We were out at Fairburn Ings today with Granddaughter.
She was dragging her heals; a little tired. Yesterday she'd been busy.
Grandma, 'Mum said you were very busy and made a good job of tidying your room.'
Granddaughter, 'Yeah, but it wasn't that hard. My invisible friends helped.'
Granda, 'What did they do?'
Granddaughter, 'Oh, just helped. There were three of them.' She gave their names, all boys.
So there you have it.
If you are faced with an onerous task just imagine that you have some help. It will make it so much easier.
Sunday, 31 May 2009
Saturday, 30 May 2009
The Sum of a Garden
This morning we sat over breakfast and debated. Do we spend time in our garden or go out into the country somewhere? A dilemma, for we love both. The garden won.
We've only been in our current home two years. A new home with a garden to be created from scratch. Our third in a row; I think we would be at a loss as to what to do if we inherited a ready made garden.
This garden is only in its second full season so has some way to go yet we feel as though it has started to take on an established look in parts.
We have a small front patch bordered by loads of lavender amongst other things; a huge side garden that has allowed a lot of experimentation and is set off by a large Ash tree. The lawn is large enough for me to have justified the purchase of a petrol mower whose steady chugging is much sweeter on the ear than the whine of an electric one.
Finally we have our secret garden. This is our private place to the rear. It is small but very sheltered. Very little overlooks us; even when the houses to the rear are built. It is a place for barbecues and playing swing ball without being seen. A suntrap too. In one corner we have a Wisteria, in another our herb bed. Nothing nicer than wandering out on a morning to gather herbs for a casserole or stuffing or, well, anything really. I can do it in my pyjamas too; no one can see.
I made something with Thyme recently; it's in flower so we got a few tiny mauve flowers in our supper.
Today, after chugging around with the mower, weeding and rearranging one or two plants, we sat in our little fairy garden and drank beer (me) and lager (her), chatted and even dozed a little. Heaven. Once or twice I would venture inside to look at my latest chapter on the computer but the garden would invite me back.
I've always been a foliage man; a lover of leaves. My wife leans to colour, the flowers. Whenever we went to a nursery or a flower show, in our younger days, I could be found gazing longingly at the latest Hosta or wandering through 'Heuchera Heaven' as my wife would call it. She would linger over the Aquilegas, Geranuiums or Clematis taking in the colour and imagining all the colour combinations she could play with.
My love has always been form, shape; hers, colour.
Now she's grown to love Hostas and Heucheras whilst Aquilegas and Geraniums are amongst my favourite plants.
We have come together, cough, I'll rephrase that; we have met somewhere in the middle and each of us has seen our individual tastes expanded by the example of the other.
A little corner of our 'Secret Garden'. Heucheras, Hostas, an Aquilegia, a Clematis (just out of sight), Geraniums. The lawn curving around to the right is meant to give the impression of disappearing round a bend instead of just ending at the fence.
Closer up you can see the Clematis, to the right. In a few weeks the Geranium, to the right of the Rowan tree, will be awash with a haunting blue that seems to glow at a certain point at the beginning of dusk, whilst the white Dicentra to the rear will start to die back.
In some years time the green-yellow leaved Acer (Aureum- that little tree you can see) will double and then treble in height; it loves it there. The Clematis will reach the top of the fence.
That's the beauty of a garden; the changes within the year and then the changes from year to year
If I was on my own my garden would lack colour. If my wife was on her own hers would lack form, shape. Together we have made something better; well, at least we think so.
Our garden is the sum of us. A reflection of our marriage.
We've only been in our current home two years. A new home with a garden to be created from scratch. Our third in a row; I think we would be at a loss as to what to do if we inherited a ready made garden.
This garden is only in its second full season so has some way to go yet we feel as though it has started to take on an established look in parts.
We have a small front patch bordered by loads of lavender amongst other things; a huge side garden that has allowed a lot of experimentation and is set off by a large Ash tree. The lawn is large enough for me to have justified the purchase of a petrol mower whose steady chugging is much sweeter on the ear than the whine of an electric one.
Finally we have our secret garden. This is our private place to the rear. It is small but very sheltered. Very little overlooks us; even when the houses to the rear are built. It is a place for barbecues and playing swing ball without being seen. A suntrap too. In one corner we have a Wisteria, in another our herb bed. Nothing nicer than wandering out on a morning to gather herbs for a casserole or stuffing or, well, anything really. I can do it in my pyjamas too; no one can see.
I made something with Thyme recently; it's in flower so we got a few tiny mauve flowers in our supper.
Today, after chugging around with the mower, weeding and rearranging one or two plants, we sat in our little fairy garden and drank beer (me) and lager (her), chatted and even dozed a little. Heaven. Once or twice I would venture inside to look at my latest chapter on the computer but the garden would invite me back.
I've always been a foliage man; a lover of leaves. My wife leans to colour, the flowers. Whenever we went to a nursery or a flower show, in our younger days, I could be found gazing longingly at the latest Hosta or wandering through 'Heuchera Heaven' as my wife would call it. She would linger over the Aquilegas, Geranuiums or Clematis taking in the colour and imagining all the colour combinations she could play with.
My love has always been form, shape; hers, colour.
Now she's grown to love Hostas and Heucheras whilst Aquilegas and Geraniums are amongst my favourite plants.
We have come together, cough, I'll rephrase that; we have met somewhere in the middle and each of us has seen our individual tastes expanded by the example of the other.
A little corner of our 'Secret Garden'. Heucheras, Hostas, an Aquilegia, a Clematis (just out of sight), Geraniums. The lawn curving around to the right is meant to give the impression of disappearing round a bend instead of just ending at the fence.
Closer up you can see the Clematis, to the right. In a few weeks the Geranium, to the right of the Rowan tree, will be awash with a haunting blue that seems to glow at a certain point at the beginning of dusk, whilst the white Dicentra to the rear will start to die back.In some years time the green-yellow leaved Acer (Aureum- that little tree you can see) will double and then treble in height; it loves it there. The Clematis will reach the top of the fence.
That's the beauty of a garden; the changes within the year and then the changes from year to year
If I was on my own my garden would lack colour. If my wife was on her own hers would lack form, shape. Together we have made something better; well, at least we think so.
Our garden is the sum of us. A reflection of our marriage.
Friday, 29 May 2009
I Went on a Date Yesterday
In fact, I've been on two, one yesterday, the other the day before.
I got told that my date was giddy with excitement at the thought of accompanying me to the pictures. A long time since a female has felt like that about me.
She put on her best frock and brought along her prettiest little shoulder bag.
We went to the pictures and sat in the back row. She even held my hand some of the time and I could see, out of the corner of my eye, that she would occasionally cast me a loving glance; her smile told me that. During the scarier bits she cuddled up to me too.
Then a lunch. On the first day it was McFrankie's Burger Hut. Even she thought it too noisy, although the games they supply, complete with Origami dice, are fun.
Yesterday was a better Italian spot where we sat opposite each other, chatted and giggled.
And my date?.
You must have guessed; and no, that's not the frock she wore. It's half term and her mum is Spring Cleaning so I've been on Granddaughter duty; not an onerous task at all
The cinema is always a mixed experience for me. It's the audience. Luckily we weren't too near the worst culprits.
Why do people turn up ten minutes into a film?
Why do people leave their mobile phones on? All over the place, like fireflies, I could see illuminated screens as people read texts or sent them; often during a climactic part of the film. Some of them were about ten years old; little UGG-booted Barbie lookalikes who should have been enthralled, as my companion was, but instead, were so bereft of imagination, bereaved of their childhood, that the cinema held no opportunity for excitement that could distract them from their pseudo-adult world. Someone even left the ring tone on and, wait for it, answered the bloody thing!!!
And the food. All wrapped in 'Maxi-noise' wrappers and made of 'Maxi-noise' crunchability stuff; I hesitate to call it food. They have even brought out a little set of nachos and dips; an all crunching, all faffing about thing with 'maxi-distract' capabilities. My wife says they sound as if they are marching on Poland when they eat that crunchy crap.
Yesterday we were sat along from a middle aged couple. I thought they'd be OK; should have known better. The man, a great whale of a bloke, (in other words, a lot bigger than me) had scoffed a huge tub of pop-corn; made a lot of noise rummaging for the last crumb and then got up to go get a refill - and missed an exciting section of the film - I was gobsmacked.
Am I missing something here; yes the snacking is fun. But it is an addition to the experience not a replacement for it. And TWO great tubs of pop-corn!
I felt quite alien.
The films?
Coraline was one of the most magical films I've seen in a while. Beautiful and quite creepy in parts. Best, maybe, for ten-year olds and older. The 3D effect didn't distract but was used intelligently to add to the experience. Sitting next to a child in Harry Potter specs reacting with awe to some of the visuals with all the 'Wows' and 'Oohs' is an experience in itself. Granddaughter liked it a lot but preferred Night at the Museum 2 . Fairly predictable, but the chief villain, a Pharaoh with a lisp, sorry, lithp, was a scream.
It made me realise that I have a little bit of child left in me that can appreciate magic.
You need to keep that child alive within you in order to be properly adult.
I got told that my date was giddy with excitement at the thought of accompanying me to the pictures. A long time since a female has felt like that about me.
She put on her best frock and brought along her prettiest little shoulder bag.
We went to the pictures and sat in the back row. She even held my hand some of the time and I could see, out of the corner of my eye, that she would occasionally cast me a loving glance; her smile told me that. During the scarier bits she cuddled up to me too.
Then a lunch. On the first day it was McFrankie's Burger Hut. Even she thought it too noisy, although the games they supply, complete with Origami dice, are fun.
Yesterday was a better Italian spot where we sat opposite each other, chatted and giggled.
And my date?.
You must have guessed; and no, that's not the frock she wore. It's half term and her mum is Spring Cleaning so I've been on Granddaughter duty; not an onerous task at all
The cinema is always a mixed experience for me. It's the audience. Luckily we weren't too near the worst culprits.
Why do people turn up ten minutes into a film?
Why do people leave their mobile phones on? All over the place, like fireflies, I could see illuminated screens as people read texts or sent them; often during a climactic part of the film. Some of them were about ten years old; little UGG-booted Barbie lookalikes who should have been enthralled, as my companion was, but instead, were so bereft of imagination, bereaved of their childhood, that the cinema held no opportunity for excitement that could distract them from their pseudo-adult world. Someone even left the ring tone on and, wait for it, answered the bloody thing!!!
And the food. All wrapped in 'Maxi-noise' wrappers and made of 'Maxi-noise' crunchability stuff; I hesitate to call it food. They have even brought out a little set of nachos and dips; an all crunching, all faffing about thing with 'maxi-distract' capabilities. My wife says they sound as if they are marching on Poland when they eat that crunchy crap.
Yesterday we were sat along from a middle aged couple. I thought they'd be OK; should have known better. The man, a great whale of a bloke, (in other words, a lot bigger than me) had scoffed a huge tub of pop-corn; made a lot of noise rummaging for the last crumb and then got up to go get a refill - and missed an exciting section of the film - I was gobsmacked.
Am I missing something here; yes the snacking is fun. But it is an addition to the experience not a replacement for it. And TWO great tubs of pop-corn!
I felt quite alien.
The films?
Coraline was one of the most magical films I've seen in a while. Beautiful and quite creepy in parts. Best, maybe, for ten-year olds and older. The 3D effect didn't distract but was used intelligently to add to the experience. Sitting next to a child in Harry Potter specs reacting with awe to some of the visuals with all the 'Wows' and 'Oohs' is an experience in itself. Granddaughter liked it a lot but preferred Night at the Museum 2 . Fairly predictable, but the chief villain, a Pharaoh with a lisp, sorry, lithp, was a scream.
It made me realise that I have a little bit of child left in me that can appreciate magic.
You need to keep that child alive within you in order to be properly adult.
When the Chancellor....
.........needs help to complete his tax return I cannot help a wry smile.
The fact that he sees nothing wrong with claiming the accountancy fees on his expenses takes my smile away.
He's in charge of a complex system where those who can afford accountants have an advantage and then, not only hires an accountant but, gets us to pay for it.
I wonder how many of the rest of us can get someone else, our employer, the taxpayer, to pay for our accountancy expenses?
Then you have the situation where minor MPs are serving notice to quit at the next election yet the high profile characters like Hazel Blears seem to be sitting out the storm.
And Gordon Brown using the crisis to take pot shots at disloyal ministers too; criticising Hazel Blears yet playing down Geoff Hoon's similar actions.
Some of them are trying the 'poor us' card; 'it's a witch hunt' a few shout.
That's dangerous because if a sense of pity for the underdog allows them to escape then they will not learn their lessons an worse, will know that they are invulnerable and can get away with pretty well anything.
OK, they may be underdogs at the moment. That doesn't alter the fact that many of them are still just plain dogs.
Many of them still don't get it do they.
I hope it doesn't go away. I hope the public pressure stays there.
That's why I will talk about it from time to time. If millions of little people like me do that then there is hope for our venal system at the top.
The fact that he sees nothing wrong with claiming the accountancy fees on his expenses takes my smile away.
He's in charge of a complex system where those who can afford accountants have an advantage and then, not only hires an accountant but, gets us to pay for it.
I wonder how many of the rest of us can get someone else, our employer, the taxpayer, to pay for our accountancy expenses?
Then you have the situation where minor MPs are serving notice to quit at the next election yet the high profile characters like Hazel Blears seem to be sitting out the storm.
And Gordon Brown using the crisis to take pot shots at disloyal ministers too; criticising Hazel Blears yet playing down Geoff Hoon's similar actions.
Some of them are trying the 'poor us' card; 'it's a witch hunt' a few shout.
That's dangerous because if a sense of pity for the underdog allows them to escape then they will not learn their lessons an worse, will know that they are invulnerable and can get away with pretty well anything.
OK, they may be underdogs at the moment. That doesn't alter the fact that many of them are still just plain dogs.
Many of them still don't get it do they.
I hope it doesn't go away. I hope the public pressure stays there.
That's why I will talk about it from time to time. If millions of little people like me do that then there is hope for our venal system at the top.
Thursday, 28 May 2009
Writers' Message Boards
Message boards can be fun. They can also be infuriating irrespective of the subject that is their Raison D'etre.
I go on them for a little banter, some word exercise ha ha, to learn and to help too, if I can. At the back of all this, it is one place where I know I'll be read. Maybe all posters have that writer's neediness to be noticed; not just on writers' forums
On the whole they serve their purpose.
Each kind of message board attracts the good the bad and the ugly. They just show their spots in different ways.
Writers' message boards have two denizens that I seem to have noticed.
The Expert, or to be rude; the Pompous Prick. Luckily there aren't many but, boy, do they sometimes make up for their lack of numbers with sheer volume of words. 'Hey, look at me I'm a wordsmith'.
It's the content though. Why use one word when twenty-seven will do appears to be their motto. And, worse, you need a fucking Thesaurus next to you to read their bloody posts.
Their posts aren't posts at all; they range from being sermons from a pulpit to an exercises in 'look how many words I can use?' Fucking wow.
I went on one thread and accused someone of 'verbal onanism'; it got a laugh.
That's the sad thing. These people are usually basically nice and often have something to say; but you've to wade through so much wordy bollocks that you can miss it. Maybe I do the same ha.
The Honest Poster; or the Tactless Twat. In this modern age of admiring bluntness in place of honesty we are going to get the, 'I say it how it is' kind of post.
Sometimes I think it's lazy; a euphemism for, 'I'm too lazy to try to be tactful so I'll say exactly what I think."
Sometimes it is downright nasty, 'I'll be as nasty as I can because I'll get noticed and, besides, I can hide behind the banner of honesty'
They tend not to be so wordy but their missives usually provoke a Hornet's nest of reaction from some and agreement from others who want to be seen as 'honest'
I think of it as a 'web mob'
I recently got into a spat with one of these posters who had lit some blue touch paper in a review. I gave what I thought was a helpful contribution and got turned on.
What did I do?
Well, I said my piece and pissed off. Not been on for a few days ad that will continue for a while.
Let them argue, for it will go around and around in circles until it runs out of steam or gets locked.
And the trouble with writers is that few of them know when to shut up.
So I will now.
I go on them for a little banter, some word exercise ha ha, to learn and to help too, if I can. At the back of all this, it is one place where I know I'll be read. Maybe all posters have that writer's neediness to be noticed; not just on writers' forums
On the whole they serve their purpose.
Each kind of message board attracts the good the bad and the ugly. They just show their spots in different ways.
Writers' message boards have two denizens that I seem to have noticed.
The Expert, or to be rude; the Pompous Prick. Luckily there aren't many but, boy, do they sometimes make up for their lack of numbers with sheer volume of words. 'Hey, look at me I'm a wordsmith'.
It's the content though. Why use one word when twenty-seven will do appears to be their motto. And, worse, you need a fucking Thesaurus next to you to read their bloody posts.
Their posts aren't posts at all; they range from being sermons from a pulpit to an exercises in 'look how many words I can use?' Fucking wow.
I went on one thread and accused someone of 'verbal onanism'; it got a laugh.
That's the sad thing. These people are usually basically nice and often have something to say; but you've to wade through so much wordy bollocks that you can miss it. Maybe I do the same ha.
The Honest Poster; or the Tactless Twat. In this modern age of admiring bluntness in place of honesty we are going to get the, 'I say it how it is' kind of post.
Sometimes I think it's lazy; a euphemism for, 'I'm too lazy to try to be tactful so I'll say exactly what I think."
Sometimes it is downright nasty, 'I'll be as nasty as I can because I'll get noticed and, besides, I can hide behind the banner of honesty'
They tend not to be so wordy but their missives usually provoke a Hornet's nest of reaction from some and agreement from others who want to be seen as 'honest'
I think of it as a 'web mob'
I recently got into a spat with one of these posters who had lit some blue touch paper in a review. I gave what I thought was a helpful contribution and got turned on.
What did I do?
Well, I said my piece and pissed off. Not been on for a few days ad that will continue for a while.
Let them argue, for it will go around and around in circles until it runs out of steam or gets locked.
And the trouble with writers is that few of them know when to shut up.
So I will now.
The Critique
I'm a member of a number of writing forums. The foundation that these are built on is 'mutual critiquing'. The one I go on most has a system whereby you critique another author's work and, in return, get a credit with which to request a critique on one of your own.
It's not a bad system; especially when you are flexing your wings and just wondering whether or not you are a decent writer.
It can be confusing though. Which critiques do you take notice of? Which do you ignore? You've got to assess whether or not the person critiquing your work is any good themselves.
I quickly learnt that it is a bit of lottery and that it can only take you so far; in my opinion.
And then there is the critiquing you have to do. I have taken a break from it whilst moving my novel to a conclusion; I haven't wanted to put anything into the firing line.
You get a huge range to critique; some really good pieces and some - well you wonder what substances the writer was on. A few days ago I decided to dip my toe in again and requested a piece to critique.
Oh dear.
It was described as a comedy. It was eighteen pages long and I wasn't smiling by page five. In fact I wondered where it was going. It was written by one of those people who thinks that using fancy words in peculiar combinations makes for good writing. All I saw was a jumble of words.
I put it down intending to go back to it. I tried, oh how I tried, but even when I read the end I didn't really follow it. I tried scan reading it; still none the wiser. Every time I tried to get into it it repelled me like a magnet the wrong way round.
It was haunting me and becoming a memorable thing for all the wrong reasons. It sat there like an unwelcome guest in the living room; daring me to pick it up.
So I removed it. There is a remove button and I used it for the first time.
Did I do right? Should I have said, 'This is shite' or 'You cannot write' ?
I've reviewed stuff before that I have thought rubbish and, as tactfully as possible, detailed what I thought wrong only to go in and see that some other writers thought it was a piece of genius.
Writing is such a personal thing. I've decided that getting other amateur writers to read my stuff will only get me so far. I have already learnt that some like my style; some don't.
It's the agents and publishers who matter.
I think my next reviewer will be a professional.
If, or when, they tell me it's rubbish I'll have to take notice.
It's not a bad system; especially when you are flexing your wings and just wondering whether or not you are a decent writer.
It can be confusing though. Which critiques do you take notice of? Which do you ignore? You've got to assess whether or not the person critiquing your work is any good themselves.
I quickly learnt that it is a bit of lottery and that it can only take you so far; in my opinion.
And then there is the critiquing you have to do. I have taken a break from it whilst moving my novel to a conclusion; I haven't wanted to put anything into the firing line.
You get a huge range to critique; some really good pieces and some - well you wonder what substances the writer was on. A few days ago I decided to dip my toe in again and requested a piece to critique.
Oh dear.
It was described as a comedy. It was eighteen pages long and I wasn't smiling by page five. In fact I wondered where it was going. It was written by one of those people who thinks that using fancy words in peculiar combinations makes for good writing. All I saw was a jumble of words.
I put it down intending to go back to it. I tried, oh how I tried, but even when I read the end I didn't really follow it. I tried scan reading it; still none the wiser. Every time I tried to get into it it repelled me like a magnet the wrong way round.
It was haunting me and becoming a memorable thing for all the wrong reasons. It sat there like an unwelcome guest in the living room; daring me to pick it up.
So I removed it. There is a remove button and I used it for the first time.
Did I do right? Should I have said, 'This is shite' or 'You cannot write' ?
I've reviewed stuff before that I have thought rubbish and, as tactfully as possible, detailed what I thought wrong only to go in and see that some other writers thought it was a piece of genius.
Writing is such a personal thing. I've decided that getting other amateur writers to read my stuff will only get me so far. I have already learnt that some like my style; some don't.
It's the agents and publishers who matter.
I think my next reviewer will be a professional.
If, or when, they tell me it's rubbish I'll have to take notice.
Saying Sorry
They say it's a hard thing to do.
Tell me about it. I'm a clumsy man in the sense that I 'blurt'. I say things without thinking ahead. It's partly because I rarely have negative thoughts about people.
I sometimes wonder if the most tactful people are those who are, at heart, not very nice and have to think about what they say before opening their mouths.
Saying sorry is not just hard in itself though. It has to be genuine otherwise it means nothing.
And the timing; too soon and you get rebuffed; too late and the resentment has taken root.
Then there is tone; a simple sorry or some effusive bollocks that digs more holes than it repairs? You have to judge the level of offence or hurt you have caused.
And, as most arguments that need a sorry are caused by both parties; who is to make the first move? How on earth do you judge who should make that first move.
Yes, saying sorry is a minefield. It takes courage.
Not all of us can do it. Even fewer get it right.
Tell me about it. I'm a clumsy man in the sense that I 'blurt'. I say things without thinking ahead. It's partly because I rarely have negative thoughts about people.
I sometimes wonder if the most tactful people are those who are, at heart, not very nice and have to think about what they say before opening their mouths.
Saying sorry is not just hard in itself though. It has to be genuine otherwise it means nothing.
And the timing; too soon and you get rebuffed; too late and the resentment has taken root.
Then there is tone; a simple sorry or some effusive bollocks that digs more holes than it repairs? You have to judge the level of offence or hurt you have caused.
And, as most arguments that need a sorry are caused by both parties; who is to make the first move? How on earth do you judge who should make that first move.
Yes, saying sorry is a minefield. It takes courage.
Not all of us can do it. Even fewer get it right.
Tuesday, 26 May 2009
Oops
My wife created a new snack recently; Pop Corn with grated parmesan on it. Lovely.
She shouted up to me the other day;
"Shall I do some of that Pop Corn or would you prefer something else?"
"Hmmm", I shouted back, "Cock Porn for me please" - In my head, 'Bollocks, did I say that?'
"OK" came the answer.
Freudian slip? Had she heard what she expected to hear?
I'll leave you to imagine the rest of the story.
She shouted up to me the other day;
"Shall I do some of that Pop Corn or would you prefer something else?"
"Hmmm", I shouted back, "Cock Porn for me please" - In my head, 'Bollocks, did I say that?'
"OK" came the answer.
Freudian slip? Had she heard what she expected to hear?
I'll leave you to imagine the rest of the story.
A Party Political Fraudcast
Aren't they all?
While waiting to watch The Great British Menu my wife and I happened upon the last few minutes of a, wait for it, Party Political Broadcast. Oh dear. Pleasant music, a nice voice talking about British jobs for British people. Pictures of war graves and memorials with the voice saying how it was British People who had fought for our land blah blah. All very true and all very plausible, although I couldn't help but wonder that there would be a fair few Polish names amongst our war dead.
I wondered for a few seconds. UKIP ? Well, once immigration got a mention my suspicions moved elsewhere.
Then Nick Griffin came on; the BNP. Apart from not knowing what to do with his hands he came over quite well; to look at, that is. That made me feel uncomfortable. He was making a direct emotional appeal to the older section of the population; a huge voting block. His poster; 'Punish the Pigs' was effective too. It will strike a chord.
One word slipped out though; there was mention of 'spongers'. So what? you might say.
Once someone who has designs to lead us uses emotive language they should be treated with caution. 'Sponger' is such a term. Define a sponger. It is a word that is used like a sink; a word to throw at all the undesirables without really defining what it is or what the so-called undesirables are. Are MPs spongers? A Polish plumber? A Romanian Gypsy? A disabled person who cannot work? I could go on. Once a society starts looking for undesirables it just becomes one big bully. If politicians do that hell is let loose. If we vote for them we are on the road to hell because all reason for restraint has been thrown away.
The media, the public – you and me – can get away with a little emotive bollocks from time to time. A political leader?
Absolutely not. Believe it or not but our politicians are there to act as a brake to our wilder wishes.
A bully is not a democrat. There is no compassion in the world of the bully.
When it finished my wife came out with words that summed up my feelings; 'They frighten me'. Thank goodness I'm married to someone like that because I know a lot of people who are tempted to vote for them out of frustration with the bloody fools we have in parliament now. These people are ordinary decent folk; just like many of the Germans were who voted Hitler in. Yes, that old chestnut that many will dismiss.
I am almost incandescent with anger at the idiots in parliament who may allow the likes of the BNP to grow. I worry that the population, leaderless, for that is what we are, will follow some dangerous pied piper to some awful destination. It has a historical precedence that no-one wants to face or to quote because it sounds so far-fetched.
Some won't vote; and allow worse idiots than the ones we have now to get in.
Others will go extreme.
Most will probably say, 'It's only the European elections. It doesn't matter” It does. If democracy is shot down in the European elections then it will have a knock on effect at the parliamentary ones.
I hope that enough people will think like me and vote; not for the BNP but, at least, for someone who doesn't play the bully card. We 'British' or 'English' have always described ourselves, rather complacently, as being less likely to succumb to extremism than others.
Are we?
We have a political vacuum at the moment and that is dangerous.
Oh, how thin a layer our civilization is.
While waiting to watch The Great British Menu my wife and I happened upon the last few minutes of a, wait for it, Party Political Broadcast. Oh dear. Pleasant music, a nice voice talking about British jobs for British people. Pictures of war graves and memorials with the voice saying how it was British People who had fought for our land blah blah. All very true and all very plausible, although I couldn't help but wonder that there would be a fair few Polish names amongst our war dead.
I wondered for a few seconds. UKIP ? Well, once immigration got a mention my suspicions moved elsewhere.
Then Nick Griffin came on; the BNP. Apart from not knowing what to do with his hands he came over quite well; to look at, that is. That made me feel uncomfortable. He was making a direct emotional appeal to the older section of the population; a huge voting block. His poster; 'Punish the Pigs' was effective too. It will strike a chord.
One word slipped out though; there was mention of 'spongers'. So what? you might say.
Once someone who has designs to lead us uses emotive language they should be treated with caution. 'Sponger' is such a term. Define a sponger. It is a word that is used like a sink; a word to throw at all the undesirables without really defining what it is or what the so-called undesirables are. Are MPs spongers? A Polish plumber? A Romanian Gypsy? A disabled person who cannot work? I could go on. Once a society starts looking for undesirables it just becomes one big bully. If politicians do that hell is let loose. If we vote for them we are on the road to hell because all reason for restraint has been thrown away.
The media, the public – you and me – can get away with a little emotive bollocks from time to time. A political leader?
Absolutely not. Believe it or not but our politicians are there to act as a brake to our wilder wishes.
A bully is not a democrat. There is no compassion in the world of the bully.
When it finished my wife came out with words that summed up my feelings; 'They frighten me'. Thank goodness I'm married to someone like that because I know a lot of people who are tempted to vote for them out of frustration with the bloody fools we have in parliament now. These people are ordinary decent folk; just like many of the Germans were who voted Hitler in. Yes, that old chestnut that many will dismiss.
I am almost incandescent with anger at the idiots in parliament who may allow the likes of the BNP to grow. I worry that the population, leaderless, for that is what we are, will follow some dangerous pied piper to some awful destination. It has a historical precedence that no-one wants to face or to quote because it sounds so far-fetched.
Some won't vote; and allow worse idiots than the ones we have now to get in.
Others will go extreme.
Most will probably say, 'It's only the European elections. It doesn't matter” It does. If democracy is shot down in the European elections then it will have a knock on effect at the parliamentary ones.
I hope that enough people will think like me and vote; not for the BNP but, at least, for someone who doesn't play the bully card. We 'British' or 'English' have always described ourselves, rather complacently, as being less likely to succumb to extremism than others.
Are we?
We have a political vacuum at the moment and that is dangerous.
Oh, how thin a layer our civilization is.
Sunday, 24 May 2009
I had my cake............
...............and I ate it all yesterday.
The story of a day.
We went to see the in-laws. I've always enjoyed my visits. I get fussed over as the revered son-in-law or brother-in-law and bask in the largely uncritical affection.
Not so for my wife. Families can be fraught affairs and without going into details there is sometimes a little tension. Yesterday was anticipated with more than the normal anxiety. We took daughter and granddaughter as we normally do; daughter sometimes adds a spark or two.
I was looking forward to it for my normal reasons. I also wanted to get it out of the way; my wife had been tense and when she is tense she snipes and bickers.
Don't get me wrong. The tensions are minor by the standards of many families - my own included – but they are sometimes there nonetheless.
Yesterday was going to be a clear out day; getting a room ready for a new boiler to be fitted. All the women were to muck in whilst I, the only man around, was assigned granddaughter duty.
No complaints there.
Mother-in-law lives near the sea on the Durham coast, adjacent to the coastal rail link. The sea is only about three hundred yards away; a walk down the road under a rail bridge and then a choice of good paths through pleasant meadows to the cliff tops or stay on the road along to the cleft and steps that take you down to the beach.
Years ago the beach was largely black; sea coal. I remember the unemployed miners pushing bikes up laden with sacks of sea-coal. It spat a lot on the open fires. Many was the time that, when courting, I would join my wife and her family beach combing for bits of glass or pretty stones. I was the only man of the family to join them. Now I'm the only man of those years left.
Granddaughter loves going for a walk; always asking me, “Granda, can we go for a walk?” I think she likes it because it allows her imagination to roam. The sights and sounds trigger all sorts in her mind; as they do me.
So off we toddled with plastic bags to put our discoveries in. We stayed on the road to the cleft, passed all the wild flowers growing at the side whilst listening to the birds twittering high above echoed by the constant twittering of granddaughter at ground level as she commented on all and sundry and often nothing in particular.
The beach is much cleaner nowadays and, although not as famous as others has a charm of its own. A mix of sand and pebbles covers a narrow strip beneath grassy cliffs. There are even arches and caves and some rocky areas to explore 'rocky pools' as granddaughter names them.
We hunted for pretty objects, found loads and threw stones into the rather tranquil sea. It was smooth enough to try skimming so she got a lesson on that. She got the hang of it; following my guidance on how to hold the stone and how to throw it, keeping it as flat as possible. Then the jumping up and down for joy as she achieved some bounces.
Not bad for seven.
We wandered over to the promontory with the arches and caves, listening to our echoes as we went through to the other side. The tide was coming in so I knew we couldn't stay long in the little bay there; she got a lesson in the tides when we returned with laden bags and sidled passed the, by now, narrow channel that was left.
'Wow, we'd better move fast before the sea comes in.'
'Oh we've plenty of time.'
'What about those people over there? They'll drown,' pointing to some people out on some rocks.
'They'll be fine, it doesn't happen that quickly. We can come back later and I'll show you how far it comes in.'
I told her that it was the moon that caused tides and, for a short time, she gave up talking and listened.
Back along the path the words came from her non-stop.
I got the dentist and the moth joke. She repeated it for me more slowly in case I didn't get it the first time. Then she started jerking around like a puppet, flinging her arms around whilst pronouncing, 'my body's controlling me' before moving off to another mind game.
'I think I'll count to a hundred' And she did; and when she got to a hundred she didn't stop, couldn't stop. She paused at two hundred so, able to get a word in, I asked, ' Can you do that backwards?' A little challenge.
She did too for while before announcing, 'That's too much like being at school'. We both agreed we were there to have fun. Oh, and she sang a couple of songs too.
And so she continued.
Later, after a lovely lunch, she asked to go for another walk.
So we did.
This time we stayed on the meadow paths above the cliff tops. She was tired and I knew the tide had come in anyway. The views are glorious. The North Sea doesn't have the azure blue of the Mediterranean but it has a special beauty all the same.
The colours are all of metal, the gunmetal grey of a looming storm, a serene steel grey of a calm sea giving way to pewter and then lead when clouds come over or the light fades. Sometimes an almost fairy like silver will shimmer somewhere in the distance as the sun plays its magic on the surface.
Yesterday we got a little silver; a dusting as though some giant make up brush loaded with silver glitter had been gently stroked across it and then the gleam of the sun in those distant silvery patches that capture the eye and then disappear slowly, teasing you to hold the image in your mind.
She was quieter now; a little tired but now able to listen to the birdsong and examine some big black furry caterpillars we found. I showed her how far the tide had come, blocking the entrances to the arches. 'Wow, that's well cool.'
Eventually, back home in Leeds, daughter and wife went off to get provisions. Granddaughter stayed with me; found a DVD, made a little nest out of a blanket and pillows and snuggled down to watch Mickey Mouse, of all things. She watches something easy like that when tired; so tired she could hardly talk. It was uncannily quiet.
Shopping done; daughter and granddaughter went home; not far.
'Pour yourself some wine and then I want you out of the kitchen; I've a surprise for tea.'
Fifteen minutes later she brought up a perfectly cooked steak with mushrooms and more.; a beautiful smile too. The tension was gone.
Puzzled, I asked why. I'd had a great day with granddaughter whilst she'd been clearing a room. Shouldn't it have been me doing the cooking?
She thanked me for keeping granddaughter occupied but it was more than that; it was also a 'sorry'; sorry for the sniping over the last few days, the tension in the air.
It was a celebration of a lovely day too.
Anticipation can work two ways; expect the best and you may be disappointed; expect the worst and you may be nicely surprised.
I was the beneficiary without really having to do anything other than being me.
Like I said, I had my cake and I ate it; only it was steak accompanied by some of the loveliest memories one could acquire.
No photos though.
Just imagine the picture below in the summer and near the sea. It doesn't matter where does it.
The story of a day.
We went to see the in-laws. I've always enjoyed my visits. I get fussed over as the revered son-in-law or brother-in-law and bask in the largely uncritical affection.
Not so for my wife. Families can be fraught affairs and without going into details there is sometimes a little tension. Yesterday was anticipated with more than the normal anxiety. We took daughter and granddaughter as we normally do; daughter sometimes adds a spark or two.
I was looking forward to it for my normal reasons. I also wanted to get it out of the way; my wife had been tense and when she is tense she snipes and bickers.
Don't get me wrong. The tensions are minor by the standards of many families - my own included – but they are sometimes there nonetheless.
Yesterday was going to be a clear out day; getting a room ready for a new boiler to be fitted. All the women were to muck in whilst I, the only man around, was assigned granddaughter duty.
No complaints there.
Mother-in-law lives near the sea on the Durham coast, adjacent to the coastal rail link. The sea is only about three hundred yards away; a walk down the road under a rail bridge and then a choice of good paths through pleasant meadows to the cliff tops or stay on the road along to the cleft and steps that take you down to the beach.
Years ago the beach was largely black; sea coal. I remember the unemployed miners pushing bikes up laden with sacks of sea-coal. It spat a lot on the open fires. Many was the time that, when courting, I would join my wife and her family beach combing for bits of glass or pretty stones. I was the only man of the family to join them. Now I'm the only man of those years left.
Granddaughter loves going for a walk; always asking me, “Granda, can we go for a walk?” I think she likes it because it allows her imagination to roam. The sights and sounds trigger all sorts in her mind; as they do me.
So off we toddled with plastic bags to put our discoveries in. We stayed on the road to the cleft, passed all the wild flowers growing at the side whilst listening to the birds twittering high above echoed by the constant twittering of granddaughter at ground level as she commented on all and sundry and often nothing in particular.
The beach is much cleaner nowadays and, although not as famous as others has a charm of its own. A mix of sand and pebbles covers a narrow strip beneath grassy cliffs. There are even arches and caves and some rocky areas to explore 'rocky pools' as granddaughter names them.
We hunted for pretty objects, found loads and threw stones into the rather tranquil sea. It was smooth enough to try skimming so she got a lesson on that. She got the hang of it; following my guidance on how to hold the stone and how to throw it, keeping it as flat as possible. Then the jumping up and down for joy as she achieved some bounces.
Not bad for seven.
We wandered over to the promontory with the arches and caves, listening to our echoes as we went through to the other side. The tide was coming in so I knew we couldn't stay long in the little bay there; she got a lesson in the tides when we returned with laden bags and sidled passed the, by now, narrow channel that was left.
'Wow, we'd better move fast before the sea comes in.'
'Oh we've plenty of time.'
'What about those people over there? They'll drown,' pointing to some people out on some rocks.
'They'll be fine, it doesn't happen that quickly. We can come back later and I'll show you how far it comes in.'
I told her that it was the moon that caused tides and, for a short time, she gave up talking and listened.
Back along the path the words came from her non-stop.
I got the dentist and the moth joke. She repeated it for me more slowly in case I didn't get it the first time. Then she started jerking around like a puppet, flinging her arms around whilst pronouncing, 'my body's controlling me' before moving off to another mind game.
'I think I'll count to a hundred' And she did; and when she got to a hundred she didn't stop, couldn't stop. She paused at two hundred so, able to get a word in, I asked, ' Can you do that backwards?' A little challenge.
She did too for while before announcing, 'That's too much like being at school'. We both agreed we were there to have fun. Oh, and she sang a couple of songs too.
And so she continued.
Later, after a lovely lunch, she asked to go for another walk.
So we did.
This time we stayed on the meadow paths above the cliff tops. She was tired and I knew the tide had come in anyway. The views are glorious. The North Sea doesn't have the azure blue of the Mediterranean but it has a special beauty all the same.
The colours are all of metal, the gunmetal grey of a looming storm, a serene steel grey of a calm sea giving way to pewter and then lead when clouds come over or the light fades. Sometimes an almost fairy like silver will shimmer somewhere in the distance as the sun plays its magic on the surface.
Yesterday we got a little silver; a dusting as though some giant make up brush loaded with silver glitter had been gently stroked across it and then the gleam of the sun in those distant silvery patches that capture the eye and then disappear slowly, teasing you to hold the image in your mind.
She was quieter now; a little tired but now able to listen to the birdsong and examine some big black furry caterpillars we found. I showed her how far the tide had come, blocking the entrances to the arches. 'Wow, that's well cool.'
Eventually, back home in Leeds, daughter and wife went off to get provisions. Granddaughter stayed with me; found a DVD, made a little nest out of a blanket and pillows and snuggled down to watch Mickey Mouse, of all things. She watches something easy like that when tired; so tired she could hardly talk. It was uncannily quiet.
Shopping done; daughter and granddaughter went home; not far.
'Pour yourself some wine and then I want you out of the kitchen; I've a surprise for tea.'
Fifteen minutes later she brought up a perfectly cooked steak with mushrooms and more.; a beautiful smile too. The tension was gone.
Puzzled, I asked why. I'd had a great day with granddaughter whilst she'd been clearing a room. Shouldn't it have been me doing the cooking?
She thanked me for keeping granddaughter occupied but it was more than that; it was also a 'sorry'; sorry for the sniping over the last few days, the tension in the air.
It was a celebration of a lovely day too.
Anticipation can work two ways; expect the best and you may be disappointed; expect the worst and you may be nicely surprised.
I was the beneficiary without really having to do anything other than being me.
Like I said, I had my cake and I ate it; only it was steak accompanied by some of the loveliest memories one could acquire.
No photos though.
Just imagine the picture below in the summer and near the sea. It doesn't matter where does it.
Friday, 22 May 2009
Blog jumping
You'll notice a growing list of blogs on my side bar. They are hugely varied, a writer or two, an avant-garde poet (I think he is), a couple in the media, a political researcher and others. Many of them have links too and the fact that I have a broad selection of blogs I've linked to enables me to hop from them to others and into that huge blogging universe out there without having to have one hundred and fifty three links .
I came across this for instance. It's the shuttle silhoutted against the sun. The small object below it is the Hubble telescope.
The blogs on my side bar are not the only ones I read; far from it. They just symbolise the variety of blogs that I read and that exist out there. Some I see as companions; people I would go and have a pint with. Others are there to teach me. Most cross over in one way or another.
What astounds me is the sheer differentness.
Some are single subject; OK if the subject interests you.
Others are generalist; the best if the blogger is a good writer and has something to say.
Some use words alone; others throw in a lot of photos. I've found some of the latter inspirational in a way that I never thought I would.
Some are simple; others have all sorts of bells and whistles. I tend to avoid those who include a lot of video clips as some take so long to load.
The blogging world is like a huge mind. Open a door and you find several more in front of you; just like the imagination in my view.
I wonder if the blogging ether could develop into some kind of entity with its own consciousness.
Think.
Twenty five years ago I played around with computers that could basically manage simple games, spreadsheets and lists.
Now we have them able to make simple decisions; some of the investment tracking funds are run by computer with no input from humans.
So imagine a decision making process embedded into the blogging world; voting; surveys of opinions; decisions made on that basis.
And who is to say that such intelligence, originally man-made, could not take on a consciousness of its own.
Electronic evolution.
Oh, I know, I'm wandering off in my own mind now. I have opened a door in my imagination and wandered in to open other doors and who knows where that will lead.
An idea for my next novel? Well, that path has been trodden already; but a variation?
I'll jump out of my mind now and jump back into 'blogworld'
For now it is a passive world at our beck and call.
But in the future, twenty five years on?
I came across this for instance. It's the shuttle silhoutted against the sun. The small object below it is the Hubble telescope.
The blogs on my side bar are not the only ones I read; far from it. They just symbolise the variety of blogs that I read and that exist out there. Some I see as companions; people I would go and have a pint with. Others are there to teach me. Most cross over in one way or another.
What astounds me is the sheer differentness.
Some are single subject; OK if the subject interests you.
Others are generalist; the best if the blogger is a good writer and has something to say.
Some use words alone; others throw in a lot of photos. I've found some of the latter inspirational in a way that I never thought I would.
Some are simple; others have all sorts of bells and whistles. I tend to avoid those who include a lot of video clips as some take so long to load.
The blogging world is like a huge mind. Open a door and you find several more in front of you; just like the imagination in my view.
I wonder if the blogging ether could develop into some kind of entity with its own consciousness.
Think.
Twenty five years ago I played around with computers that could basically manage simple games, spreadsheets and lists.
Now we have them able to make simple decisions; some of the investment tracking funds are run by computer with no input from humans.
So imagine a decision making process embedded into the blogging world; voting; surveys of opinions; decisions made on that basis.
And who is to say that such intelligence, originally man-made, could not take on a consciousness of its own.
Electronic evolution.
Oh, I know, I'm wandering off in my own mind now. I have opened a door in my imagination and wandered in to open other doors and who knows where that will lead.
An idea for my next novel? Well, that path has been trodden already; but a variation?
I'll jump out of my mind now and jump back into 'blogworld'
For now it is a passive world at our beck and call.
But in the future, twenty five years on?
The End is Nigh
My first novel is proving to be quite an adventure.
The hundred thousand word threshold has been passed. I'm fairly clear how it will end and haven't much more to do.
That's created, in itself, other challenges.
First, when I've finished it what will I do? It will need more work, I've got a whole chapter to insert somewhere further back; but then what? Tout it around agents? Try to sell it?
Call my own bluff; am I good enough to be published?
Then there is the fact that, because I know how it will end, there is no more meandering around allowing the thing a life of its own. The fun is morphing into work; the discipline of finishing it off and then any follow up I decide to proceed with.
A different challenge.
Will I miss it when I've finished? I've read that that is a symptom of coming to the end of a novel. In this case I don't think I will. I'll want a break from it to do other stuff and, crucially, I have left things open.
I could carry on the story with a sequel.
If you think about it a novel need never end until the death of the main character. It can be like life in the sense that it can be written and read as a journey. Some would call that a saga; split into novels which are, in turn, split into chapters.
A sequel is also a marketing tool; if it's any good I can say to an agent/publisher, 'There's more where that came from'.
I can see it now; sitting at my PC or whatever I'm using in twenty years time writing away. Technology will probably allow me to dispense the keyboard.
And there I will sit with Book Nine of my unpublished drivel.
Will I want to carry one when I realise that no-one wants to read me?
Probably; I just cannot shut up.
The hundred thousand word threshold has been passed. I'm fairly clear how it will end and haven't much more to do.
That's created, in itself, other challenges.
First, when I've finished it what will I do? It will need more work, I've got a whole chapter to insert somewhere further back; but then what? Tout it around agents? Try to sell it?
Call my own bluff; am I good enough to be published?
Then there is the fact that, because I know how it will end, there is no more meandering around allowing the thing a life of its own. The fun is morphing into work; the discipline of finishing it off and then any follow up I decide to proceed with.
A different challenge.
Will I miss it when I've finished? I've read that that is a symptom of coming to the end of a novel. In this case I don't think I will. I'll want a break from it to do other stuff and, crucially, I have left things open.
I could carry on the story with a sequel.
If you think about it a novel need never end until the death of the main character. It can be like life in the sense that it can be written and read as a journey. Some would call that a saga; split into novels which are, in turn, split into chapters.
A sequel is also a marketing tool; if it's any good I can say to an agent/publisher, 'There's more where that came from'.
I can see it now; sitting at my PC or whatever I'm using in twenty years time writing away. Technology will probably allow me to dispense the keyboard.
And there I will sit with Book Nine of my unpublished drivel.
Will I want to carry one when I realise that no-one wants to read me?
Probably; I just cannot shut up.
A Pet Hate
We took my knees out for a walk the other day. A park with small lakes is being built nearby and, hopefully, will provide a pleasant corner.
This assumes that the local youths don't fill the lakes with shopping trolleys.
The paths are wide. A good job too. Already the dog owners have declared their presence by allowing their pets to leave large deposits around which people have to negotiate.
Not a place to stride out in the dark.
Anyway, back to the walk. It was a pleasant late spring/early summer evening. People with children and dogs wandered around and my knees were holding up well.
Ahead we saw a young woman with a dog. As if on cue it decided to do a........yes, you've guessed it.
To our happy surprise she dug into her pocket and got out a little plastic bag and picked the offending material up. Luckily the dog didn't have the runs; I always wonder what people do in situations like that; get a spoon? Eugh.
I smiled benignly as we walked passed. She didn't return the smile as she passed, swinging her little bag. In fact she seemed to look a bit sheepish. A minute or so later my wife looked back and saw that she no longer had the bag. Had she put it in her bag to get all squished up? Eugh again.
Or had she thrown it away?
Further along we passed a bush in the hedgerow that had a dangling decoration someone had carefully hung. A little bright blue bag with something soft and mushy inside.
We've passed these before, usually on a walk near some housing estate.
Why oh why do people do it? Why do they go to the bother of scooping it up and then hanging the bag from a tree, gatepost or bush? Do they think there is some service that comes around to collect these things.
And they last for months. The contents can't rot away naturally so it ferments inside. Eugh again and again.
Not only are these people leaving their dog mess around but they are adding to and worsening it by putting it in a bag.
We both finished that walk chuntering to ourselves and each other. Mr and Mrs Angry.
This assumes that the local youths don't fill the lakes with shopping trolleys.
The paths are wide. A good job too. Already the dog owners have declared their presence by allowing their pets to leave large deposits around which people have to negotiate.
Not a place to stride out in the dark.
Anyway, back to the walk. It was a pleasant late spring/early summer evening. People with children and dogs wandered around and my knees were holding up well.
Ahead we saw a young woman with a dog. As if on cue it decided to do a........yes, you've guessed it.
To our happy surprise she dug into her pocket and got out a little plastic bag and picked the offending material up. Luckily the dog didn't have the runs; I always wonder what people do in situations like that; get a spoon? Eugh.
I smiled benignly as we walked passed. She didn't return the smile as she passed, swinging her little bag. In fact she seemed to look a bit sheepish. A minute or so later my wife looked back and saw that she no longer had the bag. Had she put it in her bag to get all squished up? Eugh again.
Or had she thrown it away?
Further along we passed a bush in the hedgerow that had a dangling decoration someone had carefully hung. A little bright blue bag with something soft and mushy inside.
We've passed these before, usually on a walk near some housing estate.
Why oh why do people do it? Why do they go to the bother of scooping it up and then hanging the bag from a tree, gatepost or bush? Do they think there is some service that comes around to collect these things.
And they last for months. The contents can't rot away naturally so it ferments inside. Eugh again and again.
Not only are these people leaving their dog mess around but they are adding to and worsening it by putting it in a bag.
We both finished that walk chuntering to ourselves and each other. Mr and Mrs Angry.
Thursday, 21 May 2009
My idea of integrity
This is an introverted post, one of those 'all about me posts' so be warned he he.
For most of my life I have been a fairly high earner. Not in the very top echelons but very comfortable thankyou; MP kind of earnings; sans the expenses I hasten to add. I do not have a 'duck island'.
To give a benchmark; twenty years ago I was on about thirty thousand a year. What would that be now?
Point is, since my early thirties money has come fairly easily and gone just as easily.
It started with sales in my twenties. Or that is what I thought I was; a salesman. I'm not really. I was able to sell when I started out because I was selling to women mostly. I was young, appealing and what they were buying wasn't the product presented with such aplomb as I thought at the time; it was me.
You wouldn't recognise me looking at the photos in previous posts. For a very brief period in my life I was actually rather attractive.
However, my reliance on my appearance had to give way to reliance on hard work and some skill gained through experience. I did well. My intelligence and willingness to work long hours made up for my reducing physical appeal.
I got promoted on performance and found myself managing quite a lot of people. I'm not a sales manager. I can train but the hard nosed managerial thing isn't me.
By a circuitous route – I'll not bore you with the path to that - I became an independent financial adviser. A good ten years of my working life. Some IFAs are out and out sales types; others are tough businessmen. Some are millionaires. I was happy to provide a service to clients, hard won, and felt a huge obligation to them. Many are retired and in their seventies. Some quite vulnerable.
I did my best.
Then the credit crunch. Within a short period some of my clients lost money that I had not foreseen. They lost less than most; less than the FTSE. But I felt responsible. I dreaded going to see them.
Yet, when I did their sanguine attitude almost brought me to tears at times. They thanked me for mitigating their losses. They understood what I had tried to do.
An example; I have a lovely client who has one of those progressive conditions that will eventually kill her.. Six or seven years ago her husband, a lovely man, died from a horrible cancer. I helped them out financially through that. She is now deteriorating slowly and on her own. She isn't seventy yet. She has lost some money; not a lot. But money that I was responsible for.
She thanked me last time I saw her. It cut me up.
I had operated within all the rules and measured, within the known parameters, the risks that my clients were taking, under my guidance, with their money. I always tried to go the extra mile.
But the movers and shakers in finance pulled the rug. Regulation seems to have passed them by; be it self regulation or imposed regulation.
It has disillusioned me.
How can you go the extra mile if the distance is hidden by those in charge?
How can I advise people on risk when the big picture is kept hidden from me?
How can I advise people on mortgages when all the big lenders daren't lend to the people they threw money at two years go; and many of those lending are the worst culprits and can only lend because they are nationalised. Many of the rest have gone to the wall.
The industry, to me, stinks.
To add insult to injury; the regulators have imposed tough new exams – degree level taking three or four years – on the likes of me. That, actually, is a good thing. But not for a fifty five year old.
I'm to old to weather the clean up.
So I've baled out; selling up. I don't need, or want, to earn big money any more. Got a little job but my knees gave out so plans are awry. Another story.
I'm now in the position of eating humble pie. I get interviewed by the kind of people I used to manage. I'm learning to live by a new set of rules. I don't have the kind of money I used to.
I draw my pension; a legacy of previous success so I do have something.
Am I despondent?
Am I bitter?
Far from it. That does surprise me.
I have had time to think about what really matters. I have had time to explore new avenues.
I've always been a believer in fate. I've always fallen on my feet because I've allowed that to happen.
I've gone with my conscience. I'm relying on fate. Sounds risky eh?
Not on your nelly. Go with the flow I say. Play to your strengths and keep a weather eye on whatever opportunities arise.
Even now I am still an optimist. I am intelligent, flexible, adaptable and more. I want to give something back to society. I have taken a lot from it.
Not the society of the wanker bankers or the duck island MPs but those ordinary people I have always worked with.
I've been shortlisted for a police call centre job.
Now that is a service.
Wish me luck.
For most of my life I have been a fairly high earner. Not in the very top echelons but very comfortable thankyou; MP kind of earnings; sans the expenses I hasten to add. I do not have a 'duck island'.
To give a benchmark; twenty years ago I was on about thirty thousand a year. What would that be now?
Point is, since my early thirties money has come fairly easily and gone just as easily.
It started with sales in my twenties. Or that is what I thought I was; a salesman. I'm not really. I was able to sell when I started out because I was selling to women mostly. I was young, appealing and what they were buying wasn't the product presented with such aplomb as I thought at the time; it was me.
You wouldn't recognise me looking at the photos in previous posts. For a very brief period in my life I was actually rather attractive.
However, my reliance on my appearance had to give way to reliance on hard work and some skill gained through experience. I did well. My intelligence and willingness to work long hours made up for my reducing physical appeal.
I got promoted on performance and found myself managing quite a lot of people. I'm not a sales manager. I can train but the hard nosed managerial thing isn't me.
By a circuitous route – I'll not bore you with the path to that - I became an independent financial adviser. A good ten years of my working life. Some IFAs are out and out sales types; others are tough businessmen. Some are millionaires. I was happy to provide a service to clients, hard won, and felt a huge obligation to them. Many are retired and in their seventies. Some quite vulnerable.
I did my best.
Then the credit crunch. Within a short period some of my clients lost money that I had not foreseen. They lost less than most; less than the FTSE. But I felt responsible. I dreaded going to see them.
Yet, when I did their sanguine attitude almost brought me to tears at times. They thanked me for mitigating their losses. They understood what I had tried to do.
An example; I have a lovely client who has one of those progressive conditions that will eventually kill her.. Six or seven years ago her husband, a lovely man, died from a horrible cancer. I helped them out financially through that. She is now deteriorating slowly and on her own. She isn't seventy yet. She has lost some money; not a lot. But money that I was responsible for.
She thanked me last time I saw her. It cut me up.
I had operated within all the rules and measured, within the known parameters, the risks that my clients were taking, under my guidance, with their money. I always tried to go the extra mile.
But the movers and shakers in finance pulled the rug. Regulation seems to have passed them by; be it self regulation or imposed regulation.
It has disillusioned me.
How can you go the extra mile if the distance is hidden by those in charge?
How can I advise people on risk when the big picture is kept hidden from me?
How can I advise people on mortgages when all the big lenders daren't lend to the people they threw money at two years go; and many of those lending are the worst culprits and can only lend because they are nationalised. Many of the rest have gone to the wall.
The industry, to me, stinks.
To add insult to injury; the regulators have imposed tough new exams – degree level taking three or four years – on the likes of me. That, actually, is a good thing. But not for a fifty five year old.
I'm to old to weather the clean up.
So I've baled out; selling up. I don't need, or want, to earn big money any more. Got a little job but my knees gave out so plans are awry. Another story.
I'm now in the position of eating humble pie. I get interviewed by the kind of people I used to manage. I'm learning to live by a new set of rules. I don't have the kind of money I used to.
I draw my pension; a legacy of previous success so I do have something.
Am I despondent?
Am I bitter?
Far from it. That does surprise me.
I have had time to think about what really matters. I have had time to explore new avenues.
I've always been a believer in fate. I've always fallen on my feet because I've allowed that to happen.
I've gone with my conscience. I'm relying on fate. Sounds risky eh?
Not on your nelly. Go with the flow I say. Play to your strengths and keep a weather eye on whatever opportunities arise.
Even now I am still an optimist. I am intelligent, flexible, adaptable and more. I want to give something back to society. I have taken a lot from it.
Not the society of the wanker bankers or the duck island MPs but those ordinary people I have always worked with.
I've been shortlisted for a police call centre job.
Now that is a service.
Wish me luck.
Wednesday, 20 May 2009
Democracy
You might notice a link I've added to my side bar, Your Right To Know
It is a blog. Written by someone called Heather Brookes
We owe her, and people like her, a debt. She has persevered where others didn't and triggered this whole thing off about MPs' expenses.
A good roundup is here ; an Australian view and a good one too.
If you wonder about Rort, well another click will reveal all.
It is a blog. Written by someone called Heather Brookes
We owe her, and people like her, a debt. She has persevered where others didn't and triggered this whole thing off about MPs' expenses.
A good roundup is here ; an Australian view and a good one too.
If you wonder about Rort, well another click will reveal all.
Tuesday, 19 May 2009
A Photographic Memory
I have an excellent memory; some of the time. I can remember quite a lot way back into my infancy and sometimes chuckle to myself at the thought of sitting gaga in a wheelchair at ninety recalling my times as a four-year old but unable to remember the previous day. The chuckle is a little forced.
Memory is selective and, in my view, changes over time. The images I have now may not be entirely accurate and may also be coloured by my understanding of events at the time they happened.
An example; I remember my first sight of the sea. I must have been very young, probably sitting in a pushchair for the memory is entirely passive. I have this image of a huge curved blue thing networked with white; it must have been a wave. The abiding memory is the size and motion of it. Yet, if a photo had been taken of it the wave would likely appear much smaller than the image I have of it in my mind. And the image itself? Have I altered it, coloured it in, to suit my learned understanding of what waves are, what they look like?
Any image you look at is interpreted by your mind based on what you already know. Those first images an infant has are different; there is no backdrop of knowledge against which to frame the image.
This can happen even with adults. Look at the trick images where you are invited to look at something that is, in reality, something else.
Preconception.
Perception changes too and that will alter your preconceived ideas as time moves on. So if you have a memory and your perception of something changes will that memory change.?
An easy example is that of children. They change dramatically in appearance so that our perception of them will alter over time. Will our memory do the same?
Up to a point I think it does. I remember my daughter as a little blonde toddler but her face is mixed up with her current, adult, face. I need to go back and look at the photos of her to remind myself.
That isn't perfect for the accurate facial images of her are static; photos. The moving, living, memory is more of a blur - we have no moving film of her when young - the memory coloured by current knowledge of her.
Even if we don't think of this in any conscious sense we understand this. It's why we all take loads of photos of our children and grandchildren as they grow up, recording that mind boggling physical change called growth.
I spent some time looking at photos of my ever changing Granddaughter a few nights ago. Now, I know I'm biased but some were just so enchanting I had to post a few here, as much to remind myself as to show her off.
I have avoided posting pictures of my wife and daughter; they don't like having photos taken and it would be an invasion. My Granddaughter? By the time she is old enough to care she will have changed and won't be recognised. Besides, we all tend to see ourselves as another person when looking back on our childhood.
Anyway, that's my justification for what I'm posting now.
A typical Sunday - you can see the papers and the wine glass. I think I'm more interested in the story than Granddaughter.
I hate the way I look but she's a peach.
And starting school over two years ago now. Typical of her happy disposition.
That smile is something I will carry with me always.
And this afternoon, when I am creating something for the four of us for tea I will smile at my memories of her, my wife and daughter and the anticipation of seeing them again.
Memory is selective and, in my view, changes over time. The images I have now may not be entirely accurate and may also be coloured by my understanding of events at the time they happened.
An example; I remember my first sight of the sea. I must have been very young, probably sitting in a pushchair for the memory is entirely passive. I have this image of a huge curved blue thing networked with white; it must have been a wave. The abiding memory is the size and motion of it. Yet, if a photo had been taken of it the wave would likely appear much smaller than the image I have of it in my mind. And the image itself? Have I altered it, coloured it in, to suit my learned understanding of what waves are, what they look like?
Any image you look at is interpreted by your mind based on what you already know. Those first images an infant has are different; there is no backdrop of knowledge against which to frame the image.
This can happen even with adults. Look at the trick images where you are invited to look at something that is, in reality, something else.
Preconception.
Perception changes too and that will alter your preconceived ideas as time moves on. So if you have a memory and your perception of something changes will that memory change.?
An easy example is that of children. They change dramatically in appearance so that our perception of them will alter over time. Will our memory do the same?
Up to a point I think it does. I remember my daughter as a little blonde toddler but her face is mixed up with her current, adult, face. I need to go back and look at the photos of her to remind myself.
That isn't perfect for the accurate facial images of her are static; photos. The moving, living, memory is more of a blur - we have no moving film of her when young - the memory coloured by current knowledge of her.
Even if we don't think of this in any conscious sense we understand this. It's why we all take loads of photos of our children and grandchildren as they grow up, recording that mind boggling physical change called growth.
I spent some time looking at photos of my ever changing Granddaughter a few nights ago. Now, I know I'm biased but some were just so enchanting I had to post a few here, as much to remind myself as to show her off.
I have avoided posting pictures of my wife and daughter; they don't like having photos taken and it would be an invasion. My Granddaughter? By the time she is old enough to care she will have changed and won't be recognised. Besides, we all tend to see ourselves as another person when looking back on our childhood.
Anyway, that's my justification for what I'm posting now.
A typical Sunday - you can see the papers and the wine glass. I think I'm more interested in the story than Granddaughter.
I hate the way I look but she's a peach.
And starting school over two years ago now. Typical of her happy disposition.
That smile is something I will carry with me always.
And this afternoon, when I am creating something for the four of us for tea I will smile at my memories of her, my wife and daughter and the anticipation of seeing them again.
Monday, 18 May 2009
Overnighters
An overnighter?
It is an expression my wife and I use for a casserole cooked on a low heat overnight. We usually have them in winter but she fancied one this weekend.
Beef tends to dry out but lamb just turns into a buttery heaven when done like this; barley, carrots, shallots, rosemary, a hint of garlic and a good stock completed my creation on Saturday night.
It's not just the fact that the result is so good but the ritual of doing it appeals too.
If I get up in the middle of the night I can hear the fan oven doing its work and going to bed with the beginnings of Sunday lunch aromas is decadent to the point of obscene.
We love it.
And it makes Sunday mornings so easy; just a few potatoes (Jersey Royals) , some Savoy cabbage cut into 'spaghetti' strips for Granddaughter and that was it; or should I say et voila!
It is an expression my wife and I use for a casserole cooked on a low heat overnight. We usually have them in winter but she fancied one this weekend.
Beef tends to dry out but lamb just turns into a buttery heaven when done like this; barley, carrots, shallots, rosemary, a hint of garlic and a good stock completed my creation on Saturday night.
It's not just the fact that the result is so good but the ritual of doing it appeals too.
If I get up in the middle of the night I can hear the fan oven doing its work and going to bed with the beginnings of Sunday lunch aromas is decadent to the point of obscene.
We love it.
And it makes Sunday mornings so easy; just a few potatoes (Jersey Royals) , some Savoy cabbage cut into 'spaghetti' strips for Granddaughter and that was it; or should I say et voila!
Friday, 15 May 2009
I Love You
Martha's post made me think.
When did you last write that?
No, not text, or should I say 'txt' as in 'I luv u'; no doubt that is long hand in the eyes of the proficient txt communicator.
Or via an e-mail; 'I love you' or 'I LOVE YOU' or even 'I love you'
Anyone could dash them off and they could do it from half way across the world.
Supposing, instead of the txt or e-mail, you get a hand-written note with 'I love you' on it.
That is special. It is intimate because those words, those letters, are unique and can never be written again in exactly the same way no matter how hard you try, let alone by a different person.
It brings the writer to you.
It captures a moment that no txt can do.
And when you read it you know that the writer was close enough to touch it, to breath on it and that if they had any imagination they did just that. Maybe even kissed it.
So you touch it too.
When did you last write that?
No, not text, or should I say 'txt' as in 'I luv u'; no doubt that is long hand in the eyes of the proficient txt communicator.
Or via an e-mail; 'I love you' or 'I LOVE YOU' or even 'I love you'
Anyone could dash them off and they could do it from half way across the world.
Supposing, instead of the txt or e-mail, you get a hand-written note with 'I love you' on it.
That is special. It is intimate because those words, those letters, are unique and can never be written again in exactly the same way no matter how hard you try, let alone by a different person.
It brings the writer to you.
It captures a moment that no txt can do.
And when you read it you know that the writer was close enough to touch it, to breath on it and that if they had any imagination they did just that. Maybe even kissed it.
So you touch it too.
Thursday, 14 May 2009
Flipping Hell
I'm talking MPs here; The Expenses Show.
Everyone seems to be too; at least in the media.
Yet, when I meet friends and acquaintances it isn't a topic high on the list of what we want to talk about; way behind, “How's business?”, “How's the family?”, “'Bout time we had a meal out?” and so on.
Should it be?
Should this huge challenge to our society be foremost in our minds as we go about our everyday business?
Or have the powers that be, whether it be bankers or MPs so lost touch with our reality that we don't really care; that we are not surprised by anything they do.
Why, they could go and shag sheep in Whitehall and we wouldn't bat an eyelid.
Or would we? There seems to be a vocal minority who are shouting their distaste on blogs, forums, anywhere where Joe Public can be heard.
This is my shout.
And maybe it is the web that will fill the vacuum and allow dissent where revolution and extremism would once have done. Seventy years ago I may have gone to listen to the likes of Oswald Mosley . Now I read other blogs and the newspapers amongst the rest. I vent my spleen here; not at a public meeting.
Amongst all this I can read the extremist stuff but I can also read what Joe Public, whoever he is, thinks.
Some of the detail beggars belief. I watched John Maples defend his claim on Newsnight last night. He had claimed that a room at his club had been his main home for a period.
Oh Yeah.
He explained the detail; that he had claimed for this as an interim between selling his London home and buying a replacement. He had had it vetted by the claims people.
He obviously had come on to Newsnight to try and distance himself from the likes of Elliot Morley and his claiming for a non-existent mortgage. In a sense he had a point. He was just continuing to claim for living in London and had to use his club room as a temporary place.
Then came the killer punch; the nub of what this all means.
Jeremy Paxman pointed out that through all this Maples had his Oxfordshire constituency residence; where he spent weekends; where his family resided.
Ah, 'that's my second home. I spend all week in London and only weekends there.'
He didn't get it. Isn't that his main home; where his wife lives?
How many people work away from home? How many of them can claim that their new place, purchased with the help of expenses, can be dubbed their main home and qualify for all sorts of tax free money.
And then be 'flipped' in its designation to second home when thy want to sell it and avoid Capital Gains Tax. Some seem to have flipped back and forth with dizzying, and brazen, frequency.
Maples strikes me as reasonably honest. He claimed within the system and hasn't tried to hide; unlike quite a few others. He doesn't seem to have 'flipped'
What his behaviour highlighted is the bankruptcy of the system and those within it; that they seem to be happy to have special exemptions that no-one else appears to be able to have.Some are crowding to pay back money that they claim to have claimed in error. Money has been paid back in recent weeks that had been claimed over previous years; as though the revelations about to hit them had nothing to do with it.
That's what sticks in my craw.
They knew they were doing wrong all along!
I wonder, will it unleash some other scandal? Maybe all these monied businessmen, bankers for instance, are also 'flipping' to avoid taxes.
It's flipping outrageous.
Everyone seems to be too; at least in the media.
Yet, when I meet friends and acquaintances it isn't a topic high on the list of what we want to talk about; way behind, “How's business?”, “How's the family?”, “'Bout time we had a meal out?” and so on.
Should it be?
Should this huge challenge to our society be foremost in our minds as we go about our everyday business?
Or have the powers that be, whether it be bankers or MPs so lost touch with our reality that we don't really care; that we are not surprised by anything they do.
Why, they could go and shag sheep in Whitehall and we wouldn't bat an eyelid.
Or would we? There seems to be a vocal minority who are shouting their distaste on blogs, forums, anywhere where Joe Public can be heard.
This is my shout.
And maybe it is the web that will fill the vacuum and allow dissent where revolution and extremism would once have done. Seventy years ago I may have gone to listen to the likes of Oswald Mosley . Now I read other blogs and the newspapers amongst the rest. I vent my spleen here; not at a public meeting.
Amongst all this I can read the extremist stuff but I can also read what Joe Public, whoever he is, thinks.
Some of the detail beggars belief. I watched John Maples defend his claim on Newsnight last night. He had claimed that a room at his club had been his main home for a period.
Oh Yeah.
He explained the detail; that he had claimed for this as an interim between selling his London home and buying a replacement. He had had it vetted by the claims people.
He obviously had come on to Newsnight to try and distance himself from the likes of Elliot Morley and his claiming for a non-existent mortgage. In a sense he had a point. He was just continuing to claim for living in London and had to use his club room as a temporary place.
Then came the killer punch; the nub of what this all means.
Jeremy Paxman pointed out that through all this Maples had his Oxfordshire constituency residence; where he spent weekends; where his family resided.
Ah, 'that's my second home. I spend all week in London and only weekends there.'
He didn't get it. Isn't that his main home; where his wife lives?
How many people work away from home? How many of them can claim that their new place, purchased with the help of expenses, can be dubbed their main home and qualify for all sorts of tax free money.
And then be 'flipped' in its designation to second home when thy want to sell it and avoid Capital Gains Tax. Some seem to have flipped back and forth with dizzying, and brazen, frequency.
Maples strikes me as reasonably honest. He claimed within the system and hasn't tried to hide; unlike quite a few others. He doesn't seem to have 'flipped'
What his behaviour highlighted is the bankruptcy of the system and those within it; that they seem to be happy to have special exemptions that no-one else appears to be able to have.Some are crowding to pay back money that they claim to have claimed in error. Money has been paid back in recent weeks that had been claimed over previous years; as though the revelations about to hit them had nothing to do with it.
That's what sticks in my craw.
They knew they were doing wrong all along!
I wonder, will it unleash some other scandal? Maybe all these monied businessmen, bankers for instance, are also 'flipping' to avoid taxes.
It's flipping outrageous.
Tuesday, 12 May 2009
The Plot
Before I started this journey into writing I was convinced that I had nothing much to tell and wouldn't be able to think up a convincing plot.
Even when I started with some short stories the thought of a whole novel was daunting; no way would I be able to do that.
However I got a germ of an idea and from that a whole story unfolded. I have created a complete world within my head, populated by people, places and events that would never have existed had it not been for me and my imagination. That does provide satisfaction. It is almost like a parallel universe and has made me fantasise that by creating it in my mind it might exist in reality somewhere.
Oh dear, I'm going off into surreality there.
There have been times when I struggled a little with where the story was going. However, I have always managed to find a way out by allowing it to flow naturally; a similar attitude I have to life itself really.
Maybe that is the key to creating a plot - going with the flow. So many seem to struggle with it but I've found that once you create a character or two and place that character in a situation – it barely matters where – then the thing takes on a life of its own.
A plot can be as far-fetched as you like I think. You just have to make it sound plausible.
Proof of that, to me, is 'The Da Vinci Code'
I watched it the other night; I like Tom Hanks. I hoped it would be a little more convincing than the book. It wasn't. I had tried to get into the book when it came out but only got up to page thirty two. I just could not relate to the idea of an albino assassin sneaking around unnoticed with this pain inducing contraption wrapped around his leg. I found the idea funny rather than as it should have been. I read it at arms length and with a grimace. Preposterous. And the rest of the concept left me stone cold too.
I ended up doing a word puzzle whilst half watching the film and thinking; 'difficulties with a plot? pah, no such thing'.
Mind you; I may be the only one who likes my plots.
Even when I started with some short stories the thought of a whole novel was daunting; no way would I be able to do that.
However I got a germ of an idea and from that a whole story unfolded. I have created a complete world within my head, populated by people, places and events that would never have existed had it not been for me and my imagination. That does provide satisfaction. It is almost like a parallel universe and has made me fantasise that by creating it in my mind it might exist in reality somewhere.
Oh dear, I'm going off into surreality there.
There have been times when I struggled a little with where the story was going. However, I have always managed to find a way out by allowing it to flow naturally; a similar attitude I have to life itself really.
Maybe that is the key to creating a plot - going with the flow. So many seem to struggle with it but I've found that once you create a character or two and place that character in a situation – it barely matters where – then the thing takes on a life of its own.
A plot can be as far-fetched as you like I think. You just have to make it sound plausible.
Proof of that, to me, is 'The Da Vinci Code'
I watched it the other night; I like Tom Hanks. I hoped it would be a little more convincing than the book. It wasn't. I had tried to get into the book when it came out but only got up to page thirty two. I just could not relate to the idea of an albino assassin sneaking around unnoticed with this pain inducing contraption wrapped around his leg. I found the idea funny rather than as it should have been. I read it at arms length and with a grimace. Preposterous. And the rest of the concept left me stone cold too.
I ended up doing a word puzzle whilst half watching the film and thinking; 'difficulties with a plot? pah, no such thing'.
Mind you; I may be the only one who likes my plots.
Monday, 11 May 2009
A Perfect Day
One of my hobbies is wargaming.
Whenever it crops up in conversation with people who don't do it they immediately imagine me dressed up as some Roundhead or Cavalier or maybe running around Paintballing. I can see a smile of incredulity flicker behind their eyes, the pursing of the lips as they try to refrain from that smile.
I don't mind their amusement. Most hobbies, as pursued by men, are a little ridiculous. Go on any 'hobby' message board and you will see a sort of single minded escapism and attention to strange detail that women just don't 'get'. I struggle with the mentality too; some take it all so seriously.
I find wargaming amusing. And no, it doesn't involve getting dressed up or running around in a forest.
It's all about playing with toy soldiers. Just as silly; and the toy soldiers I play with are Elves, Dwarfs and all sorts of other fantastical silliness.
I have a room devoted to it and a table set up with miniature landscapes so that we can play our games; a sort of three-dimensional board game complete with little trees, houses and hills. We use commercially bought rules that incorporate a little skill and luck. Hopefully in some kind of balance.
Yesterday I had a good friend around for a game. Normally he drives over but that day his wife brought him. So he came armed with a bottle of wine to which I added mine.
We started gaming and later Daughter and Granddaughter arrived for our ritual Sunday lunch.
While we played upstairs Granddaughter appeared to play quietly with some dice and generally mess about in the company of her Granda. Idyllic, especially as my wife was creating something special downstairs. Oh, the smells were such torture.
And so to lunch. Bottles opened and wonderful banter as all joined in the food; a perfect creation of stuffed pork fillet after an asparagus starter.
Sitting there with one of my best friends and three generations of women I love gave me a warm feeling of utter happiness. I sat back and recorded it in my mind.
I am so lucky.
Back upstairs and gaming continued, complete with the remains of our bottles of wine.
I lost all my games - all bad luck you know - nothing to do with poor skills - but I didn't care.
We played as friends, not as competitors, and we walked from the whole thing with a smile.
My friend's wife eventually came to pick him up. Three kiddies in the back and happy waves as they departed brought the realisation that he too was having a lovely day for similar reasons.
Whenever it crops up in conversation with people who don't do it they immediately imagine me dressed up as some Roundhead or Cavalier or maybe running around Paintballing. I can see a smile of incredulity flicker behind their eyes, the pursing of the lips as they try to refrain from that smile.
I don't mind their amusement. Most hobbies, as pursued by men, are a little ridiculous. Go on any 'hobby' message board and you will see a sort of single minded escapism and attention to strange detail that women just don't 'get'. I struggle with the mentality too; some take it all so seriously.
I find wargaming amusing. And no, it doesn't involve getting dressed up or running around in a forest.
It's all about playing with toy soldiers. Just as silly; and the toy soldiers I play with are Elves, Dwarfs and all sorts of other fantastical silliness.
I have a room devoted to it and a table set up with miniature landscapes so that we can play our games; a sort of three-dimensional board game complete with little trees, houses and hills. We use commercially bought rules that incorporate a little skill and luck. Hopefully in some kind of balance.
Yesterday I had a good friend around for a game. Normally he drives over but that day his wife brought him. So he came armed with a bottle of wine to which I added mine.
We started gaming and later Daughter and Granddaughter arrived for our ritual Sunday lunch.
While we played upstairs Granddaughter appeared to play quietly with some dice and generally mess about in the company of her Granda. Idyllic, especially as my wife was creating something special downstairs. Oh, the smells were such torture.
And so to lunch. Bottles opened and wonderful banter as all joined in the food; a perfect creation of stuffed pork fillet after an asparagus starter.
Sitting there with one of my best friends and three generations of women I love gave me a warm feeling of utter happiness. I sat back and recorded it in my mind.
I am so lucky.
Back upstairs and gaming continued, complete with the remains of our bottles of wine.
I lost all my games - all bad luck you know - nothing to do with poor skills - but I didn't care.
We played as friends, not as competitors, and we walked from the whole thing with a smile.
My friend's wife eventually came to pick him up. Three kiddies in the back and happy waves as they departed brought the realisation that he too was having a lovely day for similar reasons.
Friday, 8 May 2009
Creating a memory
As we get older our minds become awash with these.
I've come to see it as an aim in life to create nice ones so that when I'm sitting around in my dotage I can smile benignly at the world while I escape into my library of memories.
I did this last weekend.
Granddaughter, she of the smiling visage at the top of my side bar, loves walking home with me after she and her mum have visited us. They live about a quarter of a mile away so I've always done it.
When my knees were at their worst I had to forgo this much to her disappointment and my frustration.
Lately I've been getting back to doing it, slowly with Granddaughter considerately reducing her pace for her old grandpa.
Last Sunday my daughter decided that she would drive me back, my knees were aching. She had a few bits of shopping to get anyway.
So that's what we did. But on the way back she and her daughter played out a little ritual that they always do when out in their little car.
They 'Head Banged' and sang to some loud rock music, one of those compilation CDs with classic rock on them.
Granddaughter knows all the words to classics like 'All Right Now' by Free.
So there I was, a guest in their little world and looking in the mirror at my granddaughter in her child seat, sun glasses on, singing and bobbing away while she lost herself in the song.
I've come to see it as an aim in life to create nice ones so that when I'm sitting around in my dotage I can smile benignly at the world while I escape into my library of memories.
I did this last weekend.
Granddaughter, she of the smiling visage at the top of my side bar, loves walking home with me after she and her mum have visited us. They live about a quarter of a mile away so I've always done it.
When my knees were at their worst I had to forgo this much to her disappointment and my frustration.
Lately I've been getting back to doing it, slowly with Granddaughter considerately reducing her pace for her old grandpa.
Last Sunday my daughter decided that she would drive me back, my knees were aching. She had a few bits of shopping to get anyway.
So that's what we did. But on the way back she and her daughter played out a little ritual that they always do when out in their little car.
They 'Head Banged' and sang to some loud rock music, one of those compilation CDs with classic rock on them.
Granddaughter knows all the words to classics like 'All Right Now' by Free.
So there I was, a guest in their little world and looking in the mirror at my granddaughter in her child seat, sun glasses on, singing and bobbing away while she lost herself in the song.
It was marvelous. I said I would go with them to the 24 hour shop; we listened to some more while I soaked up the image. We've done it a few times since.
My library is getting quite extensive now.
Blogs that die
Over the time I have been reading blogs I have noticed a pattern.
All, including mine, get a bit introspective at times. It's bound to happen. You sit alone, sometimes at some ungodly hour, typing away about your inner thoughts.
I wonder if the dynamic of doing that can create its own impetus. You talk about a worry, a doubt, and the act of writing about it strengthens that worry or doubt in your mind.
So you talk about it some more. People comment, send sympathy and slowly you slide into a negative cycle.
And stop blogging because that's the only way of breaking that cycle.
I've seen that happen a number of times.
All, including mine, get a bit introspective at times. It's bound to happen. You sit alone, sometimes at some ungodly hour, typing away about your inner thoughts.
I wonder if the dynamic of doing that can create its own impetus. You talk about a worry, a doubt, and the act of writing about it strengthens that worry or doubt in your mind.
So you talk about it some more. People comment, send sympathy and slowly you slide into a negative cycle.
And stop blogging because that's the only way of breaking that cycle.
I've seen that happen a number of times.
Thursday, 7 May 2009
Detailed Impressions
It doesn't make sense does it?
Are you a 'Big Picture' person or do you like the detail?
Do you prefer to take in the view of the wood or is it the trees that interest you more?
We all take in that first impression of people, situations, anything really. Then it's a case of looking more closely at the detail and going on from there.
And that is where we all start to differ in our approach.
Some, once they start examining the minutiae stay there. They never, or very rarely, pull back and look at the bigger picture to see if they can see it in a different way.
Others never look closely. They live by their impressions and never get beyond the initial impact of something.
Those are the extremes but we all tend to have a preference I think.
I'm a 'Big Picture' man. The wood is far more interesting than the trees. But I have learnt to go and look at those trees in order to help in my appreciation of the wood.
I have learnt that by ignoring the detail I miss things. I make mistakes.
But the mistakes are usually little mistakes; ones of detail being missed.
I see people who concentrate on the detail making mistakes Theirs seem to be bigger mistakes They are more likely to miss out on the big chances that we sometimes get in our lives.
Of course there are always exceptions but I think the above does have an element of truth in it.
Which are you?
Are you a 'Big Picture' person or do you like the detail?
Do you prefer to take in the view of the wood or is it the trees that interest you more?
We all take in that first impression of people, situations, anything really. Then it's a case of looking more closely at the detail and going on from there.
And that is where we all start to differ in our approach.
Some, once they start examining the minutiae stay there. They never, or very rarely, pull back and look at the bigger picture to see if they can see it in a different way.
Others never look closely. They live by their impressions and never get beyond the initial impact of something.
Those are the extremes but we all tend to have a preference I think.
I'm a 'Big Picture' man. The wood is far more interesting than the trees. But I have learnt to go and look at those trees in order to help in my appreciation of the wood.
I have learnt that by ignoring the detail I miss things. I make mistakes.
But the mistakes are usually little mistakes; ones of detail being missed.
I see people who concentrate on the detail making mistakes Theirs seem to be bigger mistakes They are more likely to miss out on the big chances that we sometimes get in our lives.
Of course there are always exceptions but I think the above does have an element of truth in it.
Which are you?
Monday, 4 May 2009
More Soup?
Twenty or thirty years ago buying soup was quite straightforward. I was chasing the money and my wife didn't always have time to make the homemade versions with two young children to sort out. So off to the supermarket she would go, sometimes with me in tow.
We'd come back with the standard stuff; cream of mushroom, chicken, minestrone or whatever. Heinz, Cross & Blackwell and the rest. Sometimes with some of the posher Baxter's tins too.
And no more was thought about it. There was choice but it wasn't mind boggling and it was small enough for you to say to yourself; 'I'll get that another time'
I do about half of the shopping now, maybe more, and sometimes I get a hankering after some tinned soup.
So I go to the supermarket and stand for what seems like ages trying to decide whether to get the Carrot and Coriander or the Tomato and Basil; and they are just the staples. This is before I get to the chiller with all the fresh soups too.
Once I've finally made my choice - and I usually get one or two more than I planned out of curiosity and indecision – I go home; often feeling a little dissatisfied – should I have got the Smoked Lentil and Bacon instead of – oh bugger I forgot – there are so many.
I read in the Sundays that we are more dissatisfied now than we were in the '80's; you know, the Thatcher years of greed! That seems to be said every time we have a survey; an increasingly unhappy population.
Why?
It is partly because we have so much choice. If you have little choice you have less to miss out on; if you have no choice, none at all. No room for regrets over missed opportunities; whether it be soup or a car.
The more choice you have the more you might miss; those items you choose NOT to have still sit in the mind.
A kind of regret sits with it – I wonder what I have missed – and you get that resultant dissatisfaction.
So how do I deal with the soup conundrum now?
Mostly by making my own. With home-made soup it is impossible to miss what I haven't made because that doesn't exist. It doesn't sit on a shelf somewhere and therefore in my mind as a 'what if'. And I have to physically make it. It isn't just a case of popping in and buying a tin or carton.
It sums up our modern world though. We have so much choice and it is all within easy reach. We end up thinking about what we have not got rather than what we have – and try to solve it by getting more. But unless we can get everything we cannot cure that dissatisfaction can we.
The pity of it is, is that we have so much. If we spend a little time creating what we want it adds a value that you cannot buy and, for me, subdues that empty feeling you get from being able to get things too easily.
Biologically we are built to collect and accumulate because for millenia we have experienced shortage.
Our psyche is just not able to cope with the plenty we have.
We'd come back with the standard stuff; cream of mushroom, chicken, minestrone or whatever. Heinz, Cross & Blackwell and the rest. Sometimes with some of the posher Baxter's tins too.
And no more was thought about it. There was choice but it wasn't mind boggling and it was small enough for you to say to yourself; 'I'll get that another time'
I do about half of the shopping now, maybe more, and sometimes I get a hankering after some tinned soup.
So I go to the supermarket and stand for what seems like ages trying to decide whether to get the Carrot and Coriander or the Tomato and Basil; and they are just the staples. This is before I get to the chiller with all the fresh soups too.
Once I've finally made my choice - and I usually get one or two more than I planned out of curiosity and indecision – I go home; often feeling a little dissatisfied – should I have got the Smoked Lentil and Bacon instead of – oh bugger I forgot – there are so many.
I read in the Sundays that we are more dissatisfied now than we were in the '80's; you know, the Thatcher years of greed! That seems to be said every time we have a survey; an increasingly unhappy population.
Why?
It is partly because we have so much choice. If you have little choice you have less to miss out on; if you have no choice, none at all. No room for regrets over missed opportunities; whether it be soup or a car.
The more choice you have the more you might miss; those items you choose NOT to have still sit in the mind.
A kind of regret sits with it – I wonder what I have missed – and you get that resultant dissatisfaction.
So how do I deal with the soup conundrum now?
Mostly by making my own. With home-made soup it is impossible to miss what I haven't made because that doesn't exist. It doesn't sit on a shelf somewhere and therefore in my mind as a 'what if'. And I have to physically make it. It isn't just a case of popping in and buying a tin or carton.
It sums up our modern world though. We have so much choice and it is all within easy reach. We end up thinking about what we have not got rather than what we have – and try to solve it by getting more. But unless we can get everything we cannot cure that dissatisfaction can we.
The pity of it is, is that we have so much. If we spend a little time creating what we want it adds a value that you cannot buy and, for me, subdues that empty feeling you get from being able to get things too easily.
Biologically we are built to collect and accumulate because for millenia we have experienced shortage.
Our psyche is just not able to cope with the plenty we have.
Saturday, 2 May 2009
Expect the Unexpected
Last year I decided to sell my business. All sorts of reasons which I won't bore you with now.
I draw my pension and don't need to work full time but do need some income and I also want the discipline of having a job.
So, I decided to get a little part-time job as an on-line delivery driver; a sort of Postman Pat with groceries. A couple of days a week seemed fine and the exercise and the idea of just going to work with no responsibility appealed. It would give me time to decide what, if anything, I wanted long term.
My only concern was my back. Historically that has been my weak point physically so I went into the job aware that I would have to take care on lifting. The job is quite active.
However, I had no idea that another part of my body would reveal a latent weakness.
My fucking knees.
After four months of jumping up and down to load and unload the van they have given way and I'm on the bloody sick.
I haven't been on the sick for years and had to look up the procedures.
Now I am furiously hunting for a new job; a desk job that will allow my knees respite; and I am committed to the sale of my business. Papers signed, the lot. No turning back.
Doh! Talk about being caught out.
And the frustration. The bastard knees are slowly improving but I cannot walk far.
I will miss the walks through blue bell carpeted woods this spring.
I could get pissed off and despondent but no; I'm quite chilled.
There have been bonuses;
I get statutory sick pay; getting money for doing nowt.
More time to write; can't do much else. Probably why I started my blog which I am enjoying more than I expected.
Granddaughter discovered that nursemaiding Granda can be fun. She's good too.
And it has had its lighter sides too. At the beginning when the pain was quite bad I limped very noticeably. Just like those poor arthritic old ladies you see; a sort side to side hobbling. They look almost mechanical the way they walk.
Well, I have found that if you walk like that people open doors for you, wait for you patiently. Many older than me. Embarrassing, but proof that people are basically nice.
It has given me a foretaste of what it might be like to old and infirm. You adapt.
The prognosis?
Well, no permanent damage done. It is a weakness that manifests itself with age.
Apparently surgeons have a term for it.
Tatty Cartilage.
I draw my pension and don't need to work full time but do need some income and I also want the discipline of having a job.
So, I decided to get a little part-time job as an on-line delivery driver; a sort of Postman Pat with groceries. A couple of days a week seemed fine and the exercise and the idea of just going to work with no responsibility appealed. It would give me time to decide what, if anything, I wanted long term.
My only concern was my back. Historically that has been my weak point physically so I went into the job aware that I would have to take care on lifting. The job is quite active.
However, I had no idea that another part of my body would reveal a latent weakness.
My fucking knees.
After four months of jumping up and down to load and unload the van they have given way and I'm on the bloody sick.
I haven't been on the sick for years and had to look up the procedures.
Now I am furiously hunting for a new job; a desk job that will allow my knees respite; and I am committed to the sale of my business. Papers signed, the lot. No turning back.
Doh! Talk about being caught out.
And the frustration. The bastard knees are slowly improving but I cannot walk far.
I will miss the walks through blue bell carpeted woods this spring.
I could get pissed off and despondent but no; I'm quite chilled.
There have been bonuses;
I get statutory sick pay; getting money for doing nowt.
More time to write; can't do much else. Probably why I started my blog which I am enjoying more than I expected.
Granddaughter discovered that nursemaiding Granda can be fun. She's good too.
And it has had its lighter sides too. At the beginning when the pain was quite bad I limped very noticeably. Just like those poor arthritic old ladies you see; a sort side to side hobbling. They look almost mechanical the way they walk.
Well, I have found that if you walk like that people open doors for you, wait for you patiently. Many older than me. Embarrassing, but proof that people are basically nice.
It has given me a foretaste of what it might be like to old and infirm. You adapt.
The prognosis?
Well, no permanent damage done. It is a weakness that manifests itself with age.
Apparently surgeons have a term for it.
Tatty Cartilage.
Friday, 1 May 2009
Proud to be English
There has been some debate on some blogs and message boards about this, what with St George's Day an' all.
I am proud to be English, rather than British.
Why?
To be British is to hanker back to the past in my view. The Union Jack was the flag that flew over the Empire, not the St George's Cross.
Conservatives love the Jack for that reason I think. Liberals want to keep it because it is inclusive of all the other little nations and allows them to feel more important so they can tell other people what to do. After all it does represent “Great Britain”. There is no such thing as “Great France” is there.
It is the middle classes, the chatterers who yearn for this flag of Britishness. They do it out of the typical arrogance of that class.
Conservatives still secretly think the Empire should never have been disbanded whilst the liberals cannot comprehend that the Welsh and the Scots don't really want to be British any more.
Only an arrogant bunch who called their country “Great” could have gone out and controlled a country of 200 million people (India's population in the 19th century) with just a few thousand people.
Never have so few subdued and then governed so many.
I wonder if there is some class memory that drives them in this; the conservatives fighting the natives; the liberals converting them with missionary zeal and turning parts of their country into a mini England; all for the good of the natives of course.
Our politicians, the west as whole, still have that superior attitude towards non-westerners. They cannot comprehend, for instance, that not every society or culture wants our kind of government and patronise those who don't hold to western values.
Modern Imperialism?
Subconsciously they want to go back to good old Victorian values where they could tell the world what to do and get away with it.
They can't do that now and especially not at home.
The ordinary people of this country; the ordinary English won't be told what to do; we will drink too much, eat too much, turn people like Jade Goody into icons and watch shite on TV no matter what our betters tell us what is good for us.
That's why many ordinary people have adopted the cross; a snub to their so-called betters as well as being more relevant to what we are today.
That's why the chattering classes hate the cross; it has been adopted in defiance and represents what they have lost.
What a pity that the notion of Englishness has been hijacked by the likes of the BNP.
Still, I won't allow them or the silly chatterers to dissuade me from being proud of my Englishness.
You see I'm stubborn; a prerequisite to being English.
I am proud to be English, rather than British.
Why?
To be British is to hanker back to the past in my view. The Union Jack was the flag that flew over the Empire, not the St George's Cross.
Conservatives love the Jack for that reason I think. Liberals want to keep it because it is inclusive of all the other little nations and allows them to feel more important so they can tell other people what to do. After all it does represent “Great Britain”. There is no such thing as “Great France” is there.
It is the middle classes, the chatterers who yearn for this flag of Britishness. They do it out of the typical arrogance of that class.
Conservatives still secretly think the Empire should never have been disbanded whilst the liberals cannot comprehend that the Welsh and the Scots don't really want to be British any more.
Only an arrogant bunch who called their country “Great” could have gone out and controlled a country of 200 million people (India's population in the 19th century) with just a few thousand people.
Never have so few subdued and then governed so many.
I wonder if there is some class memory that drives them in this; the conservatives fighting the natives; the liberals converting them with missionary zeal and turning parts of their country into a mini England; all for the good of the natives of course.
Our politicians, the west as whole, still have that superior attitude towards non-westerners. They cannot comprehend, for instance, that not every society or culture wants our kind of government and patronise those who don't hold to western values.
Modern Imperialism?
Subconsciously they want to go back to good old Victorian values where they could tell the world what to do and get away with it.
They can't do that now and especially not at home.
The ordinary people of this country; the ordinary English won't be told what to do; we will drink too much, eat too much, turn people like Jade Goody into icons and watch shite on TV no matter what our betters tell us what is good for us.
That's why many ordinary people have adopted the cross; a snub to their so-called betters as well as being more relevant to what we are today.
That's why the chattering classes hate the cross; it has been adopted in defiance and represents what they have lost.
What a pity that the notion of Englishness has been hijacked by the likes of the BNP.
Still, I won't allow them or the silly chatterers to dissuade me from being proud of my Englishness.
You see I'm stubborn; a prerequisite to being English.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)