tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77679180864200703122024-03-13T16:56:13.373+00:00timbobigMy personal diary of things that interest me, for those who know me, or would like to.Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201835677426254567noreply@blogger.comBlogger901125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7767918086420070312.post-50143094034266541292021-09-20T12:47:00.001+01:002021-09-20T12:47:17.479+01:00The music was always in Tim's head<p> This is Zoe, Tim's wife.</p><p>Tim's last few posts are quite poignant now. Only two posts this year - "Due to circumstances beyond my control, the whole of 2020 has been cancelled" and in June, one about still being a musician.</p><p>He was upset last November, when his friend and member of their 60s band, Dave Anthony's Moods, died, which meant that there were only two of them left out of the original eight. They hadn't met for a long time but Tim never forgot or stopped caring about a friend. As music was in his head, so was friendship. When he met someone after years, they just picked up again as if it had been last week.</p><p>Tim died a fortnight ago. He said that no one but me and his brother ever read this blog regularly any more, so I don't know if anyone else will come upon this, but blogs sometimes just cease with no explanation, which would be a pity.</p><p>He and I met online through our blogs about ten years ago, at a time when blogging communities were vibrant, friendly places. My first husband and I threw a party for blog friends and so many people came and enjoyed it that it became an annual event. Tim and I hadn't found each other's blogs then, but we did within the next few months and he turned up the next year. He invited several of us to his 70th birthday party, six weeks later and I went. My husband Russell couldn't make it, but I fitted it in round a visit to my sister.</p><p>Every year afterwards, Tim had something else on and couldn't make it. But I did call in once on my way to Wiltshire and he gave me lunch. His superb leek quiche with wholemeal pastry, which I insisted he make for every subsequent party. </p><p>In 2014, my husband died and it was towards the end of the next year that I called on Tim again (salad Nicoise for lunch and I apologise. I'm writing this on Tim's pc and I only know how to do a cedilla on my Mac - and my own diaeresis, come to that, so just imagine it's there). I had no idea of starting a relationship. I absolutely didn't want to, I was rebuilding a life of my own. But, Tim...I called again and that was it (lamb shanks). Already good friends, little as we'd ever communicated with each other, we just felt we fitted together. We were both old enough to feel there wasn't time to waste on being cautious and we married in September 2016. Our fifth wedding anniversary is on Friday, but he isn't here to celebrate it with me.</p><p>To quote the late, great John Ebdon, if you have been, thanks for listening.</p><p><br /></p>Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201835677426254567noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7767918086420070312.post-18917111599683859292021-06-07T22:01:00.001+01:002021-06-07T22:01:55.513+01:00I think I'm still a musician<div style="text-align: left;"> Because I needed to remember a particular tune, I went and found the guitar. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It's been played maybe a few dozen times over the last few years, but hardly at all over the last few months, so I was pleased that I could remember where the notes were. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">That was when I remembered that the music is in my head, not my fingers or even my voice.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201835677426254567noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7767918086420070312.post-64694597245232489342021-01-03T22:04:00.000+00:002021-01-03T22:04:43.610+00:00Christmas Card Audit 2020<p> Due to circumstances beyond my control, the whole of 2020 has been cancelled.</p><p><br /></p>Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201835677426254567noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7767918086420070312.post-80425141318456176602020-11-27T22:16:00.000+00:002020-11-27T22:18:41.171+00:00And Now There Are Two<p>I first met Bill in 1964, by accident. Bob and I had cruised into this club
somewhere in Boscombe, met a bunch of musicians and (to cut it short) picked up
Bill and formed the group that we named the Trackmarks. Me, Bob and Bill were the core of that group.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>When we decided to split out, we gradually formed the core of
Dave Anthony’s Moods, recruiting others as we went along.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Bill was a great bass player. All the way through our musical relationship,
he was there behind everyone else’s madcap flights, holding down the
foundation. We probably didn’t
appreciate that enough. Andy once told
me that he’d gone on to make great keyboard music of his own; I’m sorry that I
never heard that.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>He was very funny, and loved a Spoonerism. (Or Snooperism, as he called them.) I can’t remember any of his jokes, which is
probably just as well, because the best jokes vanish from their moment.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Some years ago my phone rang, and it was Bill. We chatted a bit. He said “your voice sounds different.” I’m sure he was right. So did his.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201835677426254567noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7767918086420070312.post-8342319528241306852020-10-05T22:13:00.008+01:002020-10-05T22:17:49.499+01:00The fifties - new house<p>Bryerswood, 3 Stourwood
Road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 145.2pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I’m going to have to rebuild
this home, chronologically.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My first
impression was doors, lots of them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You
went in through the front door, down a short corridor into the hall, and there
were these doors all around you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How
many, and where they led, was an exciting prospect, but it was the doors
themselves that captivated me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only
doors I’d ever seen before were the usual three-up-three-down panelled sort,
painted white.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were just things to
be opened and closed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the Bryerswood
doors were flush flat polished dark wood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There were more doors than I’d ever seen on one floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 145.2pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Then we went up the open stairs,
with their half-landing that was big enough for a substantial cupboard, and yet
more gorgeous doors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was enough for
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I fell in love with this house’s
doors.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 145.2pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Of course, that was only the
beginning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Apart from the living rooms and bedrooms, there were s</span>everal toilets (though only one bathroom), an area behind the kitchen containing a walk-in larder (which had a section
with a fine-gauze screen to keep flies out, so you could keep meat in there:
never used for that purpose, we had a fridge by then) and a passage that led to
another small room, previously the maid’s quarters, which immediately became
The Den.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’d been avid followers of Life
With The Lyons, but this Den immediately became a kids-only province.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Grandpa’s old radiogram was installed in
there, along with his huge record collection (78s of course), and we worked our
way assiduously through them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 145.2pt;"><o:p>Then t</o:p>here was an attic floor, which had two huge rooms and two little box rooms. The two rooms were actually surplus to requirements, so the one to the right became my
territory. To be exact, it was where my
father lovingly installed my model railway.
I could describe this in fine detail, including the sawdust I dyed green
and glued on to represent grass on the hills and fields, the little trees I
bought with hard-earned pocket money (polishing the silver and brass every
Saturday, to be exact), but I took for granted the fact that my father had
built this child-level shelf around two sides of this big room, just for
me. No, I was resentful that I’d been
fobbed off with the three-rail Hornby Dublo track, with its unconvincing metal
mounting with painted clinker, rather than the two-rail Triang. I could go into a lot of detail about the
technology involved – it’s much easier to have the live rail separate from the
wheels – but I suspect cost was a factor.
I did love it, though, for at least two years.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 145.2pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">As I’ve suggested, my father
loved projects, and once they’d been completed he lost interest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So the dismantling of the model railway, once
I’d grown out of it, was fine by him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
don’t think there was any resentment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Though come to think of it, my brother might have inherited it for a few
years – he’d have been about six when it was constructed. If that’s so, I’d
have moved on far enough not to notice any emotions of any sort in my father,
because I was starting to move on into adolescence, with all that carries.<o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p></p>Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201835677426254567noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7767918086420070312.post-38019302128122830812020-08-31T21:47:00.000+01:002020-08-31T21:47:03.163+01:00The fifties - new school<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #111111; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">The
new school was supposed to be my actual education.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After the kindly, patrician prep school
ambience of Southbourne Prep, Bournemouth School (not called ‘For Boys’, though
it was) was a bit of what would now be called a culture shock, but was then
just a kick in the head.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 145.2pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Bright lads from the north-west
– Kinson, Moordown, Wallisdown, even parts of Poole – had passed their
eleven-plus too, and so had to go to the grammar school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were mostly decent, but rougher elements
inevitably made it in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their
behaviour wasn’t their fault, but they’d been trained to make sure they came
out on top, which meant someone had to be lower down: which translated to “find
a victim and bully him.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I walked into
the role and they walked into me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 145.2pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 145.2pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Just a couple of incidents will
serve to illustrate this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If intimate
personal data embarrasses you, look away now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 145.2pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 145.2pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Not long after I arrived at the
school, I was induced to join the CCF – the Combined Cadet Force. I accepted
this as just another of those things that had to happen, although there were
aspects of it that I really enjoyed: the rifle shooting in the basement of the
school (with live 303 ammo, would you believe); the drill (I was good at
marching, and fairly quickly got promoted to point position); and the Field Days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 145.2pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 145.2pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">This particular one was to
Portsmouth (I was in the Navy section) including a visit to HMS Victory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’d been a ‘comfort stop’ on the way, but
I’d been unable to pee then, so by the time we were lined up on the main deck
or somewhere, I was bursting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I may be
the only twelve-year-old to have wet the deck of Nelson’s flagship, at any rate
during the 1950s. Unfortunately it was noticed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>For months afterwards, my nickname was ‘springaleak’.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 145.2pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 145.2pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The second memory is of the
Copse, a patch of waste land next to the school where we were allowed to play
at lunchtime.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I might come back to the
Copse later (here, I mean, not there – it’s probably flats by now) but the
incident in question is that I fell over and landed in some dog do which stuck
to my blazer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Luckily the Bournemouth
School blazer was already brown, but the smell lingered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can guess the rest, though how I failed
to tell my parents (or for that matter how they failed to notice and get it
cleaned) comes down, again, to my timidity. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201835677426254567noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7767918086420070312.post-65739661844593386382020-08-24T21:58:00.000+01:002020-08-24T21:58:44.007+01:00Invisible Aliens<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was an item in yesterday’s Observer about this delightful
guy in America who spent thirty years sending messages, mostly great sixties jazz,
out into space in the hope of communicating with sentient beings on other planets. (There’s apparently a film about him
coming out somewhere.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But – what about the speed of
light?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are about fifty identified Earth-like planets within
fifteen light years of our sun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even if
they all contained intelligent life capable of detecting and analysing the vast
amount of data we spray out every second, understanding and picking out the
specific attempts to communicate with them, and responding to those – even given
that hugely improbable set of circumstances, it would still have taken at least
eight years for the first reply to reach us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And then we’d have to go through the exact same process: detecting,
analysing and understanding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And of
course any reply from more than 15 light years away won’t have been received yet.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have no doubt that there are billions of planets inhabited
by intelligent life in our galaxy, never mind the billions of other galaxies –
just stop fantasising that we’re ever going to make contact with them, or they
with us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The laws of physics are against
you.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201835677426254567noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7767918086420070312.post-80725339502174979182020-06-16T22:19:00.000+01:002020-06-16T22:19:45.110+01:00The fifties - we moved house1<div class="MsoNormal">
We moved house! <br />
<br />
This was the biggest event in my life so far,
bigger than starting school or even being born, because I was acutely aware of
it and even had some influence over it, rather than it being done to me. And it changed my life.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was announced, probably over
Sunday lunch. We’re all going to live
together in a great big new house! Let’s
go out and find it! That’ll be fun!<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our parents had, I believe, come
into some kind of inheritance. My father
had been doing well at work and had a significant promotion. His career had
been built on scientific capability, but then, as now, the only way to reward
someone was to promote them, and the only way to do that was to convert them
from achievers into managers. I don’t
know how good a manager he became, but he was certainly happy to take the
money.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
66 Watcombe was owned outright by my
grandparents. And the tenant in the
Stamford Road house (which had been their first home that they’d somehow
managed to retain and let) had become intolerable and had to be evicted, which
meant that could be sold too. So capital
was available.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">And there were practical reasons too, of
course. We kids would soon each need our
own room. (That didn’t quite work out as planned, but that’s for later.) Grandpa had had his stroke, whilst doing some
decorating – it rendered him nearly blind, which we were told was due to him
getting a chip of wood or something in his eye – and Granny wouldn’t be able to
look after him on her own. </span>Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201835677426254567noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7767918086420070312.post-71841818187721234512020-06-01T22:23:00.000+01:002020-06-01T22:23:06.388+01:00The fifties, part 2: the bike,part 2<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #111111; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Customisation
rapidly followed, of course. The chain guard was the first to
go. I can’t remember the other tweaks I snuck in behind my parents’
backs. I do remember the parentally approved water bottles, and I
can still taste an aluminium-tinged warm sip through a paper
straw. We discussed the feasibility of taking a hacksaw to those
clunky lugs to make them look like cutaways; even, I think, drawing fantasy
designs, but it was never going to be the racing bike I craved. But
I can remember, quite vividly, the short and long expeditions it carried me
on. That was my first taste of real freedom, granted me,
intentionally or not, I’ll never know, by my parents. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #111111; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">I’d
made a few friends at school by then, some of whom were also into bikes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think my most avid co-biker was called Mike
Bone, but I’m sure there were others.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
furthest I can remember riding is Badbury Rings, which is about thirty miles
from Southbourne.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We must have ridden
along Castle Lane, then up past Wimborne Minster to reach this Iron Age hill
fort, wandered around and marvelled at it, then ridden back home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We also took our bikes across the Sandbanks
ferry and hauled ourselves across as far as Kimmeridge and Worth Matravers,
noticing the landscape and the coast. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These trips were to be a lasting component of
my education.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201835677426254567noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7767918086420070312.post-88986657372905079562020-05-23T22:07:00.000+01:002020-05-23T22:09:02.119+01:00The fifties, part 2: the bike, part 1<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-color-alt: windowtext;">1952. My father had started to become
disappointed in me by then, because I wasn’t becoming him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It took years for me to escape from that
double bind and accept that actually, I was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>So when he tried to teach me something, I automatically refused to learn
it, until I was left on my own, when I determinedly taught myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-color-alt: windowtext;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-color-alt: windowtext;">I remember very clearly the afternoon – it
must have been during the summer holidays when I was between schools – when I
got the old bike </span>out, worked out how to balance (don’t stop), and by the time he
came home was proudly doing daring circuits of the back lawn at 3 Stourwood
Road. I don’t know where that bike came
from – it was a very heavy black thing - but then, f<span style="color: #111111;">or
my twelfth birthday, I was given a proper one, or at least my parents’ notion
of proper. There was some subterfuge which somehow meant I had to go down to the garden
shed, there to be unveiled this gorgeous Raleigh, in a
colour I’d now call magenta but then saw as very displayable red.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #111111;">It
wasn’t, of course, my dreambike. That would have entailed full drop
bars, alloy rims, 10-speed Derailleur gears, many other features I can’t
remember: all mounted on a Claud Butler racing frame with,
crucially, cutaway lugs. These latter were supposedly designed to
reduce weight, which was obviously ridiculous – they were an early
manifestation of teenage designer bling, and hence heavenly. Ian Kitchen had
all of that, but I didn’t. My bike had semi-drops,
chrome-plated rims which rusted if not oiled weekly, a sprung saddle,
three-speed Sturmey-Archer, old lady mudguards and, most dreadfully, a chain
guard, in matching colour trim! But it was still near enough to the
top of the local game, and I loved it.</span></div>
Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201835677426254567noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7767918086420070312.post-78416291121876642862020-05-14T22:02:00.003+01:002020-05-14T22:02:58.520+01:00Forties: elocutionI'd forgotten about my speech impediment, until I was obliquely reminded of it just now by Z.<br />
<br />
Until I was six, I couldn't pronounce the 'th' sound. This was a serious problem, apparently, because I was sent to elocution lessons at Cranleigh Road school, where I rapidly learnt the trick. You just put the tip of your tongue behind your top teeth. (<i>A phonetician writes</i>: there are different vocables or phonemes, nasal or otherwise, of this combined consonant, as in 'there' or 'anathema'.) (<i>An elocution pupil writes</i>: thuck off!)<br />
<br />
So the cure worked, but the damage had been done. Being told, before I was six, that I couldn't speak properly must have put me off the idea of speaking. Once I'd got the hang of it, it probably took me quite a while to become brave enough to try it. <br />
<br />
(<i>I also couldn't rrrroll my rrrrs, and still can't, but that's another tongue twister entirely</i>.)Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201835677426254567noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7767918086420070312.post-85346141918306525072020-05-12T22:39:00.000+01:002020-05-12T22:41:21.835+01:00The Fifties, part 1<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Fifties started in 1953,
when several things happened to my life.
I went to a new school, having passed the 11 plus when I must have been
only just 11. We moved house. And I taught myself to ride a bike. But before that, the Sea Scouts.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 145.2pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It was a law that boys had to
join the scouts, so I did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were sea
scouts, which meant that we had blue kerchiefs held round our necks by a toggle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> (I'm sure there was more uniform, but the toggle is the only bit I clearly remember.)</span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />The scoutmaster was called
Skip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was an old man, probably in his
forties.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He made us boys strip to our
underpants and do exercises.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some time
later I told my mother about this; she was quite sure that it was innocent,
because she couldn’t imagine that a trusted person could be guilty of bad
things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Certainly he never made any
physical advances, so perhaps she was right in her belief that Skip just liked
watching small boys prancing around in their underpants.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 145.2pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 145.2pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">My main scout memory, apart from that, is knots. Skip certainly taught those well. I can still, in my head, do a clove hitch, a reef knot and even a sheepshank. But there wasn't much actual sea involved in being a Sea Scout. We never went to sea, or particularly near it. Most of the activity was in the All Saints church hall.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 145.2pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The assistant scoutmaster was an
irresponsible thug in his early twenties.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>One bonfire night, we were taken down to the meadow by the river at
Tuckton, where a firework battle was orchestrated – we were issued with bangers
and matches, and had to light the bangers and throw them at each other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was terrifyingly great fun. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 145.2pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 145.2pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I was yanked out of the Sea Scouts not long after that. But something must have rubbed off and stuck, because when i was enlisted into the CCF at Bournemouth School a year or two later, I didn't hesitate or even think - it had to be the Navy section.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201835677426254567noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7767918086420070312.post-81966352599383851482020-05-07T23:01:00.001+01:002020-05-07T23:04:18.263+01:00Uncles and aunts<div class="MsoNormal">
Uncles and aunts are yet another source of confusion. There were no real ones (apart from Ruth and
Douglas, whom I’ve already mentioned) but in the forties it was customary for
any relative or close friend to be identified as aunty this and uncle
that.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To get the relatives out of the
way, there countless connections on my mother’s side. Just a few – the Yeovil people, the Beverly
people, and Aunty Phyllis (who used to come and spend some weeks with us most
summers: presumably not at the same time as Grandma, I can’t imagine them
getting on too well.) When I went to
Leeds for my University interview in 1959, I was lodged with the Wakefield
people, who were very kind to this lad they probably didn’t know from
Adam. I know I went out to the local
cinema and saw a lovely Norman Wisdom film.
Who were they? I have no idea.<br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The close friends were Uncle Jack and Auntie Babs, Uncle
Norman and Auntie Marjorie, and Uncle John and Auntie Gracie. <br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jack was probably my father’s only real friend. They were thrown together by wartime work and
the friendship endured for at least twenty-five years. I loved him.
He told me the first dirty joke I ever heard, when I was about six. (Here it is: little girl and little boy are
peeing in the bushes.. Little girl to
little boy: “Ooh, that’s a useful gadget, where can I get one of them?”) He was a dedicated photographer, and I still
have some of his landscape work in Pembrokeshire. They went on holidays together into the
sixties, and he died suddenly at the end of one of those, on the way back from
Italy. Babs was just there in the
background, being kind.<br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Norman and Marjorie were just neighbours in Watcombe
Road. I remember virtually nothing about
them, so I mention them purely because I had my first sexual experience with
their daughter, Christine, in the sandpit in their back garden. We showed each other our bits. Her older brother Derek persisted in riding
his bike round the lawn, which precluded any further progress. We were six years old.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">John and Gracie were probably acquired through
my parents’ flirtation, in the twenties, with ballroom dancing. They were rich, by our standards. I remember Uncle John as a kind, unassuming
man with a black toothbrush moustache.
They had three children, of about the same age as us, and we were
obliged to be friends with them, but that didn’t work for me: I didn’t start to
do friendship until well into my teens, and I’ve still not quite got the hang
of it. But we all rubbed along well
enough, I think. Certainly we went on
holidays together, renting and staying in the two adjoining houses at Wisemans
Bridge. </span>Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201835677426254567noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7767918086420070312.post-77734020875356487492020-04-24T21:44:00.002+01:002020-04-24T21:44:40.278+01:00A bit more family<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">My mother’s parents had more humble backgrounds than my
father’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Esmond Lloyd Rea was a
Yorkshireman, from Wakefield.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know
nothing about his early history.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was
employed by the Inland Revenue, which entailed being sent to wherever the job
demanded, which is probably why my mother was born in the Welsh borders and fetched
up in Bournemouth to meet my father there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Grandpa must have been allowed to stop being peripatetic, or
perhaps to retire, because by the late thirties he had settled down and bought
66 Watcombe Road, just down the road from us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He was a jolly man, who enjoyed his beer and his music.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’d be taken down the road for Sunday
lunches and record sessions, and sometimes sleep over, presumably when my
parents had other engagements (which doesn’t feel very likely) or more probably
just wanted to be shot of us and have some time together alone (though that
doesn’t seem very likely either).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was
presented to the children as a treat – you’re going to sleep at Granny and
Grandpa’s tonight, won’t that be lovely? – and of course accepted without
question.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Ethel Jones, Granny, had roots in County Cork, but I don’t
think she was Irish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s impossible to
find out anything more from the internet – the surname doesn’t help – and no
family documents that I know of have survived.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>How she met Esmond in the Welsh borders is yet another unanswered
question.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve explained what I know of how
he got there, but how did she get there?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Anyhow, they were in Coleford, in the Forest of Dean, when my mother
(their only child) was born in 1907.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201835677426254567noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7767918086420070312.post-26484669068519863112020-04-13T22:10:00.000+01:002020-04-13T22:10:21.639+01:00Forties (part 4)<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I wish I could remember anything about my Latin teacher. Not
because I’m interested in him as a person, but because I’m interested in how he
managed to make this dead, irrelevant language important to an eight-year-old.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I think it wasn’t actually about Latin as
such.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More likely, he inculcated an
interest in ordered structures, which grew and has persisted ever since.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span>The notion that a chunk of language could be
broken down into verbs, nouns and such, then rebuilt into phrases, clauses,
sentences and such – all according to a set of rules (or at least conventions)
that could be codified and obeyed – that must have been deeply comforting to
that insecure ungrounded infant I was. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Of course, that was all drummed out of me when I moved on to the grammar
school. (We can’t have them teaching grammar, can we?)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201835677426254567noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7767918086420070312.post-90387588556754094212020-04-10T22:10:00.001+01:002020-04-10T22:10:36.328+01:00Forties (part 3)<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Southbourne Preparatory School was what would now be called
my primary school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It was housed in a
rambling building, probably a former grand residence of some sort, up on the
north side of Southbourne Road, just opposite Stourwood Road (where I would be
moved to a few years later).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The plan
was that I’d stay there until I was fourteen, when I would go to a ‘public
school’ (I put the term in quotes, because they hadn’t been public since the
seventeenth century).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The choice was
between Canford or Bryanstone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I’d
gone to either, my future would have evolved very differently, but it wasn’t to
be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The reasons for that were never
spelt out, but I like to think that it was due to my own timid willpower.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I was terrified at the idea of being a
boarder. I was actually taken to Bryanstone to be interviewed by the head, who
was very kind and solicitous; but I made it quite clear afterwards that I was
incapable of surviving that regime.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Canford was the runner-up option, which wasn’t seriously pursued, so I
ended up going to the local grammar school, of which more later.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I have scattered memories of Southbourne Prep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The headmaster, Mr Morgan, was too decent to
be the disciplinarian the role demanded. When I and another boy were caught bullying
Shaun Kilkoyne, we were given the choice of being caned or apologising to
Shaun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We chose the latter, much to
everyone’s relief, especially Mr Morgan’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>(Shaun and I later became friends, to the extent of trying to play
chess.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember the music lessons,
which consisted of everyone being issued with a tambourine, some castanets or a
triangle and having to bang along to the teacher’s piano accompaniment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And we were required to do sports.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Throwing the cricket ball was the only one I was
any good at – except when I was required to do it accurately in an actual cricket
match, when I’d usually fail dismally.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I obviously learnt a lot more at Southbourne Prep – some
vestiges still surface and will probably do so as this narrative proceeds – but
the only enduring lesson is Latin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201835677426254567noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7767918086420070312.post-71644318271016351672020-04-04T22:00:00.000+01:002020-04-04T22:00:32.240+01:00A Bit of Family <div class="MsoNormal">
My father was the middle child of a Gloucestershire farmer
and a well-to-do Jersey lady. These bare
facts exist, but the substance – how
they met and married, how and where they lived, had and brought up their three
children, what their life together was like – all that remains a mystery, which
will never be resolved. Grandfather
Frank Large died before I was born, and just after my sister was. There’s a 1939 photograph of her in his arms,
but there is no other record of him that I know of. He’s buried in St Brelade churchyard in
Jersey, so he must have lived there; but my father used to talk in some detail about
his childhood in Lechlade, so they must have lived there in the early years of
the twentieth century. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Grandma Emmeline Walker was certainly from old Jersey stock. <span style="background: white; color: #111111; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">She was a figure of
awe in my family, until she died at the age of ninety in 1960, when I was
eighteen. Emmeline is a good Victorian name that has been carried
forward in the family. </span><span style="color: #111111; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Grandma
was Victorian, and suitably formidable. Her maiden surname is also
my middle name, and I firmly believe (without a shred of evidence) that this
naming protocol, which continues down the generations on the male side, may
have been one of the conditions of my parents being permitted to
marry. The surname is still eminent in Jersey. And now I come
to remember, I had a work colleague called Arthur Walker who once mentioned a
Jersey background. The connection
clearly didn’t register with me at the time (we were probably on about lunch pint
four), but I now wonder whether we were related. I’ll never know.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #111111; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #111111; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Grandma was evacuated to England
before the invasion of Jersey, and she spent much of the rest of her life being
shuttled between various relatives. She was one of numerous
siblings, which I guess is how the family fortune got
dissipated. Certainly there was an uncle called Oliver who absconded
to the Argentine and lost a bundle on ill-advised railway investments.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #111111; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #111111; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">She’d come to stay with us for some
weeks during each summer, in the fifties. This was a cause for
domestic repositioning in our household. My mother was stressed out
for weeks beforehand. And Grandma played to her strengths, more or
less re-ordering things in her own image. She was pretty good at
that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #111111; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #111111; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">And yet, I remember her as mostly
kind and wry. You’d see that in her face. Every late
afternoon, she would retire for a while to her room; I later learned that this
was for her gin. She once criticised me for using too much toilet
paper, making some joke about rationing. (How did she know? Was she monitoring?) And one year, it
must have been about 1953, we kids had been allowed, on a hot summer day, to
play in the garden with the hose. This had to be stopped before
Grandma came, but the evidence can’t have been fully concealed, because when
she arrived she enquired what had been going on and elicited a confession. I
can hear her now, in her rich Victorian voice. “Oh, don’t be silly,
it’s very hot. Of course they can play with the hose. I
almost wish I could join them.”</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #111111; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">Her two sons – my father Ivan, and Douglas –
had already lived in England all their lives, but their elder sister Ruth
certainly ended her days in Jersey. She didn’t
spend the War there; she had married a Jersey man, Eric Hobson, who was in the
RAF and died in 1941 I believe (but he’s not listed as a Battle of Britain
casualty, at least not a decorated one).
But she returned after the liberation and moved back into the family
home in St Brelade, a bungalow called Ipsilante, where she lived for many years
until it became too much for her and she moved to a flat in St Helier. Her only child, my cousin Rosemary, never
left Jersey, except to travel, which she did a lot of in her later years.</span>Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201835677426254567noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7767918086420070312.post-55025677826216347372020-03-31T22:52:00.000+01:002020-03-31T22:52:05.953+01:00Forties (part 2)<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I seem to have been a sickly child, because my mother later kept
telling me so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, I had croup when
I was three, whooping cough a couple of years later, chickenpox at some point,
and German measles twice (which wasn’t supposed to be possible).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My parents later told me that they’d shoved
me into rooms with neighbouring kids who had mumps in the vain hope that I’d
catch my immunity before it could do permanent harm, but mumps declined me
(until I was in my forties).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The same
‘expose and immunise’ system was probably applied to other childhood ailments,
like scarlet fever.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">My body obstinately
refused to comply.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I still haven’t had
scarlet fever, as far as I know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Again
later in life (probably in my teens) I was reminded that my TB test – a ‘patch
test’, it was called; it was conducted at Cranleigh Road school, and for some
reason I had to go back and have it again because the first try hadn’t worked –
had come out positive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This meant that I
was immune to TB.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Somehow this was
presented as bad news.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">But the by-product of that sickliness was reading.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Memory is a distorting mirror, but I do know
– having been told so many times – that I was reading by the age of four.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How fluently I have no way of telling, but
the breadth of my reading is fairly well established.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was ‘Picture Post’ and ‘Illustrated’
magazines, and The Children’s Encyclopaedia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I was given the two magazines, unedited, to keep me occupied.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was reading words I’d never actually heard
or said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I clearly remember wondering
how that word ‘illustrated’ was pronounced.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I say unedited, because I have since looked back and there were some
fairly challenging images in there; but I don’t recall being traumatised.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps the worst pages got torn out before
the mags were dropped onto my bed, but I doubt it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The Children’s Encyclopaedia, though, was another thing, and
must have formed a large part of my early education.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t intend to retrospectively flesh out
my actual memories, but I will use the internet to check facts, so I am fairly
sure that what I had was the 1920 ten volume blue-bound edition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I certainly learned about the solar system,
and probably picked up some attitudes that may have taken a while to question
and discard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wish I had those books
now, because I’d love to revisit and revise that early education.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201835677426254567noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7767918086420070312.post-43431756477219409032020-03-30T22:11:00.000+01:002020-03-30T22:11:25.047+01:00Forties (part 1)<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I was born on Bastille Day in 1942, although I didn’t know
that at the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was later constantly
reminded of this fact by my mother, Gwyneth, who needed her children to be
important in some way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Much later, she
told me – this may have been after she discovered the loosening effects of
alcohol – that I hadn’t been particularly noticed as being bright, until Miss
Wade, my kindergarten teacher, did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This
came as a surprise to my parents.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">In the early 1970s, I was involved in various different ways
with three girls who in their various different ways contrived to draw me into
the irrational sphere of astrology, which required very precise information
about the minute, if not second, that one emerged from one’s mother’s womb, so
I asked mummy exactly when I was born. She couldn’t remember.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I do know where, though.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Tuckton Nursing Home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can quite
clearly picture Tuckton, a kind of nowhere zone between Southbourne and
Christchurch, with some useful shops, alternatives to Southbourne Grove – but I
don’t remember the Nursing Home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today,
I have to wonder what one of those was, and how it could have a maternity ward;
but this was 1942.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I remember Miss Wade, and where her kindergarten
was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was on the corner of Paisley
Road and Irving Road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You walked a
little way up Watcombe Road, turned right and then you were there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those streets (I use the word generically –
Bournemouth is famous for being one of the few towns in England not to contain
a single named street) were amongst the first things I ever learnt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Another thing I learnt from Miss Wade was the technique of
prevarication.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This came about when I
asked her why you had to be married to have a baby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I</span>t was probably when my brother was
expected, in 1947; I certainly knew by then that babies came out of their
mummy, and was just naturally curious about how this worked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Miss Wade responded by referring me to
Jesus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was probably part of the
start of my wondering why people seemed unable to give simple answers to even
simpler questions, a wondering that has only grown since.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the few children I’ve known haven’t asked
me awkward questions like that, so I’ve yet to be put to that particular test.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201835677426254567noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7767918086420070312.post-14285238055827278152020-01-09T22:52:00.000+00:002020-01-09T22:52:11.767+00:00Christmas Card Audit 2019<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Executive Summary:<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 36.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Disclaimer: the scientific worth of a statistical
exercise is dependent on the size of the sample and the selection categories
used.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In that respect, this stuff is
scientifically worthless.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 36.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Hardly anyone seems to believe in Santa Claus
any more.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 36.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Glued-on glitter is making an unwelcomed
comeback.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just stop buying the crap,
people!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 36.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->I welcome the woodpecker!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Yay, Caro!)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The full figures (2018’s, where applicable, in brackets):<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Snow/Snowmen/Snowflakes:<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>6
(6)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Santas/Reindeer:<span style="mso-tab-count: 3;"> </span>1
(3)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Animals/Birds:<span style="mso-tab-count: 4;"> </span>11
(10)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
of which <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
Robins:<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 3;"> </span>3
(3)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
Free-range reindeer:<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>0
(1)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
Horses:<span style="mso-tab-count: 4;"> </span>1 (1)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
Camels:<span style="mso-tab-count: 3;"> </span>1 (1)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
Sheep:<span style="mso-tab-count: 4;"> </span>1 (0)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
Owls:<span style="mso-tab-count: 4;"> </span>1 (0)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
Penguins:<span style="mso-tab-count: 3;"> </span>1 (0)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
Dogs: <span style="mso-tab-count: 4;"> </span>2 (0)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
Deer:<span style="mso-tab-count: 4;"> </span>1 (1)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
Turtle doves:<span style="mso-tab-count: 3;"> </span>0 (1)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
Seals:<span style="mso-tab-count: 4;"> </span>1 (0)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
Woodpeckers:<span style="mso-tab-count: 3;"> </span>1 (0)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Landscapes:<span style="mso-tab-count: 4;"> </span>0
(2)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Nativities/Wise Men/Angels:<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>8 (5)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Christmas trees/Baubles:<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>5
(4)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Abstract:<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 3;"> </span>0 (1)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Mail-letterboxes:<span style="mso-tab-count: 3;"> </span>2
(1)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Booze:<span style="mso-tab-count: 5;"> </span>1
(0)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Flowers:<span style="mso-tab-count: 4;"> </span>1
(0)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Forests/woods:<span style="mso-tab-count: 4;"> </span>0
(1)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Cute children:<span style="mso-tab-count: 4;"> </span>1
(1)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Houses:<span style="mso-tab-count: 5;"> </span>1
(3)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Holly/ivy/mistletoe:<span style="mso-tab-count: 3;"> </span>1
(0)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Skaters:<span style="mso-tab-count: 5;"> </span>0
(4)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Townscapes:<span style="mso-tab-count: 4;"> </span>3
(4)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
12 days of Xmas:<span style="mso-tab-count: 3;"> </span>1
(1)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Everything secular:<span style="mso-tab-count: 3;"> </span>0
(1)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Special categories:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Homemade/designed:<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>4 (3)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Cards with glued-on glitter:<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>7 (5)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Wonderfully weird:<span style="mso-tab-count: 3;"> </span>4
(0)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Posh yet restrained:<span style="mso-tab-count: 3;"> </span>3
(5)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Various animals wearing sunglasses<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>1 (0)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Tie for Card
Of The Year has to be Chris’s cover from the Girls’ Crystal Annual 1967, and
Mig’s animals with sunglasses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Viewings
by appointment only.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201835677426254567noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7767918086420070312.post-81618322534929573012019-09-29T22:17:00.001+01:002019-09-29T22:21:34.698+01:00Bath Spa<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Strangely, despite my bracketing of the country in my band
days, I’d never been to Bath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It had
always been just an announcement on a train – Reading, Chippenham, Bath Spa,
Bristol Temple Meads, etc – on my way home from work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So when Winkie suggested we might take a day
of our visit to go there, I was up for it.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My first impression was of a rather upmarket shopping mall,
canopied by high quality fake wisteria.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
then we made it to the Abbey, which is a huge perpendicular gothic structure
that’s been rebuilt or refurbished countless times since it started off as some
kind of church in about 757AD and became a precursor of its present form in
1616, after the Dissolution had trashed its previous versions.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The floor is, as always in cathedrals (all right, I know
this isn’t literally a cathedral, but it’s near enough), full of dead
people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can’t step a pace without
treading on someone’s memorial stone, and so presumably walking over their
grave. Amazingly, the floor is being lifted, stone by stone, so
that the sub-floor can be reinstated before it caves in and we all fall into
the graves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then the memorial stones are
being put back, so that they can be walked on and further eroded by future
generations of Japanese day trippers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Winkie’s
friend Robin, later that day, wondered whether they were also in-filling it
with more dead bodies.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After lunch, we went on an open top bus tour of the city,
narrated by a charming man who knew his material but struggled with the commentary
technology.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was sitting next to him,
and chose not to use the earphones; partly because my ears are the wrong shape
for those nasty little plugins, and partly because there’s a delay, so I’d get his
real voice in one ear and then a disconcerting echo in the other.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I sat on the wrong side of the train going back to
Warminster.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love looking out of train windows,
at the trees and the fields and the sheep and the junkyards and the mysterious
buildings – but I was facing west and the sun blinded most of it out.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My phone tells me I walked 2.7 miles that day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m impressed with myself.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201835677426254567noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7767918086420070312.post-52338564063023932922019-08-27T18:19:00.002+01:002019-08-27T18:19:41.130+01:00Caravan, August Bank Holiday<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The entire population of the rest of the United Kingdom was
clearly headed for Pembrokeshire for the pointless August Bank Holiday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, a lot of cars were heading west down
the M4.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This wasn’t a problem, until we
got to Bristol, Junction 19, and the Smart Motorway. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At that point the signs lit up and the traffic
slowed down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The variable speed limit
dropped to 50, then 40, then up to 60, then 40 again, then 50, all within about
six miles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For most of that way, we were
doing 10 to 30.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once we’d got past
Junction 21, the Smart Motorway turns dumb, and the traffic gets back to
normal.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The exact same thing happened around Newport, between 24 and
29, also a Smart stretch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Are you
detecting a pattern here?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Clue: it
happens on the M25 too.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And they’re
busy turning the M4 from Slough to Reading into yet another one – I don’t know
the cost, but judging by the size and timescale it must run into tens of
millions – whereupon, in 2022, a perfectly adequate motorway will turn into yet
another traffic jam.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s quite enough about traffic, isn’t it? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I’ll leave out the part about the A48 time-saving
detour which added another hour or more to the trip, and my anxiety about
running out of petrol before we could reach Carmarthen and locate the Tesco
filling station.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Z was monitoring the
satnav and warned me that there might be a slight delay around the Red Roses
turnoff on the A477.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t think this
would add much to the six hours we’d already clocked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We’d presciently decided to stop at Pont Abraham and grab a
bite of lunch (sandwiches, crisps and drinks).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We chose WHSmith’s rather than Costa, for reasons of morality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve probably written here before about the
aptly-named latter company’s approach to their business, which can be
summarised as ‘price up, quality down’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Mind you, WHS can’t be absolved either: we paid over £13 for exactly the
same stuff we’d bought at M&S two days previously for £8.40, the only
difference being location – one on a motorway, the other not.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once we got here, everything was fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing had changed except the grass, which
had grown a bit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The six hour journey
had made it too late to do anything with the rest of the day except have a
drink, eat again, and absorb the sight and the smell of the sea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s why I still come here, against all
logic.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sunday was a fun day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We walked into Saundersfoot through the tunnels, had a pint at the Royal
Oak, walked back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s actually quite
a lot of walking, especially for Z, who has a recovering but still slightly
gammy foot, but also for me – I need to do something about my fitness level.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the late afternoon, the usual bank holiday Sunday entertainment
started up down the pub.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I usually hate
being subjected to music I haven’t chosen, but these guys were pretty good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I flatter myself that the guitarist sounded a
bit like I might have done fifteen years ago. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(That’s high praise, in case you weren’t sure.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And after that there was a classic Welsh
boozy singalong, which politely finished well before lights out.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today (Monday) we went for a walk up the valley then crab
salads down the pub.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I‘m going to give
the Wisemans Bridge Inn a free plug here – great location, superb service, good
food, decently priced.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And they manage
to satisfy up to a hundred customers all at once.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back to Reading tomorrow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Back to, or from, the real world.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh, and I even managed to get a lot of work done.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s what happens when you don’t have
internet.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No rabbits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the
local wasps are very friendly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201835677426254567noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7767918086420070312.post-28008171385836724382019-08-20T22:00:00.001+01:002019-08-20T22:04:17.988+01:00Benefits of Brexit<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
It has been pointed out that there needs to be a Government
publication to counter the leaked Yellowhammer report about the dangers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’ve had a good 45 minutes to come up with
it, but they’re clearly not up to this simple task, so I’ll do it for them. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t have any spads to help, so forgive me
if I’ve missed some out.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
</div>
<ol>
<li><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->We will all become free.</li>
<li><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->We will trade on equal terms with the US,
Mexico, China, Brazil and India (as long as they trade on equal terms with us).</li>
<li><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->However, we won’t have to trade with any frogs,
krauts, eytiyes, dagos or spics. Or micks.</li>
<li><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">4.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->We can have our own faceless bureaucrats.</li>
<li><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">5.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Our Parliament will be able to take back control
of whatever it is they didn’t already have control of.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Nobody knows.)</li>
<li><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">6.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="background: #ddddee; color: black; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">The Red Chins in their millions</span></li>
<li><span style="color: black; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="background: #DDDDEE;">Will overspill their borders</span></span></li>
<li><span style="color: black; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="background: #DDDDEE;">And chaos then will reign in our Rael (©Pete
Townshend)</span></span></li>
<li><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">7.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Unless we fight a war against them.</li>
<li><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">8.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Which we will obviously win, because we won’t be
vassals.</li>
<li><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">9.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->We will compete with all the other offshore
islands and principalities in the world’s greatest industry (moving money from
place to place without spending any of it).</li>
<li><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">10.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Except
Singapore, of which we will become a colony.</li>
<li>Technology will solve all our problems.</li>
</ol>
<br />
I've left intact blogger's weird interpretation of a Word numbered list. It seemed apt.Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201835677426254567noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7767918086420070312.post-29207168762515358212019-08-05T21:10:00.002+01:002019-08-05T21:15:17.077+01:00Caravan Diaries, latest<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
There wasn’t a lot of activity this time, due to Z’s broken
leg. (All right, foot. Oh, all right,
toe. But you can’t prance around on the
clifftops with a socking great surgical boot on.)<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So instead we concentrated on eating, drinking and
sitting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The eating is the only
interesting part, so I’ll tell you about the three pub lunches.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The first was at the Dragon in Narberth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s one of at least six pubs that are still
alive and well in this small Welsh town. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(There used to be about 165, I’ve been told,
though that was by a Welshman.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>it doesn’t
look much from the outside – indeed, I’d never been in there until a couple of
years ago – but it has a lovely scruffy garden and does perfectly decent food
and beer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had calamari and chips.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
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On Friday, we drove across to Angle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a remarkably popular nondescript village
at the end of nowhere on a muddy cove on the south side of the Milford Haven sound.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was an extraordinary amount of traffic
on the increasingly tortuous road from Pembroke – quite a lot of it going the
other way to us. (Of course, you don’t see the traffic that’s going the same
way as you, unless you’re stuck behind a tractor, which happened a few times.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Have they already had their lunch?” Z
wondered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was twelve o’clock.<br />
Our target was the Old Point Inn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is a little 16<sup>th</sup> century pub
that can only be reached at low tide via a very car-unfriendly track.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You have to find the right right turn in
Angle, which is clearly not that easy – I’m a good navigator, but I’ve got it
wrong every single time I’ve tried it, so far.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It’s worth the journey, though.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Excellent (though expensive) food, and a fabulous setting, with great
views of the oil refinery across the sound.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I think I’ve put pictures on here before.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lunch #3 was, of course, dahn the pub.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s the Wisemans Bridge Inn, which is the
most popular pub in Pembrokeshire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s
an easy walk down to it, a less easy walk back up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Z struggled a bit in both directions, I think,
but she’s pretty resilient, and wasn’t going to let a mere broken leg/foot/toe
keep her from a decent pint.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So that’s the lunches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Shall I do the dinners?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>[<i>Ed:
No.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Me: O alrite</i>.]<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In other news, the mirror door on the bathroom cupboard had
managed to fall off and break in half.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
had to smash up the remnants with a big hammer to bin them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was fun.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201835677426254567noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7767918086420070312.post-65697441239450084392019-04-29T22:31:00.000+01:002019-04-30T09:08:10.018+01:00Jersey<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
We’d both been there before, and had our own memories, so I
thought it would be interesting to go back together, compare and contrast,
maybe explore the areas that didn’t overlap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That’s what happened.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My plan was to revisit beaches. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Z’s strongest memory was of Plemont, mine was
probably St Brelade.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So we went to
both.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have to vote for Plemont – it reminds
me of Traith Lyffn, a low tide beach in Pembrokeshire with flat hard sand,
rocks, and a challenging climb down and up manmade steps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s unspoiled, and not even the worst
efforts of Jersey corporate avarice can touch it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>St Brelade, although I have childhood
memories of picnics and obscure family reunions, is now a strip of sand fringed
with places to eat and drink (both of which we did, very nicely and not always
as expensively as I’d anticipated).<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I also had to visit St Brelade because my paternal
grandparents are buried in the churchyard there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d found their grave when I last visited with
my sister in 2008, but I felt an atavistic need to do it again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We wandered around for an increasingly thirsty
time – there must be more than two hundred graves in there, spread over twice as
many years and ten times as many square yards – until I finally said enough,
started to walk down the path between the graves <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>towards the lych gate, glanced to my right,
and there they were.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Frank and Emmeline,
1939 and 1960.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We managed to take in the four main tourism destinations,
which I’d managed to evade during about fifty years’ worth of previous visits –
so here they are: Jersey Museum in St Helier (entertainingly spooky); the
Botanic Gardens (beautiful, lovingly curated, great flapjacks in the café); the
Durrell Jersey Zoo (confusingly organised, loads of invisible animals, but we
found the orang utans!); and the War Tunnels (sorry, no comment, I can’t take
on that much emotive content about the War).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I meant to provide links, but frankly, it’s too complicated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just goggle them if you want to know more.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh, finally, the Ommaroo Hotel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d booked us in there on a whim: having
stayed there several times, I thought its whimsical, lightly tatty charm would
appeal to Z.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’d refurbished, but
enough of that charm remains.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You still
have to watch out for the trip traps in the corridors, where one level ascends
or descends to a slightly different one on the same floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And there’s an outdoor swimming pool: if you
ever stay there, see if you can find it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I did, on our last day. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201835677426254567noreply@blogger.com0