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I drove up in my Mercedes Van to deliver some groceries to a very posh house a couple of nights ago.

A harassed wife answered the door, screaming kids in the background and a detached father presented a familiar picture. Huge 4-Track with personalised number plates etc etc

I passed a friendly comment while we unpacked the plastic boxes.

He looked at me, a middle-aged guy in uniform and reflective jacket, and almost sneered. He was polite but he was dealing with a serf who didn't merit conversation.

If I'd driven up a year ago in my suit and Jaguar I wonder what kind of response I would have got.

Immediately after that guy I turned up at a doctor's house. What a nice couple. They helped me move stuff around and we chatted as we did so. They engaged with me, not the delivery guy in reflective jacket.

Mostly people are great. Most are helpful and sympathetic if I turn up in appalling weather.

The job is fascinating. I can look at people from behind my disguise and see what they are really like.

Dreams

My wife and I were talking about dreams this morning. She rarely remembers hers. I put that down to that fact that she is a heavier sleeper than me. I wake up a lot during the night so will catch glimpses of what goes on inside my head.

This morning, I woke up knackered.

I woke up this morning having spent the night having adventures inside my head. I remember snippets but not a full dream. That's largely because the dreams were fairly tame.

Sometimes I will have a wild and vivid adventure that is more like a Salvadore Dali painting come to life.

And it's those vivid surreal imaginings that I remember.

Here are a couple:-

I was part of a group of people who were in some kind of post-apocalyptic world. My companions were friends and family but, as in so many of my dreams, they morphed from one person to another during the dream.

We were unaffected by some kind of Zombie disease that was causing people to rot as they stood. Not so much rot but have elements from inside their bodies go missing. You could see through parts of them as holes appeared.

We weren't frightened of them at all; just avoided them by staying in a building.

Parallel to this were the dinosaurs. We weren't frightened of them either, unusually for one of my dreams.

However the dinosaurs were affected by this disease or condition. And we were scared stiff of the Zombie Dinosaurs.

A T.Rex was lying down in the high street causing no great fear when a plant eating dinosaur like this arrived. The T.Rex attacked it and as it bit into its neck the placid plant eater turned into a Zombie and became almost hollow.

The T.Rex bellowed in fear. A great loud bellow. It then ran up the street and into the sea. Yes, the sea suddenly appeared.

Only the sea wasn't as we know it. It consisted of stationary waves many feet high. The T.Rex ran into one of these and disappeared behind and into the wave and into the water within it for a few seconds. It then ran, screaming, back out and back up the street where it lay down next to the, by now, stationary Zombie dinosaur.

I woke up with a sweat on and heart racing.

Another:-

I was in a small bedroom. At the bottom of the bed was the back of a brown settee. No seat, arms or cushions. Just the back. On top of this was a huge Tarantula; about two feet across.

It jumped onto the bed and became two Tarantulas. They started having sex human style. A proper old hump it was too.

This humping mass slid off the bed out of my sight and only now did I become concerned. I couldn't see it.

Almost immediately it stood up and climbed back onto the bed. Only now it wasn't a pair of humping spiders.

The best description I can think of is a three foot high brown knitted starfish with the fifth leg doubling up as its head complete with felt red lips and little black button eyes.

I was petrified of this as it waddled towards me on top of the bed. I think I'd been watching Shrek that night.

In this dream I did my 'whimpering'. In the dream I'm screaming. To my wife it is a weird wailing whimper as I try to raise attention to get someone to wake me up.

That's the thing, I usually know its a dream and sometimes can even control a dream; give it different endings. I whimper when I lose that control. I don't always whimper either. I once woke up barking.

We often sleep separately.

Weird.

What about your dreams?

Friday night, Saturday morning

From time to time reports in the media bemoan the negatives of modern life.

One is binge drinking, particularly amongst the young.

Do you binge drink? Have you in the past? I wonder if some of the modern concerns are so modern after all. OK, there may be more knife crime. But I remember being frightened of going into some areas at night. I remember seeing people with knife scars who looked scary and would have looked scary before the scars. I wonder if their wounds were recorded as a crime.

Same with binge drinking. Not as much as some do today maybe; not as much money kicking around then. But I did it and here is an account of one such night.

September 1971, 17 going on 18 and just back to the local Grammar school after the summer holidays. I was starting the Upper 6th Form too and had finally made it to the ranks of revered 'oldest members' of the school. No more being bullied by the bigger kids. The irony of that was that none of our year resorted to bullying those who were younger. We were regarded as one of the nicer years by teachers, I found out much later.

A new term was always an excuse for parties. Parents would go on their own holidays in September - cheaper, no kids - and leave their homes in the charge of their supposedly responsible sons and daughters.

While the cats away. It was nearly always the girls who held these parties. Not the boys. I think we knew what trouble might loom. I never entertained the idea for my home.

But others'? Oh yes. I went to every one that I was invited to and I was invited to them all.

A pattern would develop. A few drinks and some cringeworthy adolescent chat up lines - thank God I cannot remember what I said - and, hopefully, upstairs to mum's bedroom to enjoy moist fumblings in the dark.

This party was about the first of the season and I felt particularly good. I had a tan from a holiday in France, was particularly slim and my hair had grown the longest I had ever had it up until then. The headmaster had still not caught me to make me get it cut.

I was convinced I was babe magnet. This was reinforced by one of the girls who had a crush on me being at the party and making advances. I didn't like her. No idea why, for she was pretty. She brought her friend who wasn't in our school and she appealed; especially when she agreed to accompany me to one of the many bedrooms in the huge house. Her friend wasn't too pleased.

And so I enjoyed and hour or two of fun and got further than I had ever done before. The joys of teenage discovery eh.

We stopped short of 'the act'; it was me too, didn't want a pregnancy, and went downstairs.

The friend, in our absence, had consoled herself with drink; lots of it. She was absolutely arseholed and needed to be taken home. My offers to help were refused so off went the spurned girl and her friend.

It was late. I had some catching up to do. And some celebrating. I had a couple of beers then some vodka. All theses parties had huge amounts of Vodka. I've hated it ever since.

I then found some home made Cherry wine. It tasted like Ribena. I was already quite drunk but I still drank the entire bottle. Oh dear.

By now I realised that I was as bad as the girl I had said no to.

And I had a rugby match to get up for in the morning.

I decided to walk home. Back then taxis were not the order of the day and a three or four mile walk was quite common on a night. I once even walked from Sunderland to Peterlee ( my home) and nearly got killed. The A19 dual carriageway I was walking on had just been opened, unbeknownst to me. I was wandering along in the middle when headlights loomed up behind me like they do in horror films.

Oh well, I digress.

Back to the night in question. I walked home; with a full bottle of cider for company. I remember starting off walking with a stagger, alternating between swigging the cider and sniffing my fingers; you can guess where they had been. I vaguely remember flinging the empty cider bottle into someone's garden - the youth of today eh! - and by then a straight line was totally alien. I also left a wibbly wobbly trail of vomit in my wake.

By the time I got home I could barely stand upright. I decided to walk around the house to sober up. Fool, that would have taken days. The walk turned into a crawl.

My neighbour, same age as dad and father of the Jesus hippy I think I have mentioned, discovered me whilst walking his dog last thing. It must have been after 1.00 am.

'Better not let your dad see you like this' he said. Bless him.

Hmm, he was right so I went to the front door and tried to get in with my school locker key. I even knew it was the school locker key but still thought it might work. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.

I collapsed near the door and vomited some more; mucus by now and was dimly aware of my sister looking out of her bedroom window; 'Is that you John?'

She later told me that when she let me in I sort of flowed upstairs; never seen anything like she said. I remember nothing of that.

The following morning, the morning of the rugby match, I woke up. Still in my party clothes. Laid across the bed with my feet on the floor and my head scrunched up against the wall.

I think I got changed.

I went downstairs and still went to the game. I must have reeked and looked like death. Parents said nothing. They took me to the venue.

Most of the team was hung over when we got there. We had picked up a mate who was poorly too.

I was the worst though. I feel sorry for the teacher in charge; a Saturday morning spent with a group of pissed up smelly teenagers purportedly there to play rugby.

A little background to our team. We were one of the worst. I think all season we only won once. None of us took it seriously and that morning I think our opposition, a prestigious Grammar School in Hartlepool, must have been licking their lips.

I was a forward, in the second row for fuck's sake. That was a legacy from when I was 14 and big for my age. Now I was 17 and hadn't grown much since. The rest had. I got trampled on.

We got absolutely thrashed. I could manage barely more than a slow lope around which proved only that I was almost conscious.

We had a scrum where we were squashed up against our posts; and the bloody cross bar got dislodged and fell across my shoulders.

By the time we finished I felt dead. I must have looked it too for the dinner ladies looking after our refreshments fussed over me with tea. I threw that up. I threw the cold water up. I threw up something pink and was told it was the lining of my stomach.

We left for the three mile walk to the bus station. I walked a lot in those days. My mates were able to catch a link bus to get there. It involved running. I couldn't run. I could barely walk.

I was on my own and eventually staggered into the central bus station and waited for ages for my bus. Eventually I found myself at the beginning of the queue and, unable to stand, I slumped into a heap on the pavement. I threw up some more; it looked like baby poo and spread over the pavement like some disgusting alien crap. The other passengers were giving me a very wide berth by now. It's as well I was not aware of what was being said.

Eventually I got home and collapsed onto my bed and slept, or should I say went into a coma, for the rest of the afternoon.

By the evening I felt a bit better and had something to eat.

The following day I had my normal vast Sunday dinner and the following weekend got drunk again; not as bad as that though.

The moral of this?

I don't judge teenagers. I had other adventures; we all have.

Sometimes, though, I think we forget what we were like when we look at the youngsters of today. If I had had more money I would probably have got drunk more often.

The Perfect Picnic

It is a combination of what you take and what you find.

Today we took two types of bun;

Some were filled with a mix of grated carrot, grated cheese, finely chopped spring onion all mixed with salad cream. It is a staple in our family and is lovely with egg or tomato added or on its own. You can play around with the proportions too.

The others had Bradan Rost Salmon with cucumber in them.

We also took fruit, yoghurts and boiled eggs along with varied drinks.

And what did we find?

In Ripon there is a traditional butcher who makes his own gorgeous Pork Pies. So one was bought.

We found a deli which sold powdered Wasabi that, mixed with water, would make the paste.

Daughter decided it would go well on the salmon so, at Brimham rocks, she mixed some up and smeared a little on her bun.

'Humph, it's a bit milder than it should be' she said with some disappointment.

A few minutes later, and taking what she'd said into account, I lavished a great dollop on my bun and bit into it with my customary gusto.

It nearly blew my fucking head off. I felt as though my nostrils were being turned inside out.

'Oh', she said, 'it says here, LEAVE FOR FIVE MINUTES TO RELEASE THE FLAVOUR'

Now she tells me.

Oh, how they larfed.

A Day Out

We went to a Medieval Fayre at Ripon this morning expecting jousting, hog roasts and all sorts of extravagance.

We got three guys pretending to hack away at each other with blunt swords, axes and other medieval weapons.

It was quite interesting as they gave us an education in how to use a staff and why it was popular amongst other things to do with arms and armour.

But Granddaughter was bored. It didn't quite have the visually impact of the jousting at the Royal Armouries.

The rest of the 'Fayre' was in the cathedral. Ripon Cathedral lacks the raw grandeur of Durham, the sophisticated beauty of York. It does have an intimacy that the others lack though.

Inside, the aisles were lined with stands where you could do things like brass rubbing. Granddaughter had a go. She wasn't hugely enthralled.

Mrs AWB and myself were intrigued by the Medieval food they had on one stand. Some minty apple puree was good. The best was a date loaf. They gave us a verbal recipe that I cannot find on google - yet.

A block of dates;.

Some red wine; sorry didn't think to get the quantity. I'd go for half a bottle to start with.

A teaspoonful each of cinnamon and ginger.

Some breadcrumbs; again the quantity was a bit vague.

Heat it all up and mix into a paste. Allow to cool and then role it into a sausage to cut up.

It was gorgeous. Accompanied by a glass of port on a chilly winter night is how I would imagine it.

We listened to some medieval chanting. Apparently you could set the time of day by the pace of the chanting should you enter a Cathedral.

Lastly the four of us sat in the front row to watch a couple of performers give a rendition of the earliest recorded written music; eleventh century.

Between each song the guy gave a brief history lesson.

I gazed up to avoid looking at the modern day dress and just listened to them and the noise; such music would have been performed at noisy fairs. I found it quite moving and entered into the mood.

At the beginning of the third song Granddaughter turned to her Mum and whispered ever so quietly, 'I think I've heard this one before'

She was bored out of her mind; but ever so polite. Well, they did all sound kinda similar.


So we went to Brimham Rocks

Granddaughter was happy now.

She christened this rock, 'Tigger'

And climbed and climbed all over the place.

At the top of one she announced, 'I'm nearly as high as the sun'

I thought the same too; but I get vertigo.










Throughout the whole area the sound of squealing children echoed. Accompanied by the baleful refrains of, 'Be careful' or 'Don't go near the edge' or 'That's too high' and others. All said with varying degrees of worry.

At the third rock I was tempted to say, 'I think we've seen this one before'. But I didn't.

After all, I'm not seven.

Losing Weight

I love food. I love alcohol.

Both have helped me build my ever present companion; my paunch.

I have weighed about fifteen and a half stone for about five years or so now. That is just into 'obese' territory according to the official BMI. I don't go up much. Don't go down much. I can lose it if I want to but;

I love food. I love alcohol.

Recently my knees have enforced a more sedentary lifestyle and my paunch celebrated this by growing. Notice how I place responsibility elsewhere. My weight moved up to fifteen and three quarters stone.

I only know my weight accurately now because recently I have been braving the scales again. I don't normally. I wondered how much I'd put on and was surprised it was only a few pounds.

Then I went back to work.

This was last Monday. I do a five hour shift of fairly physical work from five until ten at night or thereabouts; Monday to Thursday. I enjoy it and feel the effects; mostly beneficial.

I got on the scales this morning. I've lost half a stone. My paunch is less proud. I've done seven shifts and lost seven pounds. That's a pound a shift. I didn't weigh myself before I went on the sick but knew I'd lost weight.

It isn't just the exercise though.

From five 'til ten, if I were at home, I would snack. I would have a glass of wine that might turn into a bottle.

Now I get back, maybe have something light to eat, watch a bit of telly, look on the web and piss off to bed with a book. Not only that but I don't eat much after two o'clock; don't want to work on a full stomach.

My poor wife has been trying to lose weight for a couple of months now. Watching what she eats and drinks she has lost some and looks trimmer.

But, boy, is she envious of my metabolism.

Funny innit. The job I have has crap pay but I enjoy it and it is probably doing me - apart from my knees - the world of good.

I'm starting to save a bomb on alcohol too.

I'll celebrate with a drink tonight. Just one though. It will be late when I'm back.

No Restraint

I wasn't sure how to title this post and even now, as I start it, I wonder where it will lead; how I will get my point over.

It boils down to how we all behave on the web; how the fact that we can stay hidden can allow us to behave in ways that we would never behave face to face or if our identity was known. And how, even unhidden, we can lose our sense of restraint.

I'm wary of message boards now. Didn't used to be. I posted merrily away and said what I thought. I also said stuff I would have said face to face too. I regarded them as I would any group meeting with the only difference being that you could get a word in and also think about what you said. And have a much bigger discussion group.

Some, though, seem to see it differently. They say things that, if said face to face would lead to a punch up. Or at least a storming row. Why? Anonymity of course. We all know that. It's a similar thing to the stroppy telephone call that many feel confident enough to make knowing that they wouldn't say such things to an actual person at the other end if they were in the same room.

Message boards, though, allow people to develop the technique of nastiness, sometimes to the point of getting barred. I think some play at how far they can go before being barred.

And the result? The threads where these people appear get read and contributed to whilst others get ignored.

Message boards can end up looking like Tabloid newspapers.

Blogs? The same seems to happen here, but on a lesser scale. Here, though, it can be more insidious and personal. The attacker can remain hidden and pursue you through your postings elsewhere if they so wish. It would never happen outside the Internet.

I've been lucky so far; no one has stalked me in that nasty way. But to be attacked on your own blog, I think, must feel like an invasion into your own personal space by some faceless enemy.

Nastiness in its extreme.

The above can all be done from a hidden position. Those people are cowards.

The web can, though, allow unrestrained nastiness from those you know.

The email. I've been lucky here. Only a couple of people have given vent via this means. Both times I was dumbfounded and knew that the individuals would not have said what was said face to face. The more I tried to defend myself the more extreme were the responding accusations.

In both cases I gave up eventually. One person, I never spoke to again; the other had the courage to apologise and we're friends again.

Blind communication is dangerous. In the quiet surroundings of your home you can build up all sorts of recriminations and exaggerations that hurt without really realising what you are doing. Because you aren't with that person you are detached from it and can get carried away.

The whole issue, so far, falls into two categories I think. The dangerous and deliberate assassination that is done anonymously.

Or the knee jerk behaviour that is done with the recipient knowing who you are.

Both rely on the distance between you and the other party.

There is a third; the unwitting hurt. I know I've avoided the anonymous insult; I've tried to avoid the non-anonymous kind that I wouldn't say to someone in the same room. But the unwitting insult or hurt? I do that face to face for chrissake; so not having the body language or immediate response to the insensitive remark from my big mouth has lead to insensitive emails for one thing.

The presence of the person acts as a break, a check.

The web is a fascinating place. It provides so many benefits.

But it will never, ever replace good old face to face; the physical presence of the person you are interacting with.

Story Board

After finishing the first draft of 'The Novel' I sat and wondered what to do next.

First I finished the reread of each chapter that has followed the actual writing a few chapters behind; I'll have to do the first few again I think.

Then I let my mind ponder on it for a few days.

Today I sat down and created the framework of a Story Board. I did it on a spreadsheet. A list consisting of each chapter, a very brief summary of it and a note of what needs doing.

It seems I've created some kind of structure. I know where I want to make changes and, no doubt, will think of more as I go on.

I must admit; last week I felt as though I were staring at an unmade bed and wondering which end of the Duvet cover to start with.

I'm crap at putting a Duvet cover on a Duvet. Mrs AWB has threatened to film me doing it.

So for me the analogy fits.

Continuing with the analogy; the duvet is inside its cover. It just looks like a fucking mess.

Watching a Film

Granddaughter loves settling down with someone to watch a film.

She has varied tastes and has started to enjoy Rom Coms.

She stays with us most Friday nights and was keen to watch My Big Fat Greek Wedding with Grandma last Friday. Mrs AWB loves that film and was happy to have an excuse to watch it for, I think, the thirty-third time. Well, OK, she's seen it three or four times.

There is some gentle romance in it but nothing a seven year old can't deal with so they settled down cuddled up in their night clothes to enjoy the film.

Some way through the film the main characters were kissing for the second or third time.

Granddaughter turned to Grandma and said in a hushed tone with furrowed brow, "I think they're going to have sex now'

Grandma was torn. She was dying to know what Granddaughter's perception of sex actually was but at the same time was wary of opening a can of worms.

The conversation didn't go any further. No doubt the subject will develop.

You've got to let them learn at their own pace when they are ready, not force the issue.

I think I'll stick to watching the likes of Shrek with her.

My very first Road Traffic Accident

I've recounted my first 'lesson', for what it was worth. To cut a long story short I embarked on a series of lessons. A little guy in a brown Ford Escort was my teacher. He was good. Must have been. I passed first time; that gave me a false confidence in my own ability.

It was September 1974. I mention the month because that is significant. I had learnt during the summer. I had never driven in the dark. Now I was fully qualified and without a car; and the nights were starting to draw in.

I drove my dad's car a couple of times with him and mum as passengers and then asked the question.

'Can I borrow your car?'

'Of course son.'

Sounds innocuous enough until you realise that; a) I was wanting to borrow it on a Saturday night and ; b) I would be driving in the dark.

Dad, oh dad why did you let me???? What did you think a 20 year old was going to do on a Saturday night for gawd's sake???

This is the car. A smart high spec, for its day, Austin 1800. I believe it has a nickname, 'The Landcrab'. It was renowned for its roadholding; low slung for its time. It was his pride and joy.

I was to take it out on his 50th birthday. Boy, was he in for a present.

Off we went. Me and two mates. We drove up to Sunderland; a favourite weekend haunt and tonight we weren't having to use the bus. Woo Hoo.

I had, in my wisdom, decided that I could drink four pints without any problem. I cannot remember the scientific reasoning behind it.

So four pints I had. All different for we would drive up to a pub, park ostentatiously, in a well lit part of the car park and swagger off into the pub hoping we'd been noticed by any local totty.

The car was more of a novelty than the beer so after a pint we'd bugger off to another pub.

And another pint.

After four I declared that we needed to stop the drinking and go into the town centre to one of the night clubs. I was being sensible. I say that with a huge dollop of irony.

What the fuck I was going to do in a night club I have no idea. I'd never before stood with a lemonade. This was the North East; the Seventies. Think 'Life on Mars'. We were men.

I had a vague notion I'd pull and wouldn't need to drink. What my mates were supposed to do hadn't entered my woolly head. It was academic.

I drove into the centre. It was late. I had never driven in the dark and never with four pints down my gullet. I drove up a one way street towards a cross roads with a bollarded island to help you decide. The oncoming road was one-way coming towards me so I had a choice. Right or Left. We couldn't decide.

So I drove straight on. Through the island with bollards. Stove in a wing of the car. And up the one-way street; the wrong way. Witnessed by two policemen on the beat.

With great presence of mind I swung into a side street. This was one-way too. And I was going the wrong way. As I swung in we passed a 'Jam Sandwich'; colloquial slang for 'Patrol Car'. They were white with a broad double fluorescent scarlet strip in those days; hence the sandwich.

I think my door was opened as I turned the ignition off. I will be forever grateful to the officer who opened the door. He wasn't sarcastic. He didn't have to be. My faux pas had been witnessed by four policemen.

I failed the breathalyser; surprise, surprise.

My mates were in luck. The accident had happened within a hundred yards of the bus station so they buggered off and I was taken to the cop shop.

This was in the days when a breathalyser had to be backed up by either a urine or blood test. I was too traumatised to have a piss so they had to ring the duty doctor to come and take blood.

While I was waiting I witnessed what went on in police stations in the early hours. Loads of drunks mostly. I was intrigued by a stunning bottle blond with amazing legs. She distracted me from my woes. I felt sorry for her as she was in tears. I later discovered she was a prostitute. The first I had ever seen.

Eventually a tired middle aged doctor came and stuck a needle in me.

The policeman who had arrested me took me home. He was nice. I think he felt sorry for me.

Then I let myself in. The night of dad's 50th birthday. Oh shit.

'Dad'

'DAD'

Eventually a mumbled answer.

'What?'

'I've smashed your car'

It was two o'clock in the morning. They both came down. A stunned silence as I recounted events.

'Hit me, hit me', I pleaded. For the only time in my life I pleaded with another man to beat the living daylights out of me. I'm not a masochist.

Postscript; He didn't hit me. He admitted later that it was the only time he came near to doing so.

I passed the blood test too!! So I only got done for 'Driving without due care' I was very very lucky.

The damage cost £150; in today's terms a couple of grand. I paid. I was a good saver and it cleaned me out. It went some way to repair my reputation; although there are many other stories about that!

I didn't drive dad's car for another 15 years or so.

The moral?

Don't lend your car to your son on a Saturday night.

And think of your own idiotic behaviour when young before you criticise your own kids!

Role Models

We all have them. Most of us are, or have been, one too. I try to be a role model to my Granddaughter. I wonder just how profound my influence can be though. There is the old argument of Nature-v-Nurture; the part of a role model being a nurturing one. A role model cannot change some of the fundamentals of a character but, maybe, can knock a few of the awkward corners off.

The most important role models will be, for the vast majority, our parents. That is why I think it is important, where possible, to have 'one of each' as parents. It's why I see my role as a 'Proxy Dad' so important.

Our role models? How did they shape us? How far could they shape us?

Let's look at mine.

Dad was the son of a strong-willed woman. He lost his dad when still a baby. He didn't have a male role model who was close and never learnt how to behave in male company. His mother was domineering and he learnt how to deal with her by shutting himself off emotionally, being secretive and lying.

Or were all those traits inbuilt? Did the lack of a father and overbearing mother merely underline what was there already? He had no siblings to help either.

He was, by nature, a shy man so his female role model and lack of a male role maybe enhanced characteristics that were already there.

Mother, again, had a strong-willed mother and a charming, but distant, father. She grew up spoilt and used to getting her own way. She was an only child too.

My parents' marriage brought out the extremes of their natures. She would dominate using emotion as a weapon because dad never had a reply. He didn't know how to deal with female emotionalism. She would threaten to leave home and get nasty; to try to get a response I think. I don't remember her using it positively. He would just clam up to restrain what looked like a steaming anger underneath. My other female role model, my sister, learnt from mum how to use emotion as a weapon. Her tantrums as a child were legendary within our household.

So my male role model's main characteristic that I learnt was restraint. The female role models made me wary of women; I learnt how to tread on a tightrope to avoid tantrums from my sister and domineering from my mother. I realised that a taciturn approach was no way to handle her and used charm instead; repeating her father's approach. Or was that inherited?

I have inherited some of my mother's emotionalism – nature. So my restraint has been tempered by that and by the fact that I saw in my father a role I didn't want to repeat. Restraint yes, subservience no.

My inheritance, the emotional needs, have given me a need to be involved with people. The nurture side of it, what I've learnt from role models have given me a walled up approach. I'm fearful, mostly, of opening up. It has made me an acute observer of people; my career was natural choice given that ability.

But for me to come out of my shell is difficult. Easier now than it used to be as I have tried to rationalise it but nevertheless the basic me is unchanged.

How much of that has been nature; how much nurture?

How have role models affected you?

My very first driving lesson

How many of us, when first learning how to drive, perform the amazing 'Kangaroo Start'? That....brrm...brrrm....brrrm.....brrrm.....stall; where the car looks as though it is shagging the road.

Yup, I've been there too. But with a difference.

My first go at driving was when my dad decided that a bit of home teaching might be useful before I laid cash out for some lessons. He was trying to be helpful, the supportive dad.

So, one Saturday, he had me get in his car to make a start. We were going to start the car and then pull away. Pretty well what you would expect for a first time.

The difference was that we were in the drive. And the only way to get out was by reversing. My very first 'drive' was going to be to reverse the car out of the drive. I was also going to have to steer sharply, in reverse. Dad wasn't a practical man. Oh, and there was a lamp post directly opposite the drive too.

Get the picture?

I got the engine started no bother. I tried the clutch too. No problems there. So, I put the gear stick into reverse as Dad instructed and, after checking that the road was clear, started to gingerly release the clutch pedal.

Brrrrm.....brrrrm.......brrrrm......BANG.

I reverse kangarooed.....sounds like a sexual position doesn't it - all the way across the road and knocked the lamp post down. To cap it all the rear end of the car got stuck on the stump.

So my humiliation was pinned there for all to see; bearing in mind that we lived at the entrance to a cul de sac and plenty of people drove past smiling broadly.

Nowadays somebody would have caught it on film.

I ran off in teenage tears but was dragged back out to help manoeuvre the car off the stump.

Dad, to his credit, insisted that I drive around the estate - no reversing this time - to conquer what may have become a fear. I was OK after that.

Where do I start?

I'm talking about my novel.

I've finished the first draft and for a few days it sat - I printed the whole thing out - and stared at me; daring me to interfere with it, to poke around and play with it. I'm sure it was teasing me.

I've been rereading each chapter and writing a little synopsis with notes as to where I should change it. Then I'll type all that out as a kind of story board to try and get an overview of it.

I've already decided to completely rewrite a couple of the early chapters; too much narrative. The end needs some tidying up too.

I also need to write up little summaries of the main characters to ensure that descriptions of them are consistent.

And then there is the spatial thing. There is quite a lot of moving around places within the story. Maybe I'll create a map of my little world.

Oh bugger; this is going to take forever.

And then there is my other novel I started.

And then there are that pile of short stories to revisit.

And then...............................

A Jaguar and a Mercedes

I drove both yesterday and will do so again today. Posh eh?

The Jag is my own. You will have seen bits of it on a post or two here and there so I won't emblazon it on this one. I got it from the proceeds of my old job. It was a reward and a tool. Rolling up in that all suited up and looking the part presented a good image.

The earnings could be enormous; well into six figures for many. The average hourly fee quoted would be over £100 an hour and commissions could run into £1,000's. I'm generalising here; many earn far less too. I won't hint at my own other than to say I got what I wanted. That's the thing; you can pitch at whatever level you want. You get used to it and although I've worked hard I've never really questioned the rewards; although I did discount where I thought it morally right.

Yesterday I rolled my Jag into Sainsbury's car park and got out to go to work at my new job; resplendent in my uniform and reflective waistcoat. I wonder what shoppers make of that, 'bloody hell, wages must be good here.' I enjoy the thought.

I was back at work after some time off with my knees and on shorter shifts to rehabilitate me. They've been very accommodating.

So, in I went and loaded up for my evening run.

And then I drove off in one of these;




Yup, the Mercedes of the title. Only it wasn't my own.

It's a peach to drive. automatic, nice and high up and comfy.

And all for between £6 and £7 an hour. Is a financial adviser worth 15 to 20, or more, delivery drivers? For that is what it multiplies out to.

I've found it quite humbling to work for such amounts when, previously, I wouldn't have got out of bed for anything less than three figures. My 5 hour shift will have netted me well under £50; an amount that would plop into my commission and fee account without a by or leave until a few weeks ago.

How strange.

I'm lucky.

I have my pension so I look on all of this in a detached kind of way. I can afford to. When I got back to work I expressed genuine pleasure at being back. Some found that a little hard to believe. Those who have never known higher earnings and never will. Those who have to do that kind of work full-time for all their working lives are trapped in that job. I'm not.

I'm lucky.

I drove off and thoroughly enjoyed myself; Postman Pat with groceries. Nice banter with customers. A nice drive without any real responsibility and some exercise too.

And back to the differential in earnings. Did I deserve to earn so much more as a financial adviser than as a delivery driver?

Here's a thought. As a financial adviser I have been able to go and do this new job and do it well. I'm reliable and give a good service; with a smile. When doing some shopping for customers I was accosted by a mystery shopper and got a glowing report. I know how to deal with people.

I may be being unfair here but I don't think any of my colleagues could do my old job; even if they wanted to.

Income isn't about fairness really. It's about who's willing to do a given job and who's able to do it.

I can now work for less because I used to get more.

I'm lucky.

Handy Tip

Ratatouille makes a brilliant base for a curry. I'd made a load of it the other day and we had a fair bit left. We had yesterday to ourselves and were in a curry mood.

So, I zuzzed it up in the processor and mixed whatever spices and stuff I wanted into it and voila; a wonderfully light paste. All it needed was whatever I chose to give it texture; chicken, mushrooms, chickpeas. Anything really.

I'll do that again.

A Proxy Dad

That's what I am to my Granddaughter.

She has never known her father, probably never will. The reasons for that are not for here.

It means that I am the nearest thing she has to a father. Her main male role model. It makes me a little more than a 'Granda'. It's a privileged and responsible position and I worry that this middle-aged old fart can fulfill a role that doesn't really exist. It's a kind of limboland.

You see I cannot be 'the other' parent. I have no right to go beyond certain limits in what I do or say. The ultimate authority has to be her mother. That would not happen if I was the father.

So I wonder how it will affect her attitude to men. Whether she will grow up thinking they are junior partners in parenting.

She would so like to have a dad too. My daughter is very reticent about relationships because of that; a couple of years ago a split affected Granddaughter. She'd called the man, 'daddy' sometimes. Her poor mother walks a tightrope.

She's occasionally called me 'daddy' too. What do I say when she does that? Only a gentle, 'But I'm not your daddy' She hasn't said it for a while now. Thank goodness.

She grabs at any opportunity to spend time with Mrs AWB and me; to spend time with a kind of adopted parental unit; to be with a kind of 'mummy and daddy' partnership.

I wonder if it might make her too desperate to recreate such a relationship for herself when older.

On balance, what we all have and how we all behave seems to work. She is a happy, balanced child.

But she thinks a lot, and I do wonder what goes on in the darker recesses of her mind at times.

Still, being a proxy dad is quite special.

Getting closer

I turned up at Granddaughter's school to watch her perform for sportsday only to be told that school was closing for the day and her child minder was picking her up.

I'm at work later so didn't intervene.

The reason? Swine flu.

My feelings are a little mixed. Is it an over-reaction by our nannying authorities or should I be concerned?

Only the other week they were all kept in because it was too sunny outside; twice. The first time Granddaughter quoted, wide-eyed, that it had been '32 degrees, Granda' and seemed happy with the decision. The second time, 'it was only 29 degrees Granda' and she seemed a little miffed.

Then I read a report that skin cancer is more down to how many moles you have as opposed to too much sun. Surely they could have been let out for a short time?

You wonder how many of the current concerns, be they health or otherwise, are overblown by fashion and fads; people jumping on bandwagons that are kept rolling by the media.

I'd hate to be the official responsible for making these decisions nowadays.

On balance, the swine flu decision, I think, was right; it's an unknown quantity isn't it.

Fate

I think we've all thought about that time when we passed an accident and thought, 'There, but for the grace of God, go I', or some such.

Little things can change our lives. Little things can change our futures.

We took Granddaughter to Fountains Abbey today; lovely.

She spotted a froglet. We thought he was dead to start with. All dried out he was but she prodded him with a twig and he moved. So she pushed him onto a leaf and took him down to one of the ornamental lakes and allowed him to jump in.

She saved his life. I say he. Could have been a she.

The point is this; if she hadn't been with us he wouldn't have been seen. No doubt I would have stood on him with my size tens.

Where we are, where we go, what we do at any given time will affect the lives of others.

I saw myself in that little froglet. Dependent on the goodwill of something outside my comprehension.

Companionship

Each time we go up north our little expeditions down to the beach are a must. A ritual. Only storms would stop us.


Armed with a carrier bag for stones and other bits and pieces we set off on the sort of grey day that only the North Sea knows how to do so well.

A sort of milky metallic light that melded the sea and sky into one to produce a speckling of light rain.





The sea growled and grumbled beneath the cliffs. It was restless and with anything visual so neutralised it did seem loud.


We had the place to ourselves.

Only the sea kept us company.

I don't even recall any gulls.












Great clumps of seaweed advanced up the beach.

The rain retreated and allowed the sky and sea to separate just a little, although the distant horizon stayed shrouded.











Nooks and crannies hid imagined promises or threats behind us.

It would make a good set for something like Dr Who.

I imagine a Cyberman walking around that corner.

Or advancing through that archway in the distance.





An archway.


There are a few and some caves too.











Still empty.

I think in all the time we were there we saw two people; and they were in the distance.



It looks lonely doesn't it. It wasn't at all. We had each other.







Granddaughter even managed to find a stone that made an ideal replacement for the pestle we broke. So now we can use our mortar.

A perfect reminder to the day.

When I think of those crowded beaches down in Cornwall or in places like Majorca with their rows of sunbeds I did think of the contrast.

I was glad that I was on that quiet grey beach with its caves, its seaweed and only the sound of the impatient sea. And with the knowledge that no-one else really wanted to be there it was all ours for a short time.

An angel came to visit us tonight

I've mentioned our living room before here.

The two main windows face south-east. To the left as you go in, we have a little alcove with two small windows, one facing the same way as the two main ones, the other at right angles and facing north east.

The little alcove reminds me of a kind of turret and you can stand in there and look out in more than one direction. The light coming in on an evening can be entrancing a times.

Tonight I had to record the effects.

The reflection from the vase started like this.














Then the angel arrived.











Before fading away like all beauty does.




It all took less than half an hour. The photos don't really do it justice.

Not always sublime

One thing I enjoy about blogging is the variety of visitors you get; and from all corners of the world. I love logging on in the morning and seeing where people have come from and what they have looked at throughout the full twenty four hours.

The sources are amusing at times too.

The statcounter enables you to see where people have googled from.

Someone from India googled 'blogspot Dinner Jacket' and came up with this response to my post.

All on the strength of my comment about a 'fart in a dinner jacket' Well, that fart flew across to the subcontinent and blew a right raspberry. I was at a loss as how to reply. Click on the poster.
I wonder if he has posted the same comment on all the blogs he found in his advertising campaign. Next time I want some 'Men's Formal Wear' I'll examine the shipping costs.

This post got a lot of interest from the gulf states. You can draw your own conclusions there.

I've been lucky so far. I've had no comments that I've felt obliged to delete. Far from it; many are very thoughtful, amusing and intelligent and there are some of my posts that are enhanced, for me, by the string of subsequent comments.

I go back and reread them from time to time.

Then there are the comments elsewhere; on others' blogs. This one pole-axed me and I just had to steal it and keep it here so I could reread it when I feel worthless.

Apologies to the poster and to you all; it is self indulgent but, after all, don't we all blog for ourselves too?

Quote; "I have been thinking about your blog a lot recently and you have really inspired me to think about digging a little deeper. It’s easy enough to just write down what happened, I’m contemplating taking the plunge and stepping out of my comfort zone.You manage to be luminous and at the same time, simple and succint. I really admire that."

Many of my fellow bloggers have done the same for me.

My excuse is that I stole it for posterity.

What do you do....

..............when you feel low?

Some of you use your blogs as a kind of cathartic exercise. Nowt wrong with that. Some of the replies can be touching and it goes down the road of, 'a problem shared....' and the like.

I tend not to do that. For one thing I rarely get low. And it never lasts long. By the time I feel OK to mention a negative in my life I've dealt with it and try to talk about it in an upbeat way.

Yesterday was a low day. I won't bore you with the details and since it is all resolved in my mind now it cannot have been that important; the causes of my 'lowness' that is. I read and posted on blogs yesterday to distract myself.

I kept it to myself, in the main, rationalised it, had a drink or two and slept on it. A couple of emails in my inbox this morning and a little checking up of some info sorted it out.

Apart from the poor friend who I mentioned it to yesterday in some email correspondence. Bugger. I'll have to apologise next time we meet.

But what would I do if something terrible happened; a death say?

Would I blog it?

I've read blogs that have recorded the illness and the death of loved ones and they make me feel uncomfortable because that's all that was talked about. I'm not sure I would want to bore strangers with such stuff. Or if I did it would have to a part of the whole story. So far, the awful events in my life have stayed private. Locked away in my mind where I feel they are safe. I don't want to air them.

Where I read about someone's misfortune as a part of their life and in the setting of how they cope; great. It can be uplifting and makes me realise how lucky I am. One or two of the blogs I link to fall into this category.

I find it humbling and, when I read them, I realise that people, no matter how hard life can get, will usually find something positive about their lives.

I used to think blogging was a bit navel examining; self-obsessive. It can be, especially if you don't read others' blogs or dwell all the time on the negative.

I've now come to the conclusion that it can be a kind of support, that the blogging community is almost like some kind of life raft that we can all cling onto when we feel as though we might be drowning. A mutual support society.

So, fellow bloggers, thankyou for being my life raft yesterday. I didn't ask for help or advice but you gave me what I needed. A welcome distraction and the realisation that other people get low too. I'm swimming again and hope that , sometimes, my blog too can a lift a little when things are getting you down.

Friendship

I don't have many real friends. By that I mean people I can trust. I have a lot of acquaintances and people who I know.

But people who I can confide in and trust are few and far between. I like it that way too. Most of my best friends are people I don't see that often; maybe an odd email or phone call and a meet up every few months.

Again, I quite like it that way.

This summer has been good regarding friends. I have reconnected with two; or should I say two have reconnected with me.

A few weeks ago I got an olive branch kind of message from a friend. We had disagreed and not spoken for a few months. We are mates again now. I'm glad too. And grateful to be reconnected to someone who I like and respect.

Then a couple of days ago an old colleague and friend voice mailed me. We hadn't spoken for years. I still had him in my phone address book and kept saying to myself, 'must ring him'.

But it went on longer and longer until I realised that I felt awkward. What would I say? How would I explain such a gap? He had always been a top salesman and here was I throwing the towel in; so pride came in too. I didn't want to have to tell this paragon of the industry that it had all become too much for me. Oh, how pathetic. I even contemplated deleting his name from my phone.

Then his voicemail arrived.

My first inclination was to feel guilty. But I rang him back. The same cheery voice answered as though we had spoken just yesterday. I promised to ring him today and we would go and have lunch.

We met up at one of those swish hotels that promise more than they deliver. Full of suits with laptops. A year or two back I would have been one of them. Now, I was in casual garb; and not that smart either. I felt like an alien. My mate was in similar garb too; that was nice.

We had exchanged some info; I'd retired from the business and he'd been ill so I think we both went, not so much to impress but, to put the other at his ease.

We sat down and bantered as we had always done. He's ten years younger then me and I was once his boss and saved his job. He has forever been grateful for that.

To explain; in our business some of the top salesmen in our company, 15 to 20 years ago, were, shall we say, questionable. The company encouraged 'results' but landed very heavily on those who transgressed the rules of integrity. It was the co-op after all. It was like living in a Jekyll and Hyde world when I look back. He was one the best. He featured in the national charts as one the very best. His problem was this; he came over as a wide boy. I've told him this. Yet the guy was as straight as a die. His integrity and professionalism were second to none. He wouldn't have survived so long if he hadn't been.

It just proves that appearances can be deceiving; to the detriment as well as advantage of the 'perceived'.

So, when he made a silly mistake that most managers would have fired him for to cover their own arses I covered up for him and guided him through the situation. If any of the rest of my staff had shopped me I would have been for the chop too.

I never regretted it. He learnt his lesson and went from strength to strength. One of my happier management memories.

His gratitude, thank god, is not of the fawning, 'How can I repay you kind'; it never was. It was the recognition between two men that one had made a stupid mistake and the other had the power to help, if he cared to do so.

His gratitude is that of respect that I had the courage to protect him.

It is from circumstances like that that trust is born; and from trust friendship can blossom.

Don't you think that trust is possibly the most important element of any friendship?

The funny thing is that between us we could not have a, 'see you tomorrow' and every day kind of friendship. We are chalk and cheese. He is in yer face. I am more reflective, measured. He would irritate the fuck out of me if I saw him too often. I would bore the shit out of him.

But we like each other and we trust each other. If he promised to deliver I know he would.

We had a couple of hours of fun and promised to keep in touch and meet; intermittently.

We will too.

News

I switched on the BBC News 24 channel last night and Michael Jackson's memorial concert was on it. It was on BBC2 as well and other channels. This was for two whole hours.

Before I launch my rant let me make it clear that Michael Jackson was worthy of a memorial concert. He is worthy of all the emotion being gushed about him. Many people worshipped him and he was an exceptional performer in so many ways. He was worthy of having a number of channels airing his memorial concert.

His death and funeral and all the rest are headline news. That's my point...............NEWS.

So BBC News 24 is totally in order headlining all of this as news. But to play the whole thing? That isn't news. Reporting it is. I switched between BBC2 and the News channel; identical. Fine on BBC2 but absolutely not on a news channel which should have been providing reminders of that thing called...........wait for it...............news.

Isn't that what a 24 hour news channel is supposed to do?

Was showing the whole concert the equivalent of showing a state funeral? Hmmmm.

Maybe another news channel could justify it on those grounds. A sort of Michael Jackson equivalent of Churchill's state funeral which was treated as news way back in 1964 - I'm old enough to remember that.

But for the BBC to show it on the news 24 AND BBC2 I think betrayed the true motive.

A cynical ploy to boost the ratings.

Humility

How many of us would admit to being gorgeous. How many of us revel in our beauty.

Most of those who would be able to repeat the above would refuse to admit feeling those sentiments for fear of sounding arrogant and hurting the feelings of those who aren't exactly gorgeous.

Phrases like, 'Beauty is only skin deep' or 'It's what is inside that matters' abound. We'd all like to think that we really believed that and, to some extent it does apply.

But our eyes are always drawn to the beautiful aren't they. We cannot help it. So maybe we don't, in our heart of hearts, believe those platitudes.

Statistics tell us that this is the case. The more attractive you are the more successful you will be, generally. There are always exceptions, of course.

I have direct experience. I have been both beautiful and not so beautiful. I can say this now for I am no longer 'pretty'. I once was.

And it does affect the way you are perceived by the world and, as a consequence, the way you perceive the world.

When young I quickly realised that I looked OK. I used to wear those horrible national health glasses and for our last photo in junior school - age ten or eleven - I took them off and gave them to a girl who was next in the queue. Her reaction was, 'Oh John' and she went bright red. She had a crush on me for years afterwards. I found out much later.


Once upon a time I looked like this.

Complete with an adams apple I can no longer locate and a waist I cannot remember having.

This picture always reminds me of a Thunderbirds puppet.

Yes, I was vain.

I was seventeen.

I have now morphed into this.

A sort of transition from Thunderbirds puppet to Jabba the Hutt.

It has given rise to a few stories.

The funniest was a school reunion through Friends Reunited I went to about six years ago. We were all nearing fifty and most hadn't seen each other for over thirty years.

I had to tell everyone who I was. Some of the women who I had fancied all those years back looked gobsmacked. One burst out laughing.

A touching aspect was that most of the weedy boys had turned into fine looking men. Where they had once been in awe of the likes of me now it was reversed. They preened and strutted as though to make up for all that lost time. I was happy for them. I had had my time.

And then the weird. Quite a few had hardly changed at all. Put a school blazer on them and you could be back to 1972. Some of the changes were hilarious. One guy looked exactly the same but was completely bald. His full head of distinctive curly hair replaced by a shiny dome. Another looked like he had a pillow up his shirt; a sort of detachable paunch; mine, at least, was sort of integral. Everything else about him was as per 1972.

I never went back. Some seemed to want to relive old times - and old romances - and even I, with my vastly changed appearance was interesting to one or too. I suppose they felt they could just close their eyes and go back.

The point of this post is this; at a young age I realised I made an impression without having to lift a finger. It made me lazy. With the girls I became adept at walking into a pub or similar and sussing them all out and seeing how many I could make blush. And that was it. The downside, though, was that I didn't know how to follow up what I perceived was a devastating first impression.

The plainer guys who had to work harder therefore got the girls.

I've never lost that laid back, fly on the wall, attitude though.

A couple of anecdotes.

At eighteen or so I had a very intense crush on a popular girl who I didn't dare approach for the reasons quoted above. Her attitude changed from interest to puzzlement. She always had a boyfriend but never put out. An unobtainable beauty; the stuff of teenage fantasy.

I was invited to a party by another girl. The only people there were my fantasy girl and the inviter plus four or five of my best friends - all male, one of whom was courting my dream girl.

It was surreal. We all sat around downstairs and then dreamgirl and my mate went upstairs for a snog.

That was it. I'd had enough and made my excuses and left. The girl who had invited me followed me to the door and we chatted;

'Where do you live?' she asked. She was a pretty strawberry blond. I wish I'd noticed in hindsight.

I described, in some detail, where my house was in relation to hers.

A day or two later I was alone at home. Summer holidays and my mates were away by then. So I was doing that male teenage thing of listening to loud music and wanking.

I noticed a couple of girls walking down the long road towards our house.

My heart leapt. It was my dream girl. And the blond. I hid. They walked down and then sat on the grass just outside my home for a few minutes. I didn't dare go out. They stayed for quite a while and I was torn as to what to do. Silly arse.

As I've grown older I realised that blondie was probably using her friend as bait. I never saw that then and her attempts to engage me in conversation back at school were met with indifference and eventually she gave up.

I sometimes wonder about her. Never about the dream girl.

There were other, similar situations with other girls.

Another one; I was in my late thirties and on some management junket. I bumped into a fellow manager who I had worked with quite closely only four or five years previously.

He didn't recognise me. I had to tell him who I was. His eyes told me what I already knew. Five fucking years and I was unrecognisable!!!!

I suppose the point of me posting this is this;

That I have first hand experience of being both pretty and not so pretty. When I was 'pretty' I tended to look only at the pretty girls and judge people by appearance maybe too much.

I have had to learn to be humble. I wasn't at seventeen. I am now.

A thought; since successful people tend to be the most attractive physically, does that mean that the less attractive miss out more than they should? Does your own arrogance about your own attractiveness blind you to that of others?

Does humility pay?

I think maybe it does. If I'd had a little of that when younger I might have seen the blond for what she was; a rather sweet girl.

Passing on the Baton

I've always seen myself as the traditional paternalistic head of the family. The head of the pride who basks in the glory of being king of his hill no matter how small and mole-hillish that hill might be.

Today I climbed down of my mole hill and put my paper crown to one side. I think my Granddaughter drew pictures on it.

I asked my daughter to help me with a job application. She's good at that. It's part of her job so she was able to go through my meagre effort like a theatre critic and draw lines through this and made suggestions as to that.

Humble pie time.

She handled it with tact and aplomb and I was proud.

I imagined picking up the family crown and placing it on her head.

An hour well spent

Hot and humid equals physically draining. We try to avoid any long journeys. When it's like this we often laze around our garden underneath an umbrella, watching the bees, butterflies and birds in our private space at the back of our house. Idyllic. We did that most of yesterday and, as enticing as was to do it again today, we opted for a little variety.

Our choice was Temple Newsam . It's only ten minutes away, it opens quite early and, unless you want go into the house, is free. I took my camera for I knew the gardens would be worth recording.

Because it's near a large and, in parts, rather rough council estate (Halton Moor) it tends to get overlooked by those wanting a quiet, exclusive kind of stately home I think.

Snarfs avoid it because they may run into chavs.

The chavs, though, with their litter and noise polluting the place tend to appear later in the day and at weekends. If you go early you'll find all those like minded people who realise it is a haven that many have overlooked.


It's rarely as peaceful as this at places like Castle Howard.














We had the place to ourselves much of the time. The walled garden here is a treat. Note the seats.








Each seat is dedicated to the memory of a loved one. This one, of a little boy, particularly touching. I think I'd regard sitting down in the gardens here in a different light from what I would elsewhere.







More walled garden. It is huge and runs to a rough theme; a little like a wall-paper pattern. If you expand the picture you will see the mauve Nepeta (Catmint) in the foreground, flowing onto the path, repeated a couple of times some yards down the border. Of course, nature being nature, it isn't very regular. That just adds to the charm.







More of the themed border and here it was crowded too, with all of three people.












Below the walled garden a more formal avenue being prepared by liveried gardeners. They were out in force this morning. More of them than there were visitors I think. It is run by Leeds City Council.




The walled garden is surrounded by large collections of Asters, Phlox and Delphiniums. The latter are in flower now.



Dozens of varieties and all sorts of blues, pinks, mauves and white.













You could lose yourself in amongst them.








Now you didn't think I'd forgo the obligatory pose did you?





I was determined to feel as though I was on holiday complete with my posing man-bag and Panama hat.




Along the top of the walled garden is a large greenhouse full of colour. Here is just one section. Elsewhere there are Bougainvilleas amongst other exotic plants.











A final overview to give an impression of the size of the walled garden.






What I've shown is just a small part of the place. When we take Granddaughter we have to go and see the farm; smelly on a day like today.

And then the history. It was the home of Lord Darnley husband of Mary, Queen of Scots . He was blown up by a bomb like this in what must have been a very modern assassination for the sixteenth century.

I have tried to give you a flavour of what we experienced in that magic little hour that was only ten minutes from home.

The rest of the day? Well, doing bugger all really. Beer under the umbrella in our miniature walled garden and a little writing, eating and snoozing. And when I got too hot I watched Witness for the Prosecution

The whole day was bliss. We could have travelled an hour or more to somehwere that, by the time we got there, was busy and then had the journey back. On top of that we would have felt duty bound to stay longer because of the journey and the likely expense of getting in.

I think when visiting somewhere it is as important to consider when we go as it is to where we go.

Now, having said all that we are planning a long trip out tomorrow; but it is supposed to be cooler.

Just something I threw together

I hate waste.

Looking in the fridge the other day I found some bacon; five rashers, I think. Too hot for bacon sandwiches or similar but the bloody stuff was within a day of its 'use by' date. Dammit.

Further exploration brought out four manky old carrots; we keep some in the fridge and three sticks of celery that were in definite need of Viagra. The word 'stick' didn't really apply.

I also knew we had some suspect onions; you know the sort, you cut them open and sometimes they are going soft.

All sounds very appetising doesn't it.

We had some lovely cooked ham that my wife had done and that brought to mind a solution.

Lentil or pea based things are wonderful with ham. So, I raided our dried pulse stock and found some green lentils that were already part used. Perfect.

I set to with a pan to boil the lentils; about half a bag. OK, the rest of the bag. The carrots, celery and one onion were all cleaned up and chopped very finely. While the lentils were busy simmering away (half an hour or so) I fried the finely chopped vegetables in a skillet with a little oil to soften them.

Note; I always take a peeler to celery to destring it.

I then threw in the finely chopped bacon and fried the whole lot for a while before exploring the stock box. Hmmm, which one to use. Eeny meeny miny mo; CHICKEN. It doesn't matter which really.

Some boiling water was added to the skillet with the mix in it and the stock (one of those Knorr jelly ones) thrown in to melt. The whole lot was stirred as the lentils were getting to just the right consistency. They were then drained and added.

Note; we find those jelly Knorr stock 'pots' very highly seasoned. If I'd used a different one I'd have added some pepper. The bacon had enough salt.

To finish; a load of chopped fresh parsley.

Although I say it myself, it was lovely. Perfect with pieces of chopped cold ham on top.

The downer; not the best thing to have in this hot weather. A good autumn dish to add to my repertoire. Mind you, at least the resultant farts were outdoors.