Keep the Home Fires Burning

There can be few who are not aware of this song, so evocative of the First World War.  While we may not know the verses, like many songs of the age, we've probably heard at least part of the chorus.  It gives voice to the emotion of the families left at home while their menfolk were at the front, as it ends, "Turn the dark cloud inside out, till the boys come home."  How true were these words by Lena Guilbert Ford, set to music by Ivor Novello, for whom they were his first musical success?

For many returning it was a change of scenery, and a relief from constant shelling and danger, but it was a difficult rather than warming and welcoming home-coming.  One veteran of the conflict told of his first night at home for four years, "My mother came to wake me up in the morning and found me sleeping on the floor."  After so long a real bed with proper sheets felt so strange.  

Few, we're told, spoke about their experiences of the war.  Not only was this because of the inherent horror of the memories, but - as many found when they were home on leave - life in the safe and rosy countryside of England was so different from what had become normal for them, that there was no point where the two worlds could touch to form a basis for meaningful conversation.  I believe the same was true of the Second World War.  Of my closest relatives who served, only one survived, and he said very little about it, if anything.  

To those who weren't directly involved in these conflicts, the horrors of war were irrelevant.  To many, especially if they were fortunate enough not to have lost loved ones, the wars' greatest significance was as a measure of time.  I grew up in a home where the expression 'before the war' was common.  There was no need to specify which war.  If a period somewhat earlier was being referred to, the words were simply extended to, 'before the first war'.  Even today, it's common to refer to certain houses as 'built between the wars'.

The centenary of the First World War has, for me, brought that earlier conflict into sharper focus, and I've learned a lot about it that I hadn't known before ... having been schooled in the age when 'history ended in 1914'.  One thing I've realised about these conflicts is that both were truly 'worldwide wars'; scarcely a single country in the world was untouched by them in one way or another.

Now, we find ourselves in another war, that against Covid-19.  Like those other wars this, too, is a worldwide conflict, but sadly the nations are not co-operating as with a tangible enemy, and the richer nations seem reluctant to share their resources with others less fortunate.  

As in those 'real' wars, many people are 'on the home front'.  They find their daily lives are restricted by anti-covid measures, but they don't actually come into contact with the conflict.  They are - since I'm one, I should say 'we are' - just getting on with our own lives as best we can, and leaving the fighting to the 'soldiers' of the NHS.  There is a disconnect of real understanding that results from that lack of direct involvement.

The sentiment behind that song with which I began this post was 'when it's all over, when the boys come home, we can go back to how things used to be.'  Only it wasn't.  It wasn't 'over by Christmas', as some had hoped, or believed, it would be.  The 'homes for heroes' didn't materialise, at least not the way people expected: there was too much anxiety about finding a job, getting what war pension they could, and pretty soon there was economic depression.  

The same was true in the late 'forties.  Some would have liked the pleasant life of the 'thirties to return, but the world, technology and social climes had moved on in six years.  Genies were out of  bottles and weren't going back.  

And I wonder whether we shall ever again see 'pre-Covid' days?  So much of our world has changed since the end of 2019.  How long will it be before - indeed, it's already here - we're saying, as a measure of time, "before Covid ..."?

Domestic Development Aids Altruism ... and More Besides!

Yesterday, I was invited to "Consider the most important thing you have done this week" along with the suggestion that I should examine my motives for doing it.  Now, I confess, I probably don't reflect on my motives as much as I should.  But there was something about this challenge that alerted me ... stimulated my moral compass, if you like.  Not only did I consider my motives, but also what I had learned from the experience.

Probably the most important thing I did this week - until writing this blog, of course - was on Monday morning, when I drove to the suburbs of a nearby city to collect something that had been offered free on line.  I had taken a quick look at the map before leaving and decided that my destination was on a modern estate, having many residential avenues strung between principal roads that stem from a central roundabout.  Perhaps, in the overall scheme of things, this analysis was not far from reality.  However, my definition of modern differs somewhat from what I found, which was narrow roads between hedged gardens at the front of post-war houses such as the one in which I had grown up sixty-odd years ago.

So, the first thing I learned was not to be swayed by my interpretation of the map.  The next quickly followed when the volte-face of my opinion was tempered by what I found beyond the hedge of no. 25.  It was a well-established family home with a garden just on the wilder side of neat, and the story that I was told as the householder helped me load a dismantled desk into my car gave me the impression that children of teenage or a little bit more were on the brink of leaving the nest: 'It isn't used any more and my daughters just dump stuff on it.'

My reflective thoughts turned from the where to the what and the why.  In my new home is a second bedroom which - since I only need one for the conventional purpose - has so far not found a name, owing to a lack of definition of its purpose, beyond that of 'more space'.  In the last few months it has been a store room, a partial library, an office annexe, and a workshop, besides being a suitable place to do the ironing.  One thing it had thus far been lacking was the very thing that was described to me, viz. 'something to dump stuff on'.

There is a cabinet in the corner but, being in the corner it's a bit dark, and being a cabinet, it's awkward to sit at.  During the room's brief workshop phase, I used the ironing board, for want of something better, as a surface on which to cut wood.  Many years ago I acquired possession of a collection of microfiche copies of parish registers, followed quickly by a fiche reader; after negotiations with the family history society, last weekend saw the publication of my offer to do look-ups in them.  

While these enquiries may indeed be few, with many resources now being available on line, I need somewhere accessible to fulfil them comfortably.  Monday afternoon, therefore, was spent happily converting a car-load of 'jig-saw pieces' into a useful and mobile surface upon which not only microfiche research, but a whole variety of other 'incidental happenings' can take place.  

At the end of the exercise, I was able to send this picture to the former owner with the comment, 'no pieces missing, and no pieces left over'.  She was pleased to respond that it was good to see it had 'found a new home'.

So far my offer has enjoyed four take-ups: two successful and two not.  If anyone reading this would like to make enquiries about which 56 parishes this collection covers out of the hundreds there are in Suffolk, and whether or not their ancestor is referred to there, then please be my guest.  Requests can be made by comment below.

A Roof Over My Head

A few things this week have brought home to me the extent of my new role as a householder in contrast to the previous one as a 'flat-dweller'.  Formerly, my responsibilities ended at the flat door.  There was no garden to look after; the grass surrounding the block was cut regularly, even the hall outside the door was cleaned weekly by contractors engaged by the management.  Now, my responsibilities extend to the pavement at the front, and to the gate at the end of the garden path ...  in fact, just beyond that, since I have to wheel my bin outside the gate for emptying once a week.

The fact that both are rented properties means that some things are, of course, common.  Maintenance is a prime example.  Last year, when new regulations were introduced concerning electrical fittings, compliance with these was all handled by the agent and all I had to do was admit the electrician on the appointed day.  When I moved in here, certain aspects of the house were obviously sub-optimal [I've been longing to use that word ever since I heard it ... now I have, and got it out of my system, I'll probably never think of it again!] and it took little persuasion for the agent to arrange for them to be fixed.

It's a personal trait that I hate asking people to do things for me.  Take, for example the door that would only shut if upward pressure were applied to the handle.  I had tried tightening the screws in the hinge, but this made little difference.  However, I discovered that one of the three screws didn't actually 'bite', so it was completely useless.  When I withdrew it, however, I realised that it was at an upward angle.  This week, it was the work of only a few minutes to bring a stool to the place, pilot a new hole at the opposite angle and fix a new screw in place.  The door now shuts perfectly. 

Asking other people, though, has become easier, especially when it's for something that is obviously beyond my ability.  Soon after I arrived here, I went upstairs one rainy afternoon and discovered water running down the landing wall.  An instant call to the agent brought forth a roofing contractor to assess the problem.  A few days later he returned with ladders and a colleague and they made some repairs.

The other week, however, after a spell of particularly heavy and persistent rain, I noticed the same phenomenon.  Once more, the roofers came, and examined the problem, not only from the outside, but also, by peering into the loft, they were able to see daylight where rainwater was able to get in.  It was decided that, given the amount of repairs that could be seen up there already, a more serious attack was called for and, as I write this today, scaffolding has appeared outside the door in readiness for this work to be carried out.

In the overall scale of things, these practical matters are relatively minor and, however inconvenient, can fairly easily be put right.  I was listening to a radio programme the other day which told of a businessman who had taken action to help some refugees in his town.  He had obtained a large warehouse in which he had erected some glamping units producing, in effect, the temporary equivalent of a block of flats, into which 24 refugee families were now able to establish themselves, each in their own separate household and, as he emphasised, with their own front door.

Many have agonised over the plight of refugees, and we've been glad that, as a nation, we have accommodated some - albeit pitifully few - of these unfortunates in our communities, but it doesn't end there.  What this man had realised - and I suspect few others had done so - was that many refugees are caught in a vicious economic circle.  Upon arrival, they have been provided with temporary accommodation but are unable to progress beyond this stage.  Many want to, and are able to work to support their families, but can't get work because when a potential employer sees their address and realises their situation he is unwilling to take them on.  Without work and the income that it brings, they are unable to move out and find that permanent address that would make getting work easier.

What is important, as this businessman pointed out, is having their own front door, having an address that is unique to them and gives a potential employer confidence to give them work.  It also enhances their self-esteem, taking them beyond the feeling of a piece of property that has grudgingly been given storage space.

I have no idea of your circumstances, dear reader.  Maybe like me, you are limited in resources and abilities, but maybe you are able to go beyond mere sympathy.  Is there something that you could do to help restore the self esteem of someone who, like me, is reluctant to ask for favours?

The Past, the Present and Whatever Comes Next

Just before sitting down to write this blog on Friday evening, I stood outside for a few minutes - suitably protected against the cold - and took in the atmosphere.  There were at least three bonfires going on in the adjacent streets.  One was merely glowing above the rooftops, while two others were regularly accompanied by the flashes and bangs of fireworks and occasional brightly coloured displays in the night sky.  Who knows whether this might be the last time I can absorb first-hand these doings, what new regulations might be introduced, what financial constraints the nearby families might suffer, between now and a year hence?  Or, indeed, will I be in a fit state to perform such an act of witness?  

The backdrop for this moment of observation was the small cluster of back-to-back houses constructed around the turn of the twentieth century to house those involved in the developing coal mining industry of the Dearne valley, where I now reside.  In daylight these backways display a rich variety of material and colour, but at night the street lights pick out little more than the pointed façades of gable ends, each adorned by the twin black rectangles of bedroom windows.

It was the night to celebrate, if that's the right word, a treasonous attempt to blow up king and parliament some 416 years ago.  Fortunately the preparations were detected the previous night, the constitution preserved and the malefactors duly rounded up and executed in the most horrific manner that was, in those days, considered appropriate for their crimes.

This occasion is as much an annual part of our national culture today as it was when enshrined in law until 1859.  This year, however, it carries an additional significance, for its calendar appointment coincides with the COP26 event in Glasgow and, while the contribution of one night's national firework celebration to global warming will be minuscule, nevertheless there will be some effect, as there is from every incidence of consumption of fossil fuels.

But for me, standing by my back door just now, there is another historic link to COP26, as I've already mentioned.   The purpose that the town was expanded in this direction a century or so ago was coal.  While the occupier of this particular house in 1939 was a shop assistant, many of his neighbours were miners and I have no doubt that miners would have lived here, too, either earlier or later: possibly both.

So much for the general, the macro-connections.  What about the personal, the micro-involvement in this climate crisis.  Certainly, I can do nothing about the past.  If I had avoided moving here on the basis of the original purpose for building the house, but had instead gone somewhere else, it wouldn't make one jot of difference to the present situation.  Nor can any regrets about coal fires that kept me warm in past years.

I don't intend holding my own personal conference, either.  There would be little point - even if I had the resources of knowledge and information - in taking days, perhaps weeks, to examine every aspect of my daily life, analysing it in fine detail to compile a revised way of life to step into and abandon all I'm doing at present.  Many of the changes that such an examination might come up with will only be possible at some time in the future, and depend on local or national changes that won't happen for many years, while most of my life wouldn't change at all.

All I can do, I believe, is to be aware of what is implied in each step of my life that I can change.  When I realise that there is a greener option to something I'm doing or buying, I shall endeavour to make a change.  Meanwhile, my philosophy reflects whoever it was who said, "Worry is like a rocking chair - it gives your body something do to, but doesn't get you anywhere."

When the Doctor Calls

What do you call your rooms?  Names can vary according to use, and perhaps according to a former purpose that is no longer their use.  Take my present home, for example.  We found on line pictures from when it was sold a few years ago, when the room at the front was called the dining room, although it was farthest from the kitchen.  Many years ago my neighbour showed me her flat and I was surprised that, compared to mine, her use of the two rooms was reversed, so she had a large bedroom and a small lounge, while I had a large living area and slept in the smaller room.

A small cottage might have a parlour, a room in which to 'parley' or chat.  In large houses, of a size that I would only see as a tourist, there would almost certainly be a dining room and a drawing room, the latter not for artistic purposes but, as its former name suggests, one to which the ladies would 'withdraw' after a formal dinner, leaving the gentlemen to their own devices at the dining table.  And probably some at least of the bedrooms would have a dressing room next door.

The list of examples of such names is endless.  In my flat one room used to double up as dining room and lounge while, at the same time, one corner was my library and another provided my 'office' space.  Compared to those pictures I referred to, the room nearest the kitchen is now my dining room, although my flat-dwelling times are preserved in that one corner next to the window houses my desk and is therefore my 'office'.

After several house-moves when she was young, my mother lived from the age of eleven in a quite spacious town house that had formerly been two separate cottages, for it had two front doors opening on to the street, one in use, the other permanently closed.  Consequently there were two separate rooms into which those front doors would have opened.  In my early childhood I used to visit my grandparents there, and I quickly learned that one of these, the living room, was where all aspects of life took place, while the other was only used on special occasions and was known as 'the front room' ... despite it not being the only one to which that expression could literally apply.

It will be no surprise, therefore, when I tell you that the council house into which I was born, though it had two of what estate agents would call 'reception rooms', was organised in much the same way.  The larger of these, with windows to front and back, was the living room - sometimes described simply as 'the room', as opposed to 'the kitchen' - while the smaller one took on the 'very occasional use' role and was known as the 'sitting room'.  We were also privileged to have both front and back doors.  We always used the back door, never the front; visitors who knocked there were interrogated through an opened living room window.

And by now you are wondering how all this relates to my title ... patience, please, dear reader: I'm getting to that.  In my new home I have much more space than I did in the flat.  As a result, while most of my living is done in the dining room, the room at the front of the house (notice I don't call it 'the front room') is set aside, in a way following my mother's example, although not intentionally so.  But that's where the similarity ends.  I've adopted a fairly strict rule that the things I generally think of as 'work' end between six and seven o'clock, after which time I retreat to the lounge - that's the name I give it - where I read or watch videos or DVDs and generally chill out until bedtime.

Up to now, however, there had been one drawback to this comfortable ending of the day.  The cosiness of the lounge was undermined in that the door separating it from the dining room wouldn't shut.  The result, initially just visual but, as the autumn draws on, increasingly physical too, is quite chilling.  Yesterday morning a carpenter came to resolve this problem.  His visit was scheduled for 9.30 and at about 9.15, I deliberately unlocked the front door so that it should be ready for his arrival and thereafter wouldn't start anything least I should miss his knock.

Albeit a little late, the carpenter duly arrived, looked the offending door up and down and instantly decided what was needed.  Within the space of twenty minutes or so, he had removed the door, carried it out to his van, where he sliced a little off the bottom, trimmed some wood from where one of the hinges had been fitted, and replaced the door, which now functions perfectly.  He also noticed that the trims on the door handle were loose, so he applied some glue to fix them.  "Just leave them an hour or so and they'll be fine," he said ... and was off.

As I muttered to myself, "Now he's been, I can get on," I realised how closely his visit had resembled that of a doctor of sixty years ago.  My mother would unlock the front door to be ready for him and be quite ill at ease until he had been.  He would bustle in, black bag in hand, take a look at the patient, hear the narrative of symptoms, make a decision, leave a prescription and say, "take this three times a day until it's all gone, and he should be better by the end of the week."  And as she locked the front door behind him, those same words that I had used this morning would accompany her relief that his visit was over.  

Job done, on with the motley!

Trying to Help, and Wondering Later

Nine years ago - while I was still dashing about the country to earn a living as a same-day courier - I had just embarked in my 'spare' time on a project that took almost a year to complete.  One of the most significant false trails I'd followed in my family history researches derived from the fact that there were several families in the small Suffolk town of Stanton all bearing the same name. By the mid-nineteenth century they had become very distinct from one another and distant from what had probably been a common origin centuries earlier.

I decided that it would clarify things in my own mind, and possibly help others following the same name, to attempt a sort of 'one name study' of all the Sturgeons in Stanton during the 19th century.  By the following summer, I'd compiled a massive spreadsheet, and offered it via the internet to any who thought it might be useful.  I had about a dozen expressions of interest, and there the matter lay, done and dusted ...

... Until this week, that is.  I had an e-mail from a lady in Australia who has become confused by finding a number of family trees on a well-known website that purport to represent some of her ancestors, but with significant differences from her own understanding of her forbears.  She has had correspondence with the owners of some of these trees, who are adamant that 'she has got it wrong'.  Since some of her researches were based on the results of my project, she has come back to me for re-assurance that her version of the story is the right one, and that it is these other tree-owners who are mistaken.

This puts me in something of a dilemma.  My distribution of the results of my project was accompanied by the usual disclaimer that "while I have checked this data and believe it to be accurate, I can take no responsibility for any residual errors and it is for the user to check the details therein against their own research and with original sources where possible, before adding anyone in it to their own tree."  Although probably about 90% of the details included were not part of my own tree, I would hate to have misled anyone with it.  So I'm now wondering what errors I might have made.

If you've tried digging back through reams of correspondence and tried to follow lines of thought and research that many years' hectic living have forced into the farthest reaches of your memory, you'll have some idea how I feel as a new weekend dawns.  On one hand I'm fortunate that I don't have to take work into consideration now, as I did back then.  On the other hand, my 'normal' week is taken up with the many things that have filled my retirement, and these are not easily laid aside in order to do the necessary checking and re-checking.

At a personal level, I would like the satisfaction of saying, 'I know I'm right because of this, this and this.' and, although it won't further my own research, that end-result will motivate me in this un-sought task.  However, my enthusiasm is blended with the resentment that is echoed by one of the early sentences of my correspondent's e-mail: "I just wish people would check their facts properly before they put them on line!" and also the fear that the same condemnation could apply to me!

Switching Off and Switching On ... Tentacled Travelling!

Energy prices are set to go through the roof ... or so we're told.  It used to be said that the best way to ensure you're paying least for your gas and electricity was to switch suppliers.  I heard on the radio last week that this advice is now redundant; it's apparently best to stay put and stick it out.  Financial Health Warning: Please don't act on this 'reported' advice! 

I switched in about 2017 ... long enough ago not to remember which supplier I moved from.  Since then I had been a happy customer of Octopus.  When matters were finally settled for my move this summer, I called Octopus to arrange for them to provide me at my new home.  Sadly, when I explained that the house was fitted with a pay-as-you-go meter, they told me that their system couldn't cope with this.  I learned that the only thing I had to do was to change my account to payment by direct debit and then they would be able to pick up my supply.

The day after I signed the lease, I visited the house to deliver some advance possessions, measure the rooms for my furniture plan and check for curtain requirements ... and while there, I read the meters.  I had discovered that the fridge was running and I was anxious that the supply wouldn't be cut off if I didn't make a payment for electricity.  This would be using a system involving some kind of 'key' like a credit card that was completely foreign to me, and while I was still some distance away since the removal company wouldn't be able to fit me in for a couple of weeks.

During the next few days I made several efforts to contact British Gas to arrange the 'mode change'.  The only phone numbers I could find led to automated systems and the nearest I ever came to speaking to an actual person was an online chat facility.  Eventually, a whole week after reading the meters, I was finally satisfied that there was a functioning account, in my name, to supply electricity and gas under terms I thought I could understand.  Note my use of the word 'thought' there.

I began to make monthly payments by direct debit.  Slowly, it dawned on me that I had not one, but two separate accounts, one for each energy type.  The monthly payment was for electricity only and, despite a letter saying they would send a monthly statement, nothing arrived.  The account for gas would be paid by a separate, variable direct debit, against a monthly bill.  I received one such bill on 14th August, some 54 days after supply began, and payment was duly extracted from my bank a fortnight later.  Monthly bill? I don't think so.  Meanwhile I had still heard nothing at all about the electricity. 

If you're confused having read this far all at one go, imagine how I felt living through it day by uncertain and puzzling day!  In the early days of September, I received an e-mail from British Gas (no name, no location - just 'British Gas'), announcing that their prices would be increasing from a date in October.  I decided enough was enough.  It was time for me to fulfil my promise to return to Octopus.  I made the phone call, speaking directly to a human voice at the other end.  Certainly I could switch.  I followed up with an e-mail quoting my new address, the British Gas account numbers and that was it.  They would transfer my bank details from my now closed account, and the whole process would be done in about three weeks.  I marked my diary 'O-Day' with a smiley face and on that day I read the meters and sent them to Octopus.

The only things left to resolve were payments to and from British Gas.  I had an e-mailed bill for gas, which was paid by direct debit this week, a couple of weeks after the bill, as before.  I had a letter - again with no name, or sending address - regarding the electricity account, announcing 'We've now cancelled your direct debit'.  This was not strictly true: I had cancelled it as soon as I had a switch date from Octopus.  The letter suggested I could pay with a credit card either on line or by phone, or I could send a cheque to their payment centre.  This was the only address in the letter. 

I made unsuccessful attempts to obtain account details by phone and on line (both said there were no charges and a zero balance on my account, although the letter had said that my account was in credit by slightly more than the total of my three monthly payments).  I wrote a letter to them, pointing out that these two sources both disagreed with the figure on their letter, and asking them to deduct from the credit balance the charge for electricity in the last three months and "return the balance to my bank account within fourteen days."

I made no comment suggesting what action I might take if those fourteen days should pass with no result.  In truth I had no plan, but I felt that the 'legal-sounding' expression would add gravitas and might produce the right result.  Within three days I had an e-mail enclosing a proper statement and specifying the resulting balance that would be transferred to my account.  It arrived on Thursday of this week, before the fourteen days had elapsed.

After four years, I know I can trust Octopus to provide regular details of my account.  If I'm paying too much or too little, I can adjust my regular payment by sending them an e-mail.  I send them meter readings and within hours I get a statement based on the readings I've sent.  Nothing could be simpler.  Soon after the switch date, I received notice that my old direct debit would be reinstated, and earlier this week I was asked for meter readings.  These I supplied by return e-mail and the resulting statement shows that my single payment has been offset by the total of electricity and gas used since the switchover.

And am I better off from switching?  I have now had a chance to compare prices, too.  The charges per unit are lower than British Gas, even if only slightly - down by 0.08% for electricity and 0.61% for gas.  The standing charges, however, are much lower - gas down by 10.34% and electricity by a whopping 39.71%  The financial benefit may be small, but mentally, I'm much happier, knowing that I can monitor my costs regularly and reliably and that any query can be resolved by e-mail to and fro with a single definite operator.

I'm a happy bunny, dealing with eight super-efficient tentacles!