View From Above

Sitting here admiring the daffodils beside me brightening my world.  The clouds disperse for a moment to allow tantalising glimpses of blue sky, then continue northwards at pace.  Sometimes I wish I could float along with them, head north, fly over the land observing the world like a bird, though preferably without being blown off route.   

The world is a different place from up high.  Those early pioneers who risked their lives to fly in the first balloons or the early flying machines could benefit from being the first to view their world from a height.  How lucky they were.  Of course, the fact that many died in doing this does make it less enjoyable.

Since the end of the Great War photography from the air has had many benefits. Those internet maps for one, archaeology greatly helped by air observation, and governments keeping an eye on one another's defence capabilities most of all.  

Sometimes however, it can be useful to us as individuals.  Away back in the early 1960's my brother joined the RAF as a photographer.  Here he learned the strict standards that were required, and also observed pictures taken at high altitude by RAF planes engaged in secret missions.  One such secret mission, no longer secret, was Bob asking a pilot heading up to Leuchers airport in Fife to take a couple of pictures of our home as he passed.  I have found two, a third, much clearer shot, has disappeared into my files somewhere.  At the top of this picture a main road crosses  right to left at an angle, from it a small, narrow road heads north.  Opposite this wee road lies the block in which I spent many years developing into the idiot I became.  I was probably at school when this occurred.  Such aircraft often flew over us, most of which have long since been scrapped or lie in some aircraft museum somewhere.

Observation from the air is difficult.  I can recognise my area from this picture, but would I if flying over it?   Flying over regions known to the flyer does not mean recognition comes easily.  The land below is hard to define, and only obvious places can be identified, coastlines, castles, or towns like Milton Keynes which stand out like a sore thumb below.  Landing at Edinburgh these days we fly in over the Forth of Forth, even from that I can recognise the various docks but too a long time to find our abode. 

Sadly,  today I remain on the ground. 

Hot House

Jenny has been keeping an eye on a fire in Finchley Road and I wondered if this was the building I once lived in.   In 1975 I moved into a sad little room at the back, taking the opportunity when it arose to move sideways into a sad little room with a window later.  However I do not think this is the block I lived in, there is an entrance next to the yellow sign which is now closed but used to be wide open for all and sundry to enter. I think that was the doorway graced with my presence.

I lived there over the window, glad to have accommodation I could afford, happy to ignore the window in the bathroom that would not shut whatever was done to it and content to listen to the mice wandering about the floor as the skirting board left at least an inch space for them to pass through.  The main problem was the train station underneath.  Right outside the back the four lanes of busy Underground trains ran all day well into the night.  The high pitched women's voice constantly giving out "This train is for Amersham, stopping at...." all day and changing with each arrival and then back again to the Amersham message.  How easily I could have shot her!  
The entrance was at the back and once inside it was the only way out.  This meant if you were on the top floor you were stuck if fire broke out, and as with all badly maintained buildings, especially aged uncared for ones, that was always a fear.  
Most of these today are offices but it may be some still house rich peoples, poor peoples cannot live in London these days!  I canny mind what rent I paid to the chap on the top floor with the Sten gun on the wall but it was affordable.  There again I was only earning £35 a week.  Today I suspect I may have to pay around £4oo a week for such a position.  At least it looks like it may have been done up but when I was there the block was not glorious.  Somehow I don't expect this block to be in use for a year or so.
Having looked closely I note the new building to the right of the building and it appears the block I lived in may well have been demolished and replaced.  I went through the entrance way and I think it was the second door along we lived at.  Now it is the back end of Sainsburys!  At least it looks safer.

Home is Where the House is.

We were chatting in between those irritating interruptions called visitors this morning about home and house.  What I refer to is returning to the place you were born or in which you grew up.  Home in your mind, yet just another dwelling to the passerby.  
My 'home' disappeared when my mother died.  The flat that we always called 'house' was handed back to the council for use by a new family, well once they chucked the two nancy boys who moved in forts out that is.  Why did they get a three bedroomed place when a family was waiting I ask?  Mum could have bought the place under Thatchers ridiculous sell off the housing stock idea for £5000!  She refused and we agreed that she enjoyed moving out of a tenement of two rooms and a small toilet into the three bed place with kitchen and bathroom, what luxury in 1953!  Because we wished another family to get a similar benefit she turned the idea down, and we could have sold it after she left for around £100,000.  I hope the new folks get on well there. 
However when I return to Edinburgh I will be without a 'home' as that is no longer mine.  I can no longer walk in unexpected without getting six months in prison.  The family have dispersed and each has a new 'home' where their kids and grandchildren will gather at the centre of their individual little families.  A strange sense to no longer have a home while everyone else has.  
Of course this is my home, but not as 'home' was home.  
For many home is a flat or a three bedroom house, for others a collection of iron sheets or mud walls but the sense is the same, and by the way happiness may be better in such places, that does not come from wealth as we have found.  'Home' remains in the mind as my colleague found when she returned to her long gone parents house, one of the elderly neighbours remembered her and chatted about past times yet things were different, nothing remains the same and the past is in our minds, not in front of us.  There must be many who would never return to a home as their past was to say the least rotten. Family or circumstantial difficulties may leave bad memories and returning would be a terrible time for some.  Just be glad that you may be able to return 'home' even if only in the mind, that home is a good place to be.

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Problems, Problems....

Problems indeed but not for me.  The woman next door fell through her kitchen floor again.  It has been repaired once but she managed to do it again.  This made her somewhat unhappy, although it was just her foot, no damage was done, and she failed to go through the ceiling below.  Our handyman boys came round, two bodgers hardworking lads, and fixed it this afternoon while she sat and sulked watching dumbed down telly.  This is a young couple who have a lot to learn about living in the real world.  No doubt they come from decent homes where all things were in good condition, this however is rent-a-flat-land, the real world if you like.  You get the best you can but it is never going to be what your dreams desire.  The chances of them ever buying a house is remote, you require around £150,000 at least and both need to be earning about £20,000 annually to obtain this.  No chance around here.  I wonder however if they will still be together in twelve months time anyway.  Kids today eh?

After fixing this little problem the boys noticed the first step at the bottom of the stairs was a bit damaged, this was quickly fixed.  (The phrase 'a bit damaged,' is not quite literal) While doing this the floor sagged somewhat also and on investigation the discovery of a leaky pipe resulted.  A slim crack had appeared on the joining bolt which was allowing water to gush out.  Naturally I was concerned - it might have been mine!  As it belonged to the downstairs chap I relaxed, awaiting his reading of his next water bill, just to see if he notices!  

So an afternoon was spent making tea for the workers, she wouldn't as she was in a huff, refusing to even offer a black bag for the rubbish, and I took the poor souls in for a break.  Mind you I have known them 20 years and have offered them many broken bits of this flat to repair, sometimes they have done this properly, sometimes I have to remind them that window is still stuck from the outside.  The landlord continues to drive his new Bentley, one of two I believe, having allowed all the Jaguars to rest awhile in the garage.  It sounds rough and ready here but it isn't really.  When I despair of accommodation and dream of a three bedroomed place with a sea view and a small garden I consider the places I lived before, at least one of which is no longer a slum -being torn down and rebuilt!  In many parts of the world people live in tin shacks made out of oil drums, and in North Korea they have Stalinist flats - only if the obey!  Now as the sun shines in revealing the inch of dirt on the window, I am content having a bright room, food inside, and internet contact with the real world.  A real world that has recently shown me several very nice friends indeed. 

Not a lot of people have such as this.     

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Eleven Years In This Flat

Eleven years to the day when I moved in to this flat. What a change from the London place. It took me a while to get used to this, although the couple downstairs with loud music for the first few days made it difficult. However they moved out, and as Easter Monday came upon us immediately, and I had to use those wee cards to pay for electricity which I did not have, I soon felt at home , cold, hungry and penny scraping. It was lonely, boring and I was not too happy. However, one day a few weeks later, I walked down 'The Avenue' and noticed the blue sky, birds singing and decided it was better than London after all.

Times of unemployment, which went on and on, temp work, packing work and later the Royal Mail job followed. Now the circle is complete as I am broke and unemployed again. Good things did occur. Nina being the best. What a wonderful woman she is. I thought she was ideal for me in every way, except regarding God. Her opinions were different. However she made me feel like a man, taught me about loving someone, and being loved, and I miss her still. No woman can replace her, and let's face it, none have wanted to.

So, eleven years on I find myself broke, unemployed, with no chance baby. Lonely for a woman, without a church to be involved in, no friends, no jobs, and staring bankruptcy in the face, if I can afford it. Are you depressed yet? Neither am I! I believe God still loves me. I just wish he would show me the way out of this mess. Happy anniversary........

Home is Two Places Edinburgh and Essex

Flying to Edinburgh almost brought one of those 'Idiot' moments. I had booked one of the Boarding Passes,but was unsure about how much Airport Tax had been paid, it increased at the start of the month. As I arrived at the desk to enquire re tax they pointed out the check-in had closed. The idiot inside me had read the closing time as the opening time! So next thing I was rushing, and upsetting my knees in the process, towards Gate 81. This was of course miles away, and I had to go through the security, then the 'shoe check' then rush for miles. Naturally,when I got there the plane was delayed and there had been no need to hurry. Jesus was looking after me, why did I worry? But I do. Self obsessed as I am.

Edinburgh is so different from Essex. Not just the city but the life. When I am there I am actually often back in time, I refer to the airport as 'Turnhouse,' a name not used for thirty years, and I return to a life I left that long ago. Not that it is all bad, however many of my memories are, and I do not like them. However, it is good to see the family. My nieces have all grown up into fine attractive intelligent women each still showing different characters but each one being a lovely lass in every way. Their kids are growing up in the same fine Scots tradition, however much political correctness destroys their education and common sense. And that is the one thing I have always missed down here. Watching them grow up. Now I miss the kids also.
It had to be, but how I wish I had been different.

My mother is now 92 and beginning to feel her age. But she well might outlive most of us! It is difficult being there as I am too selfish and too used to being on my own, hence the great desire to get back home come Sunday night. Nothing is better than being in your own place and following your own routine, no matter how mean and squalid it might be! Again I ask, could I live there? Not at home certainly, but maybe in Edinburgh or thereabouts if I found the right place. Of course to do this I need to win the lottery, and that my friend is just a lottery. But, after the tiredness wore off, I am back in the routine. Job hunt, self concern, staring at wall time asking what to do, then ignoring God and doing whatever I want anyway. Followed either by guilt or nothingness, then questioning how I am to get out of this? Easy pal. stop being selfish, let Jesus be Lord, and it will fall into place, slowly maybe, but surely!

Anyway, the flight back was interrupted by the neighbour at my side talking. Why, I ask, why can women not just look out the window and enjoy the view like I do? However Fiona turned out to be a bright highly intelligent woman, and there is not many of those around. Working for the Voluntary Arts project and struck me as well worth knowing. In the end I had to admit it was the best journey for a while. I also noticed how many folk seem to stand around doing little at the airport. Seems to me that is something to look into. That's my kind of work.

So by the grace of God the trip went reasonably well. However I still do not relate properly to Mum. Would I get on so well with the rest if I was nearby? They would see me as I am, and although they have a good idea of my ways, it will be awful to have them know just what a complete clown I am.

So Jesus, here we are, grateful for the wee holiday, but living totally for my squalid self once again. I apologise almost humbly, but still find my mind full of thoughts that do not glorify you, expose my weakness and emptiness, and indicate just how far I am from you. Should I stay in Essex or indeed anywhere else? I just do not know. Many good things here in northern Essex, not being alongside the stereotype 'Essex Boy and Girl' is one of them. But what now? I don't know, why ask me.......?