and, given our usual English weather, none has been worn for several years.
So it was that, while sweltering in heat that is no longer welcome in the last few weeks, I've been recounting tales of holidays 26 and 27 years ago, and of working abroad in the millennium year amidst election posters for Geo. W. Bush.
While wearing some of these antiques last weekend, I visited my cousin for a 'special' birthday but, now being without a car (see last week's illustrated post), I had to resort to train travel. In both directions, the boredom of public transport was relieved by the company of students. On Friday, my train from Grantham to Nottingham - an hourly two-car shuttle - was packed. As I sat by the window waiting for it to depart, a breathless voice came from above a flowery dress, "Is this seat taken?"
My negative reply afforded relief to a student at a local university, glad to have caught this particular train as it would allow her to make it to her seat of learning by 1 pm. She began to read from the heavy tomes she carried in her bag, making notes as she did so. It seems that she'll be working through the holidays to submit her dissertation in September ... "and then it will all be over!"
I set off early on Monday in a vain attempt to negotiate crossing the city centre before the day got too hot. As a result, I could sit on the platform and enjoy a cooling breeze while I waited about half an hour for an earlier train than I'd planned. Soon I was joined on the seat by a second student, who parked her suitcase and carrier and began studying her phone intently. A train was announced on the tannoy, arrived in front of us and departed, having completely evaded appearance on the departure board visible from our seat. Mentioning this to my fellow traveller led to the discovery that we were both waiting for the one train that was shown, she going to the second stop, I to the first.
Contact having thus been established, I asked if she would mind keeping an eye on my bags while I went in search of a toilet ... which she did and on my return asked me to reciprocate. While she was on her way back it was announced that our train would be leaving from a different platform. Finding this and waiting there for our train allowed further exchanges, revealing that she was from Belfast, was studying at Newcastle, and was joining up with fellow students to look at Cambridge and then proceed to the south coast. Once more, the train was quite full - although not standing only, as we had been led to expect - but we found a seat and shared a companionable silence, as she watched a film on her phone, and I studied a family across the aisle. When we reached my stop, the friendship came to a pleasant ending as each thanked the other for brightening our journey.
On Tuesday began my search for a new car. At the first showroom I entered, I was greeted by a receptionist, who summoned the sales executive to explore my needs. Armed with their information, I walked home and, after lunch, sallied forth to another such establishment, expecting to find a similar situation. However, seeing no obvious greeting point, I stood somewhat helplessly amidst the vehicles on display. Someone at a nearby desk asked, "Can I help you?" I approached the desk and repeated the morning's explanation for being there, to 'talk to someone about deals on new cars'. "Certainly," said the third young lady of my tale, "I can help you with that; take a seat."
In half the time the man of the morning had taken, I was provided with far more information, and in a more collaborative manner, and I returned home very impressed ... not least by the certificate of her credentials proudly displayed on the desk! Meanwhile, following a brief conversation the previous evening, a friend had e-mailed with details of a car he knew was likely to be for sale. After careful consideration of these two very different opportunities, I replied to his e-mail and rang the efficient young lady to say I'd like to take up the deal she had outlined. The result was a test drive in a similar vehicle, reams of form-filling and a very satisfied customer now looking forward to being mobile early next week.
Friday, 27 July 2018
Friday, 20 July 2018
Wham, Bang, Thank you, Ma'am!
It can take a while: months ... years even, to build up a trusting relationship and then in a flash - call it carelessness, oversight, complacency ... whatever - all that building effort is rendered to dust in an instant.
I've lost count of the number of times this has happened to me ... although no more than most of us, I imagine. But on Sunday afternoon, it happened again. I'd been out to lunch, as I often do, and was driving home again when out of the blue ... SMACK! ... a Mercedes came at me from where I thought there was nothing and biffed me on the roundabout. I tried to avoid him, but it was too late. I came to rest by the 'keep left' bollard of the road joining from the left.
I suppose I was in shock, although I didn't recognise it at the time. I got out of the car, looked briefly at the ripped wing and smashed headlight and thought, "Well, it's the end for you, old girl!" before turning my attention to the driver of the Merc. Like me, he and his passenger were unhurt and, mechanically, we went through the standard routine of exchanging names and addresses.
Surprisingly, I found that I was able to drive away from the scene, albeit with a lot of screeching and whining. Realising that my route home passed an accident repair centre, where there were often people working on a Sunday, I stopped there to seek advice.
This was immediately forthcoming: "Don't drive any further!" They were surprised that I'd made it the three miles or so to them; a sharp edge of the body was gouging a deep channel in the tyre, so there was an increasing danger of a blow-out if I were to continue and I was persuaded to leave my beloved 'Tina the Tigra' on their forecourt.
In addition to the damage I could see, I had already discovered problems with the steering, and it transpired that the main structure of the vehicle had been distorted as well. The estimate for repairs was more than I paid for the vehicle two-and-a half years ago! Once contact had been made with the insurers, action was swift. By Wednesday afternoon, a payment was on its way to my bank and I noticed the next morning that the 'corpse' had been removed.
Now I'm off for a different adventure ... one that will be a much happier one, I'm sure: the celebration of my cousin's birthday, and a weekend away from home and all its challenges!
I've lost count of the number of times this has happened to me ... although no more than most of us, I imagine. But on Sunday afternoon, it happened again. I'd been out to lunch, as I often do, and was driving home again when out of the blue ... SMACK! ... a Mercedes came at me from where I thought there was nothing and biffed me on the roundabout. I tried to avoid him, but it was too late. I came to rest by the 'keep left' bollard of the road joining from the left.
I suppose I was in shock, although I didn't recognise it at the time. I got out of the car, looked briefly at the ripped wing and smashed headlight and thought, "Well, it's the end for you, old girl!" before turning my attention to the driver of the Merc. Like me, he and his passenger were unhurt and, mechanically, we went through the standard routine of exchanging names and addresses.
Surprisingly, I found that I was able to drive away from the scene, albeit with a lot of screeching and whining. Realising that my route home passed an accident repair centre, where there were often people working on a Sunday, I stopped there to seek advice.
In addition to the damage I could see, I had already discovered problems with the steering, and it transpired that the main structure of the vehicle had been distorted as well. The estimate for repairs was more than I paid for the vehicle two-and-a half years ago! Once contact had been made with the insurers, action was swift. By Wednesday afternoon, a payment was on its way to my bank and I noticed the next morning that the 'corpse' had been removed.
Now I'm off for a different adventure ... one that will be a much happier one, I'm sure: the celebration of my cousin's birthday, and a weekend away from home and all its challenges!
Friday, 13 July 2018
You Can Take the Boy ...
In general terms, I'm content with my present life in the First Garden City. Most of my modest needs are catered for in the town, and those that aren't can find satisfaction nearby. Occasionally, though - and especially when there are blue skies overhead like those this glorious summer has brought - I yearn for cornfields. Yesterday afternoon I actually drove out to find one to walk around.
That yearning for the wide East Anglian skies was heightened last weekend when much of our church family migrated to Letton Hall for two days of great teaching, fabulous fellowship ... and a great deal of equally fabulous food! My mind, however, was to a certain extent focused a few miles away. I had taken with me a slim book, most of which I read during free time over the weekend. It told the story of Lucilla Reeve, a strong-willed woman who, in 1938, had exchanged a job as a land agent for the role of farmer, and taken over one of the properties she had formerly administered.
Little did she know that, within five years, the village where she had been born, the one where she now lived and worked, and four more would be under military occupation, with all the inhabitants cleared out on just a few weeks' notice to find homes elsewhere, and with precious little by way of compensation. Lucilla Reeve took a few belongings, samples of the crops she had grown on her farm, and scraped a living just outside the cleared area. "It's all right," they had been told by their landlord (who lost his own home at the same time), "You can come back when the war is over." It never happened, of course.
Although the fundamental reason for the expulsion of civilians was their own safety, it soon became apparent that the military training for which the area had been commandeered would be impossible if they were to keep to their initial undertaking that the homes would be left intact. On Armistice Day, 1950 Lucilla Reeve took her own life. Many believe that the loss of her farm was a major factor in this tragedy. She is buried at the corner of the churchyard of St Andrew's church, Tottington.
After the end of World War II came the Cold War, Northern Ireland, the Falklands, the Balkans and Iraq. While the homes of the original villages of Buckenham Tofts, Langford, Stanford, Sturston, Tottington and West Tofts are now just humps in the ground, a new 'village' has been built, representing a typical settlement in Afghanistan, complete with street markets, lots of signs in Arabic and even a mosque ... all in the cause of urban warfare training.
Each of the villages had its own church; two of these had already disappeared before the nineteenth century, but the remaining four are carefully protected by the Ministry, with high fences and severely restricted access. The roofs of the larger two have been replaced by blastproof panels in the style of pantiles. The villages themselves will never be re-habited. While the material losses of the individuals was, in the overall scheme of things, minimal, what was destroyed was the sense of community, as they were scattered far and wide across the county and beyond. In their absence, the old, and largely unmechanised, farm and village life of pre-war Norfolk disappeared for ever. The only civilian connection with the area now is a fast-declining sentimental link with family graves and the memory of Breckland childhoods that are now eight and nine decades into history.
The occasional visits allowed by the MOD to the area usually merit a mention in the local press. It was just such a report that prompted my interest in what had hitherto simply been a blank area on the map, and my purchase of the book that I took with me last weekend. Although my journey to our retreat venue passed close by, I knew that it would be pointless to engage in a sightseeing diversion. For one thing my curiosity relates only to the past, and there is no longer a past to be seen, and for another, I have no personal interest in the villages at all, save for the basic one of filling in a gap in awareness about my native county.
It's true what they say about many a birthplace - "You can take the boy out of Norfolk (or wherever), but you can't take Norfolk out of the boy!"
That yearning for the wide East Anglian skies was heightened last weekend when much of our church family migrated to Letton Hall for two days of great teaching, fabulous fellowship ... and a great deal of equally fabulous food! My mind, however, was to a certain extent focused a few miles away. I had taken with me a slim book, most of which I read during free time over the weekend. It told the story of Lucilla Reeve, a strong-willed woman who, in 1938, had exchanged a job as a land agent for the role of farmer, and taken over one of the properties she had formerly administered.
Little did she know that, within five years, the village where she had been born, the one where she now lived and worked, and four more would be under military occupation, with all the inhabitants cleared out on just a few weeks' notice to find homes elsewhere, and with precious little by way of compensation. Lucilla Reeve took a few belongings, samples of the crops she had grown on her farm, and scraped a living just outside the cleared area. "It's all right," they had been told by their landlord (who lost his own home at the same time), "You can come back when the war is over." It never happened, of course.
Although the fundamental reason for the expulsion of civilians was their own safety, it soon became apparent that the military training for which the area had been commandeered would be impossible if they were to keep to their initial undertaking that the homes would be left intact. On Armistice Day, 1950 Lucilla Reeve took her own life. Many believe that the loss of her farm was a major factor in this tragedy. She is buried at the corner of the churchyard of St Andrew's church, Tottington.
After the end of World War II came the Cold War, Northern Ireland, the Falklands, the Balkans and Iraq. While the homes of the original villages of Buckenham Tofts, Langford, Stanford, Sturston, Tottington and West Tofts are now just humps in the ground, a new 'village' has been built, representing a typical settlement in Afghanistan, complete with street markets, lots of signs in Arabic and even a mosque ... all in the cause of urban warfare training.
Each of the villages had its own church; two of these had already disappeared before the nineteenth century, but the remaining four are carefully protected by the Ministry, with high fences and severely restricted access. The roofs of the larger two have been replaced by blastproof panels in the style of pantiles. The villages themselves will never be re-habited. While the material losses of the individuals was, in the overall scheme of things, minimal, what was destroyed was the sense of community, as they were scattered far and wide across the county and beyond. In their absence, the old, and largely unmechanised, farm and village life of pre-war Norfolk disappeared for ever. The only civilian connection with the area now is a fast-declining sentimental link with family graves and the memory of Breckland childhoods that are now eight and nine decades into history.
The occasional visits allowed by the MOD to the area usually merit a mention in the local press. It was just such a report that prompted my interest in what had hitherto simply been a blank area on the map, and my purchase of the book that I took with me last weekend. Although my journey to our retreat venue passed close by, I knew that it would be pointless to engage in a sightseeing diversion. For one thing my curiosity relates only to the past, and there is no longer a past to be seen, and for another, I have no personal interest in the villages at all, save for the basic one of filling in a gap in awareness about my native county.
It's true what they say about many a birthplace - "You can take the boy out of Norfolk (or wherever), but you can't take Norfolk out of the boy!"
Thursday, 5 July 2018
One Mistake and Two Surprises
It was with some trepidation that, on an autumn morning nearly twelve years ago, I crossed the threshold of a new church ... and a new phase of my life. I was warmly greeted by a lady named Ann, who spotted the cross I always wear, put two and two together and made five. She had clearly been watching out for a visiting preacher representing one of our supported societies, took me for him and asked, "Are you our visitor?"
Unsurprisingly, when hearing a new voice, what I heard was the more expected, "Are you a visitor?" When I told her I was, she ushered me to a seat next to where she would be sitting. It wasn't until I didn't get up to deliver the sermon that she realised her error. From that day, we've never exchanged more than a smile of recognition - perhaps recalling our first meeting - and the usual friendship of fellow worshippers ... until last weekend.
For some months now, I've been volunteering at a weekly drop-in at our local Salvation Army. As a result, I received an invitation to a concert and strawberry tea at their hall last Sunday, in support of their nationwide social work. I arrived in good time and was settling into my seat when Ann arrived with two friends whom I recognised from the church. By then the hall was getting full and they were scattered among the spare seats.
The concert included a visiting group of ladies, one of whom introduced them individually. One was said to come from my home town in Norfolk, where she was engaged to the bandmaster. Through social media, I was almost certain that my second cousin, whom I knew to belong to the band, held that post, and afterwards I approached this singer to enquire further. It turned out that I was correct in my assumption, and that the two of us are shortly to become related. Naturally, she was agog to know more and, in the crowd, we resolved to meet outside for a chat after we had gathered some food.
As I emerged into the garden, I was spotted by Ann who, in the way of these gatherings, recognised a fellow church-member and invited me to join her and her friends at one of the tables. When our plates were empty, she offered to get refills, since I was chatting to someone else at the table. After a while, my new-found cousin-to-be approached, saying, "I'm going to stick near you, there's lots I need to write down!" She also wanted a photograph, so we engaged the help of one of the local corps who had been filming the concert, who drew us into the shade and obliged us in this.
We chatted amiably about the many ways in which her fiance and I were linked, through relationship and also the fact that he would know my daughter but not me. And then out of the blue came Ann, again bearing food. She handed over a strawberry crumble saying, "there were only two left ... I thought you might like the last one!" I was so overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness of this caring octogenarian, whom I've had virtually nothing to do with in these twelve years, that I fear my reaction may have been less grateful than was due!
Unsurprisingly, when hearing a new voice, what I heard was the more expected, "Are you a visitor?" When I told her I was, she ushered me to a seat next to where she would be sitting. It wasn't until I didn't get up to deliver the sermon that she realised her error. From that day, we've never exchanged more than a smile of recognition - perhaps recalling our first meeting - and the usual friendship of fellow worshippers ... until last weekend.
For some months now, I've been volunteering at a weekly drop-in at our local Salvation Army. As a result, I received an invitation to a concert and strawberry tea at their hall last Sunday, in support of their nationwide social work. I arrived in good time and was settling into my seat when Ann arrived with two friends whom I recognised from the church. By then the hall was getting full and they were scattered among the spare seats.
The concert included a visiting group of ladies, one of whom introduced them individually. One was said to come from my home town in Norfolk, where she was engaged to the bandmaster. Through social media, I was almost certain that my second cousin, whom I knew to belong to the band, held that post, and afterwards I approached this singer to enquire further. It turned out that I was correct in my assumption, and that the two of us are shortly to become related. Naturally, she was agog to know more and, in the crowd, we resolved to meet outside for a chat after we had gathered some food.
 |
| with my cousin-to-be |
As I emerged into the garden, I was spotted by Ann who, in the way of these gatherings, recognised a fellow church-member and invited me to join her and her friends at one of the tables. When our plates were empty, she offered to get refills, since I was chatting to someone else at the table. After a while, my new-found cousin-to-be approached, saying, "I'm going to stick near you, there's lots I need to write down!" She also wanted a photograph, so we engaged the help of one of the local corps who had been filming the concert, who drew us into the shade and obliged us in this.
We chatted amiably about the many ways in which her fiance and I were linked, through relationship and also the fact that he would know my daughter but not me. And then out of the blue came Ann, again bearing food. She handed over a strawberry crumble saying, "there were only two left ... I thought you might like the last one!" I was so overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness of this caring octogenarian, whom I've had virtually nothing to do with in these twelve years, that I fear my reaction may have been less grateful than was due!
Sunday, 1 July 2018
A Special Post on the 102nd Anniversary
My great-uncle George, born in Suffolk, was discharged from the 27th Regiment in Enniskillen on 24th March 1876 and settled there. I've often wondered whether, as he grew up, my father was aware that he had Irish cousins; I certainly don't recall his ever mentioning them. George was some 16 years older than my grandfather, and had probably already left home when he was born.
One of those Irish cousins, George's tenth child and fourth son Henry, joined the 1st Battalion of the Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers (RIF). His brother Samuel (almost three years older) served in the 2nd Battalion; it's not clear whether they enlisted together because their service records were probably destroyed by fire during the Second World War. It seems unlikely, however, since Samuel died on 16th May 1915, and is commemorated on the Le Touret Memorial
In September 1914, as part of Kitchener's New Army, the 36th (Ulster) Division was formed by uniting three existing regiments, the Royal Irish Fusiliers, the Royal Irish Rifles and the RIF and supplementing their numbers with thirteen new battalions formed from the Ulster Volunteer Force. (The UVF had been set up in 1912/13 to oppose home rule for Ireland.)
The Division trained near the north Down coast, on the Clandeboye estate, part of the town of Bangor. In 1861 the then owner of the estate commissioned a tall folly, which he named Helen's Tower in memory of his mother. The distinctive shape of the tower, rising above the countryside would have been familiar to the soldiers, and for many would have been their last sight of their homeland as they left for England and, subsequently, the Western Front.
It had been considered that the men of the New Army were insufficiently trained and their battle tactics orders were more strict and regimented than those of the regulars. However, on July 1st 1916, the 36th Division disobeyed these orders and, during the heavy bombardment that took place before zero hour at 7.30, they advanced by pushing forward small trenches and cutting the barbed wire. Thus, when bugles sounded the Advance' and the other divisions formed up in waves for a walk across no man's land, the Ulstermen sprang forward and rushed the German front line.
Had they followed orders and attacked under creep bombardment - intelligence being so bad - they would have come under bombardment from 'friendly fire' at the German front line. Instead, the result was that they captured a long section of the enemy's front line. Theirs was the only division of their corps to gain its opening day objective, which they did "by a combination of sensible tactics and Ulster dash", as one historian has expressed it.
In the first two days, the division overall lost 5,500 officers and men, either killed, wounded or missing; in the whole five months and more of the Somme campaign, the Inniskillings suffered the loss of 296 dead. 233 of these died on that very costly opening day, including my cousin, Lance-Corporal Henry Evans.
Those who died on the Somme but have no known grave are commemorated at Thiepval. The site of the Schwaben redoubt, against which the Ulster Division advanced on the first day is marked by the Ulster Memorial Tower, an exact replica of Helen's Tower, near which they had trained.
One of those Irish cousins, George's tenth child and fourth son Henry, joined the 1st Battalion of the Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers (RIF). His brother Samuel (almost three years older) served in the 2nd Battalion; it's not clear whether they enlisted together because their service records were probably destroyed by fire during the Second World War. It seems unlikely, however, since Samuel died on 16th May 1915, and is commemorated on the Le Touret Memorial
In September 1914, as part of Kitchener's New Army, the 36th (Ulster) Division was formed by uniting three existing regiments, the Royal Irish Fusiliers, the Royal Irish Rifles and the RIF and supplementing their numbers with thirteen new battalions formed from the Ulster Volunteer Force. (The UVF had been set up in 1912/13 to oppose home rule for Ireland.)
The Division trained near the north Down coast, on the Clandeboye estate, part of the town of Bangor. In 1861 the then owner of the estate commissioned a tall folly, which he named Helen's Tower in memory of his mother. The distinctive shape of the tower, rising above the countryside would have been familiar to the soldiers, and for many would have been their last sight of their homeland as they left for England and, subsequently, the Western Front.
It had been considered that the men of the New Army were insufficiently trained and their battle tactics orders were more strict and regimented than those of the regulars. However, on July 1st 1916, the 36th Division disobeyed these orders and, during the heavy bombardment that took place before zero hour at 7.30, they advanced by pushing forward small trenches and cutting the barbed wire. Thus, when bugles sounded the Advance' and the other divisions formed up in waves for a walk across no man's land, the Ulstermen sprang forward and rushed the German front line.
Had they followed orders and attacked under creep bombardment - intelligence being so bad - they would have come under bombardment from 'friendly fire' at the German front line. Instead, the result was that they captured a long section of the enemy's front line. Theirs was the only division of their corps to gain its opening day objective, which they did "by a combination of sensible tactics and Ulster dash", as one historian has expressed it.
 |
| Ulster Memorial Tower |
Those who died on the Somme but have no known grave are commemorated at Thiepval. The site of the Schwaben redoubt, against which the Ulster Division advanced on the first day is marked by the Ulster Memorial Tower, an exact replica of Helen's Tower, near which they had trained.
(Much of the detail for this post and the picture, which is published under
Creative Commons Attribution Harm@frielink.net at the English language Wikipedia,
has been obtained from Wikipedia. Other sources include
the Commonwealth War Graves Commission website and personal research.)
Friday, 29 June 2018
The Marvels of Freecycle and our Magnificent NHS!
A few months ago, I announced the sad demise of my computer, and its replacement by a smaller and (hopefully) more capable one. So, at least, it has proved thus far. Meanwhile, its predecessor has lain gathering dust, propped uselessly against the wall. I had made approaches to a charity about it being taken for scrap, but there was the question of removing all my personal data from a machine that refused to start ... a question to which no answer has been found.
Last week's exercise of clearing the corner where it had been parked brought its fate to the fore once again. I decided that the only way to secure my data was to remove the hard disk which contained it. This I did, surprisingly without damaging the remainder of the apparatus, as I had feared. My first thought - of then taking the heartless cadaver to the local tip - was now put aside in favour of trying to help someone else, and I advertised it on Freecycle, fully explaining its shortcomings.
I had an amazing fourteen replies, some saying they wanted it for a relative if it could be resurrected, others longer and shorter, down to a simple 'yes please.' Allowing time for those who only see posts on a daily digest to respond, I chose one and e-mailed him, suggesting times when he could collect it. When these had elapsed without his knock on my door or a responding e-mail, I chose a second name from my list, phoned her to arrange an 'appointment', and waited, feeling more confident this time of its disposal. This was achieved earlier today.
The outcome of my second doctor's visit following my post-holiday infection was a second blood test, to confirm an anticipated change as a result of defeating the infection. A subsequent call from the surgery led to an appointment yesterday morning 'to discuss the results of the blood test'. In the meantime I had developed a cold that I had been unable to shake off. Gradually this got worse and by Tuesday night I was feverish. Shivering at bedtime is not to be expected when the temperature outside is in the mid-to-high twenties Centigrade!
I stuck it out until yesterday's appointment; the doctor I saw has his office upstairs and, by the time I arrived at his door I was gasping. He bade me sit down and asked 'how are you?' I almost fell onto the chair, and said, 'not good!' After going through all the usual checks, scrolling through notes of my recent visits and so on, he prescribed antibiotics to attack the chest infection and steroids to calm the asthma, made arrangements for a chest x-ray and further blood tests ... and for the practice nurse to put me on a nebuliser.
Now, I have seen one of these in action in the hospital but never personally experienced its effect. I entered the room a gasping wreck and emerged ten minutes later emerged, breathing freely, ready to march off for my medication. The doctor said it would 'open up the airwaves' and, by golly, it did!
The next step was to drive to the local hospital for the X-ray. This, too, was a new experience for me. I was gently urged into position against the machine by the warm fingertips of the nurse, told to hold my breath ... and it was done. A complete contrast was the following visit to pathology. Here I was politely told - with apologies - that there would be a wait of at least an hour-and-a-half. Had I realised that this would be the case, I would have gone there first and had the X-ray during my wait. I got a drink and sat nearby reading a story on the Kindle app on my phone. What a blessing that phone has been!
After the hour-and-a-half, I returned and was eventually called after another forty minutes. I was welcomed by a nurse with a broad smile and, during her most efficient conduct of the routine process, was amused by - and drawn into - affectionate banter between her and her colleague. With pressure like that, it was a tonic both for them and for me, and good that it was possible!
Now feeling much better, but definitely still with a long way to go, I can join in our church's monthly day of prayer, although not fasting this time owing to the needs of the medication.
Last week's exercise of clearing the corner where it had been parked brought its fate to the fore once again. I decided that the only way to secure my data was to remove the hard disk which contained it. This I did, surprisingly without damaging the remainder of the apparatus, as I had feared. My first thought - of then taking the heartless cadaver to the local tip - was now put aside in favour of trying to help someone else, and I advertised it on Freecycle, fully explaining its shortcomings.
I had an amazing fourteen replies, some saying they wanted it for a relative if it could be resurrected, others longer and shorter, down to a simple 'yes please.' Allowing time for those who only see posts on a daily digest to respond, I chose one and e-mailed him, suggesting times when he could collect it. When these had elapsed without his knock on my door or a responding e-mail, I chose a second name from my list, phoned her to arrange an 'appointment', and waited, feeling more confident this time of its disposal. This was achieved earlier today.
The outcome of my second doctor's visit following my post-holiday infection was a second blood test, to confirm an anticipated change as a result of defeating the infection. A subsequent call from the surgery led to an appointment yesterday morning 'to discuss the results of the blood test'. In the meantime I had developed a cold that I had been unable to shake off. Gradually this got worse and by Tuesday night I was feverish. Shivering at bedtime is not to be expected when the temperature outside is in the mid-to-high twenties Centigrade!
I stuck it out until yesterday's appointment; the doctor I saw has his office upstairs and, by the time I arrived at his door I was gasping. He bade me sit down and asked 'how are you?' I almost fell onto the chair, and said, 'not good!' After going through all the usual checks, scrolling through notes of my recent visits and so on, he prescribed antibiotics to attack the chest infection and steroids to calm the asthma, made arrangements for a chest x-ray and further blood tests ... and for the practice nurse to put me on a nebuliser.
Now, I have seen one of these in action in the hospital but never personally experienced its effect. I entered the room a gasping wreck and emerged ten minutes later emerged, breathing freely, ready to march off for my medication. The doctor said it would 'open up the airwaves' and, by golly, it did!
The next step was to drive to the local hospital for the X-ray. This, too, was a new experience for me. I was gently urged into position against the machine by the warm fingertips of the nurse, told to hold my breath ... and it was done. A complete contrast was the following visit to pathology. Here I was politely told - with apologies - that there would be a wait of at least an hour-and-a-half. Had I realised that this would be the case, I would have gone there first and had the X-ray during my wait. I got a drink and sat nearby reading a story on the Kindle app on my phone. What a blessing that phone has been!
After the hour-and-a-half, I returned and was eventually called after another forty minutes. I was welcomed by a nurse with a broad smile and, during her most efficient conduct of the routine process, was amused by - and drawn into - affectionate banter between her and her colleague. With pressure like that, it was a tonic both for them and for me, and good that it was possible!
Now feeling much better, but definitely still with a long way to go, I can join in our church's monthly day of prayer, although not fasting this time owing to the needs of the medication.
Friday, 22 June 2018
The Virgin Cometh
"'Twas on a Tuesday morning, the engineer came round; he searched in ev'ry corner, and look at what he found!" I have to begin this post with an apology to Michael Flanders (1922-1975) for that awful parody.
It all began a couple of weeks ago. For quite a while, I'd been pestered by nuisance calls from legitimate businesses, trying to sell life assurance, funeral cover, or PPI claims, or else doing market research. It got to the point where these had reached 20 in five days, and I resorted to the Telephone Preference Service. This can take up to a month to permeate all the systems that respond to it, so I was disappointed, but not surprised, to receive what appeared to be yet another of these.
I was about to hang up on this polite young lady, when she said she was calling from Virgin Media. Now, over the years, I've received countless large white envelopes from Virgin, containing all sorts of offers and inducements to persuade me to subscribe to their services. That's just the ones I'd opened. I got into the habit of seeing the name, and putting them into recycling unopened. I had associated Virgin with television. Having not had a television set myself for many years, and not wishing to depart from my happy telly-free life-style, I had seen no point in exploring their services.
However, this was the first time that I had actually been phoned by Virgin! This novelty, coupled by the sweetness of Sabrina's voice, persuaded me to listen. I explained my absence of need for television, and my objection to paying for services I would never use, and was offered a bespoke package of what I do need at a price which will save me £250 a year compared to what I have been paying BT! What's not to like? Following all the appropriate caveats, I signed up that very day.
Thus it was that, at about 10.0 on Tuesday morning, the Virgin engineer arrived. I had not be told specifically what the installation entailed, only that according to their records, the Virgin fibre-optic service had already been provided to the block of flats where I live. As soon as he entered the lounge, he began looking around the walls and spotted in the corner, where it had been hidden behind a bookcase ever since I'd moved in, a plastic box of what I had concluded all those years ago to be 'television gubbins', and therefore not required.
His fumbling investigation told him that its contents were now out of date and that, to replace them, he would need the bookcase to be moved. While he went to his van to get his tools, I set to work to unload well over 100 books and shift the double bookcase out of his way. Once the wi-fi hub had been installed and tested, I began to replace the bookcase. Behind my back, he was peering behind another bookcase ... the Virgin telephone point there had completely escaped my memory, but now it suddenly assumed an unexpected importance. Although I never use my landline, this had to be made live to complete the installation process. Thus several more metres of shelf-space had to be cleared and shifted!
By 10.45, the engineer had completed his work and departed, leaving my lounge in chaos. It was a good opportunity for a clean-up, though. At 12.15, with the books replaced, several large cobwebs hoovered up, and order restored, I was inspired to further clearing operations after lunch, and a number of unwanted items are now queuing up for disposal. I found lurking behind some of the books, a solo book-end in the form of a metal cockerel. His mate had fallen awkwardly some years since, and lost its base.
I realised the potential for this redundant rooster to have a new career as a doorstop - or simply an ornament - in someone else's home, so offered it on Freecycle. I was amazed at the level of response it generated. At the same time, I had spotted the offer of a USB keyboard which would enable me to do certain tasks that my new laptop can't manage and, within a few hours the other day, a profitable 'exchange' was effected, as first the bird was collected and then I drove a few miles across town to pick up the keyboard.
Like all clouds, the chaos of Tuesday quickly showed its silver lining!
It all began a couple of weeks ago. For quite a while, I'd been pestered by nuisance calls from legitimate businesses, trying to sell life assurance, funeral cover, or PPI claims, or else doing market research. It got to the point where these had reached 20 in five days, and I resorted to the Telephone Preference Service. This can take up to a month to permeate all the systems that respond to it, so I was disappointed, but not surprised, to receive what appeared to be yet another of these.
I was about to hang up on this polite young lady, when she said she was calling from Virgin Media. Now, over the years, I've received countless large white envelopes from Virgin, containing all sorts of offers and inducements to persuade me to subscribe to their services. That's just the ones I'd opened. I got into the habit of seeing the name, and putting them into recycling unopened. I had associated Virgin with television. Having not had a television set myself for many years, and not wishing to depart from my happy telly-free life-style, I had seen no point in exploring their services.
However, this was the first time that I had actually been phoned by Virgin! This novelty, coupled by the sweetness of Sabrina's voice, persuaded me to listen. I explained my absence of need for television, and my objection to paying for services I would never use, and was offered a bespoke package of what I do need at a price which will save me £250 a year compared to what I have been paying BT! What's not to like? Following all the appropriate caveats, I signed up that very day.
Thus it was that, at about 10.0 on Tuesday morning, the Virgin engineer arrived. I had not be told specifically what the installation entailed, only that according to their records, the Virgin fibre-optic service had already been provided to the block of flats where I live. As soon as he entered the lounge, he began looking around the walls and spotted in the corner, where it had been hidden behind a bookcase ever since I'd moved in, a plastic box of what I had concluded all those years ago to be 'television gubbins', and therefore not required.
His fumbling investigation told him that its contents were now out of date and that, to replace them, he would need the bookcase to be moved. While he went to his van to get his tools, I set to work to unload well over 100 books and shift the double bookcase out of his way. Once the wi-fi hub had been installed and tested, I began to replace the bookcase. Behind my back, he was peering behind another bookcase ... the Virgin telephone point there had completely escaped my memory, but now it suddenly assumed an unexpected importance. Although I never use my landline, this had to be made live to complete the installation process. Thus several more metres of shelf-space had to be cleared and shifted!
By 10.45, the engineer had completed his work and departed, leaving my lounge in chaos. It was a good opportunity for a clean-up, though. At 12.15, with the books replaced, several large cobwebs hoovered up, and order restored, I was inspired to further clearing operations after lunch, and a number of unwanted items are now queuing up for disposal. I found lurking behind some of the books, a solo book-end in the form of a metal cockerel. His mate had fallen awkwardly some years since, and lost its base.
I realised the potential for this redundant rooster to have a new career as a doorstop - or simply an ornament - in someone else's home, so offered it on Freecycle. I was amazed at the level of response it generated. At the same time, I had spotted the offer of a USB keyboard which would enable me to do certain tasks that my new laptop can't manage and, within a few hours the other day, a profitable 'exchange' was effected, as first the bird was collected and then I drove a few miles across town to pick up the keyboard.
Like all clouds, the chaos of Tuesday quickly showed its silver lining!
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