Wednesday

A day to relax!

Indeed a day to relax as all those difficult jobs and problems have been overcome. Prayer works indeed! From the moment the answer to the printer problem slapped me in the face before I was awake, I should wake any time soon, to the death certificate arriving, (a nurse misunderstood the situation and they were very apologetic and kind to my niece when she arrived with a shotgun this morning), to the funeral being fixed for 2:30 Monday afternoon all the major problems have been sorted. Well done those who prayed and wished us well. One or two smaller problems arise but this is too be expected. Imagine having to have a woman minister as the real one is on holiday? Tsk! What would Thomas Chalmers and John Knox say to this?

Solemn though death is it can lead to humorous situations. When my father died many years ago young pat, somewhat inebriated attempted to offer condolences whilst crouching in front of my mother. Her attempt to stifle the giggles as he swayed this way and that while blethering incoherently ended any tension the day had for her. A good man in the church in London died. Our car was held up at traffic lights and, being late in the day, the gate to the cemetery had been shut. Knowing there was another entrance some eight cars raced there and entered Kensal Green Cemetery and began a race. We raced along to the middle, stopped amid rising dust from the gravel pathway, and stood peering in various directions into the gloom searching for the event! More driving, and not at hearse speed, another stop, more peering and slamming car doors as we moved on again, far too fast in the situation. More screeching brakes, more dust, and this time success. The, by now, sweaty occupants suddenly became sedate, solemn participants and slowly made our solemn way to the graveside. The dust was still hanging in the air when we returned to the cars!

Ah well, now I just have to fly up Friday evening, and the cost is greater than I thought, and meet the family and some I will not recognise unless they carry name tags! Next Wednesday, when I return, I will return to cynicism, sarcasm, complaining, objectionable behaviour, and being a wimp yelling at the world. I may even have a rant about airports, rain, Edinburgh, family, and something or other I bet!

But let's face it, that is what makes me so lovable doesn't it?

They Have Lost Her

When my mother died early on Saturday morning she had not been in the hospital for twelve hours. Under Scots law this means a death certificate cannot be issued. I am assuming a report is made as we were then told that this would be passed to the Procurator Fiscals office (Google it!) and then a decision would be made whether a Post Mortem was required or if the certificate could be issued.

This would be passed to my niece, she would then discuss with the undertaker the arrangements, and an attempt would be made to fit in with the minister and the crematorium. Naturally, being our family, things are going wrong. For one they have lost her! The paperwork (a yellow form) has not appeared in the Procurator Fiscals office. They have looked and found none. My niece has not thought of phoning the hospital and enquiring from that end, as some ward clerk is probably still sitting on it, and so we await developments again tomorrow morning. Add to this the minister leaving on Saturday for two weeks holiday! While he is willing to fit in as much as he can, including Saturday morning, it would be difficult to find a place for refreshments afterwards and anyway I for one think this would be a bit of a rush and am opposed to rushing this!

Tonight I attempted to book a flight on Easyjet and with each touch of the keyboard the costs rose even more than I had expected. That is irrelevant as it just has to be done. However, as I planned how to rob the bank or mug old ladies to pay for this I had a problem. The printer, which printed OK the other day, has once again refused to print! I suspect the PC and the printer are not talking to each other. However this means too much work for tonight and I have done what I can.

When my sister informed me that she was missing we considered whether she really had gone missing. It crossed our minds that maybe, just maybe, she had got out of bed the other morning and found another woman to whom she could chat. Possibly the wrong lass has been declared dead and my mum is now sitting amongst a pile of empty cups chatting happily to a woman she has never met before. It was her way. The fact that four days have past would not be noticed by a couple of Edinburgh's finest would it?

Another Monday

Not far from here is an Anglican Church which has these bells atop the building. I passed that way yesterday and thought them striking (gettit?) This church is one of many in England that were built less for the glory of God than for the glory of the benefactor who built it. If I remember correctly a woman of standing, that means 'rich,' decided she wanted this church built to her plans. This was sometime in the late Victorian days and the town already possessed one large 12th century Anglican building and not far down the road another was to be found. However this structure was designed to be quite large and for some reason it was not completed as she had planned. To the side stands a large buttress designed for a far greater edifice than this. Whether the money ran out or she died is not clear, but her plan did not reach the conclusion she desired. The bells can be heard whenever a couple get married there, whether this is a joyful sound or a warning is not clear from here. Today this is the towns Anglo Catholic Church, the other being more main line as far as I can tell. Where is this leading you ask? Nowhere. It's just as I passed by I was intrigued by the bells standing clear against the blue sky and decided to snap them.

Such small enjoyments helped when writing to the council re the noise nuisance. At least I will not be arrested because of that letter, unlike the one I was mentally writing on Saturday! Tsk! Why can people not make noise when I want them too and not at their own selfish pleasure! Tsk!

Strange and Annoying Day

Being informed of my mothers death first thing did leave me full of thoughts. Some were good and some bad. She had been a marvellous mother who put her children first all her life. I am not convinced she got nearly as much back from any of us, especially me! At 94 years of age this is not an unexpected event, although as she was so well for her age it was not expected this week! However I spent the morning pondering, as you do, not really thinking and awaiting instructions from Edinburgh as to what to do as there is a problem, isn't there always. Under Scot law a death certificate cannot be given as she was in the hospital for less than twelve hours. Dying quietly in the early Saturday morning meant nothing can be done until Monday, and then only when the Procurator Fiscal gives the go ahead. That of course could take days! There again my sister and my niece, who went through this a few years ago when her mother died, are well capable of dealing with all arrangements.

My ponderings were disturbed by those Christians yesterday. In the park opposite they had a little outreach programme. Fun and games for the young of the town. Naturally, after I had several times complained about noise nuisance from such activities, they built a stage that pointed straight at this building. A distance of 100 or less yards enabled me to hear everything, at over 100 decibels, of the music that was mostly 'rap,' and 'rap' with a capital 'C' at that! I have as yet been unable to finish my e-mail to the council, the wording so far would get me at least six months, and it must be said, would embarrass a football player. Quite why this was aimed in my direction I do not know but I spent much time chasing my coffee cup across the desk as the beat moved it half an inch with each blow! "Come to Jesus," shouted the man. He has no idea how near his words became, "Come to....oh, hullo Jesus! Why have I got an axe in my head?"

As I tired in the afternoon, and my thoughts became strained I wondered the use of an axe in such situations would be classed as murder, or manslaughter under diminished responsibility? Billy Graham yesterday has no idea how providential the intervention of my guardian angel was. I still have no idea where all the 'blunt instruments' have gone. From 11a.m. till after four this went on and I could well have done without it. There again as is the way I feel bad about being here and wish I was up north again. Strange how it is better to be useless up north instead of useless down here.

I did get a surprise when checking travel prices however. I once travelled by rail regularly from Kings Cross to Waverley. A grand journey especially with a cut price First Class ticket where one can avoid the plebs! Yesterday I discovered the basic price for Standard Class (What we used to call Second Class!) is well over £200 return! The First Class, (What we used to call unatainable) is over £300 and the National Express company has recently claimed they are losing money running the service! This line has now become Nationalised, as indeed they all should, but prices like this on an enjoyable run are far too expensive. The Easyjet return from Stanstead will cost me less than £200 if I book early, and just over a hundred depending on my return date. No wonder I didn't get home often!

Mum Dies

First thing this morning I got a call from my sister informing me my mother had died early that morning. She was 94, and it appears had been sick all week. The difficulties of being 400 miles away show at times like this. Now I have some strange emotions, guilt, loss etc. The "If only" bothers me now. A good woman who deserved a better family and now gone. As she would say, we just have to 'get on with it' there is nothing else to do.

Free Car!

So my niece promised me a car.
A promise fulfilled indeed!
Just a little smaller than I thought it would be....

Albert

Tired and weary as I am I have nothing to say. This will be a sad loss to the world but I believe the world will continue nonetheless. However I may feel that this would be something of a pity.... Albert is a squirrel that forced me to feed him the other day, his gun is just behind the bushy tail.

TV Obsession

If it's not one thing it's another. TV needs an obsession these days. Luckily Michael Jackson died so we could then endure wall to wall coverage of the loss of one of the most over rated singers for years. Famous less for his meaningless song and dance routines than for his demented and very confused personality. Living proof indeed that fathers need to do their job properly! While there was some nodding acquaintance with the occasional dead soldier from Afghanistan or Obama meeting the Russian leaders and curtailing thousands of nuclear warheads, we return quickly to Los Angeles and the hangers - on around the coffin. BBC, Sky News, and elsewhere indulge themselves with live coverage of the PR stunt designed to ignore the questions nobody wanted to ask. Like what did go on with the small boys, and who is the father/mother of his 'children? Instead we have hours of singers, mostly black, ensuring they are seen to be where they need to be seen whether they really cared or not.

Cynical? Oh yes! A showman dies in the United States and his family come along to mourn or attempt to reclaim their boy. No wrong in that in itself, although the show outweighed the reality. Emotion to the fore while there will be a fight for the money behind the scenes. What with all the hangers on and empty noise from an abundance of 'must be seen' persons, praises and tears from fans I confess I am left feeling cold. The solemnity of the returning bodies of 'our boys' who fell in a different life however fills me with admiration, not least for the self control of the young wife watching her man come home - in a box. TV however does not use the latter to fill their 24 hour screens, but a dead pop singer is an obsession with nothingness that can be enjoyed.

Today the funeral is over but the English are once again obsessed,this time with Cricket! Yes cricket! Rounders with two bats to you and me (rounders is what Yanks call Baseball for some reason unknown). More importantly to the English this cricket is what they call 'The Ashes.' In the days of long ago they started challenging the Australians to cricket matches. This proved popular and today this is something of huge import to those whose brain seized up during primary school days. It is claimed that after one defeat by the Aussies (apparently the English lose quite a lot in this contest) the visiting captain taunted his opponent by declaring the "Death of English cricket!" If only....

Later some women presented a small urn containing some burnt material, some claim it could be a bail, but a more reliable voice insisted it was a woman's veil, appropriate for those who play this game I would say. TV executives see cricket, and especially the 'Ashes' as important. Wall to wall coverage is however limited as the 'England & Wales County Cricket Board' stupidly sold the right s to Sky, so most folk cannot see it! This does not stop them talking about it everywhere however.

England of course is awash with arrogance, especially when they perceive the Aussies as having a weak side. During the last meeting England won, celebrating with a meeting with the slime ball Tony Blair in Downing Street and an open top bus tour of London. Dearie me! They only won because one of the Aussie world class bowlers was injured and the victory was meaningless, but don't tell them this. They are England and therefore they are bound to win!

Their self belief to the fore England has turned its enmity on the Welsh. Playing the first test in Cardiff the English object to the Welsh national anthem being played before the game, and instead demand their own! Imperialism is never far from an Englishman. Imagine being in a foreign country and demanding your anthem is played! England does! In fact the organisation behind this goes under the name 'England & Wales County Cricket Board,' so why not play the game in Wales, and why object to their national anthem? Imperialism, no other reason. Funny how there have been Welshmen in the team, and South Africans, Pakistanis and even Scotsmen, sometimes as skipper, but please don't play the game in Wales or mention their anthem! TV however is obsessed with cricket. The anthem is debated, the pitch, the weather, the stadium, the history, the people, the past people, the ball, the bat, the 'silly mid off,' and all the rest over and over on all the channels. Today the game actually got under way, and the Aussies are well on top. There could be another five test thrashing in sight for England (& Wales). This would be sad, wouldn't it? Tee Hee!

Coffee

Coffee, that stuff that wakes your brain in the morning can, if you drink three to five, strong cups of the stuff a day, help prevent Alzheimer's, or so they say. Who say? Swedish & Finnish researchers that's who. This may of course have something to do with both Swede and Finn researchers having nothing to fill the time with during those six long months of darkness of course. This research however sounds encouraging as it has been found that the chemical in the brain that has some influence on the disease is lessened by the effects of coffee. Jolly good you say drinking three straight cups in an effort to stimulate deep thought and keep the ability to answer quiz questions alive until your first century dawns. Brilliant, if you remember to drink the stuff in the first place on not put a tea bag in the cup by mistake.

However, and there is always a 'however,' there is evidence elsewhere, whether from experiments on wide awake mice or humans I cannot tell and don't really care anyway, there is evidence that too much coffee can give you hallucinations! Now this need not bother most of us, that pink elephant Mike sees is caused by too much time in the 'Cock & Wallet,' in Dalkieth, and those spiders ruining Fishy's life are indeed there, that's what you get for living in Americas backwoods. It is of course a delicate balance when dealing with food as the research keeps coming and mostly disagrees with itself. Much reading between the lines (who sponsors this research for instance) and a great deal of cynicism is required to keep the mind sane. In this case careful coffee drinking is advised as while keeping the gray cells alive is very important to us all it can be somewhat diminished if those same gray cells are alive and well enough only to distinguish that large green mouse in the lavatory from the tree growing out of the television set! Women, you will not be surprised to hear, are much more likely to hallucinate and see things that are not there than men. Anyone who has had a woman in their house will of course already be aware of that, coffee or no coffee! On top of all this no one has mentioned that after drinking several strong cups of coffee the drinker cannot close their eyes for a month and the sleep deprivation may also have effects on their health. But that I suppose is the subject of different research!

However all this is slightly less worrying than the German manufacturers ability to foot their foot well in their mouths. Tchibo decided a slogan for their, rather strange, coffee shops was required. They chose 'To each his own,' and while you and I would innocently notice this and immediately forget it in Germany this is not possible. Why? Because the nasty Nazi's already made use of that phrase, on the gates of Buchenwald Concentration Camp, that's why! The camp was intended to hold political and religious prisoners, and a variety of others who offended the sensibilities of the Nazi Party. By putting 'To each his own' instead of 'Work makes free' as found on the extermination camp gates, the Germans intended it to be read as 'You get what you deserve,' at least in their eyes. It is easy to understand why a German coffee shops, probably innocent, advert should be read as offensive to some. The 'sins of the fathers' have been handed down to even this generation of Germans, and those sins were so grievous even coffee is cursed it seems.

Walking Alone

Before the rain clouds gathered, and then failed to gather, I walked down to the pretty bits. I didn't mean to but got distracted after I met an old friend who has been gone from here for a while. By gone I mean he got himself into one of those corners life throws up and sought a way out. Being an employee of Royal Mail entitled him to search all RM jobs and he found one he fancied, in the Shetland Isles! Quite what brought that on I have no idea but his move has been a success for him. Obtaining one of the easiest jobs available and picking up a woman at the same time. Excuse me while I look up the dole office there online.

Anyway as I was gibbering I was distracted by our talk and instead of the healthy walk down that way past the rich folks new houses and up past the age old houses containing the rich who moved there to be with their own kind in spite of the cost and the heavy traffic outside their window, I ended up in a wood! I sauntered down over the remains of a stile, damaged beyond repair by twenty years worth of 'youth traffic' headed for the nearby college, greeted a surly, imitation middle class artisans family as they, well she, struggled to cycle up a slope while nursing whatever bad mood had dominated their morning, and decided to wander past the 'burn' they call a 'river,' rather than the moneyed classes dwellings. Now being brought up overlooking the Firth of Forth a 'river' to me is something that is two miles wide and full of shipping. This one is a dozen or so yards across and slower than my mother in a Post Office! Now this is nice, and not to be sneered at, but really, is this a true 'river?' Ptah! Having had no breakfast to speak off (lies all lies) I was reluctant to wander far as I knew the path could go on for ever! Folk have been known to wander there for a picnic and never been seen again! I swear there is a platoon of Japanese soldiers who are still fighting the second world war there! Anyway I wandered around in the mirk for a short while.

Now to return to my theme. I was alone! Nobody else moved. Nothing could be heard but the slow gurgle of water trickling, the birdies twittering and pages yesterdays papers some lout had deposited here and there rustling in the bushes. What does it require for someone not to realise that old papers, plastic bags and empty beer tins do not add to the beauty of the woodland? I asked a passing Mallard if the paper was his but he denied it. That apart the sounds were country like and enjoyable. However I was alone and as often happens, maybe because I read the papers to much, I began to wonder. I wondered what others thought if they saw me walking alone in a wood? I often pass a primary school when going along the old railway and half expect the neurotic mums to start screaming as I pass, alone. Now if I sat alone by a river bank with a fishing rod and stared into space nobody would ask a question, just a man fishing. However, if I sit alone by a river bank I get funny looks. A single man is not there to enjoy the nature around him, he is up to something! Other men often confess the same fear and it annoys me. When I was young we were told if something happens, get help from an adult. While were were warned about 'strange men' it remained an instruction to ask an adult, either sex, if there was a problem. Do kids get told this today? If a five year old lad fell over would I pick him up, cuddle his tears away, and set him on his road? Would I not be more likely to pass by in case a neurotic woman with short hair and dangling earrings came rushing out shouting 'Pervert!' If that happened I confess I may well murder her I must say.

I realise some women feel hesitation in walking alone in some areas and at awkward times, but at least they never have the fear of being classed as a paedo! I suspect that fifty years ago there were proportionately just as many paedos around as today, but the fear is greater! The press are much to blame by screaming headlines, and government, national and local, just as much to blame by not offering an objective overview and proper judicial care. Our council rehoused a paedo a few years ago, his new place was opposite a children's playground! A small thing and I have never actually ran into trouble like this, but it is always a thought at the back of the mind. In fact some years ago at Pool Harbour they had a stall enabling kids to go 'crabbing.' While most gathered around the hut one lad, about nine year old, separated himself from the bustling mob, a leader of the future I reckon. As I passed he spoke, wanting me to be impressed with his considerable catch. Indeed I was and told him so, with one eye on the folks in the distance awaiting his boxer dad rushing over and planting me a thruppenny one! This did not happen but it was in my mind. I am in danger of becoming as neurotic as the readers of the 'Daily Mail!'

Friends

Friends, we all have them, well some of us, and I was thinking of how they all disappear. What I mean is that at one time, when younger, several of us would meet regularly, often late into the night. A glance at the address book, one of them, shows that none of them are within a hundred miles of me now, and only three are in regular contact. It must be said that speaks a lot for their indulgence! What happens to the rest?

Life comes along and we move on. Jobs, university course end, marriage and other rotten things happen to us or them and suddenly a group of ten has become a group of three. This 'natural wastage' (as one boss once referred to myself) is usually replaced by incomers of one sort or another, if that is you had that many friends in the first place. In fact while we may belong to a large crowd of people usually up to a hundred may be 'friends' at one level, but only two or three are ever true friends. If your lucky you will live with one of these, if not bury her in the garden, nobody will notice until 'Time Team' come calling in a thousand years time. However there are many who become friends for a short time, through work or some other hindrance to life, it is these that come to mind tonight.

At one time I had an ansafone that was worked by small tapes. I found one that had been replaced one day and inserted the thing and came across a female voice who had been one of these friends. For the life of me I had no idea who she was! Clearly she was part of our social group, clearly she could not live without me (Stop it now!), but who was she? Photographs in albums give clear pictures of many friends, what were their names I wonder? Even if I remember a name or two I cannot always place them in any other way. How many people have had their lives touched (a suitable word) by me? Do they remember me now? Are they bitter and twisted at the thought of my name? Do any of them miss me?

So much time so nothing gets done.

Some years ago I spent a few years working as a porter in a small hospital in the concrete jungle that is London. I was glad to get this job, firstly because since arriving in the capital of the empire I had been employed in a council highways depot, shifting pavement slabs and hot bags of concrete on, that is, the rare occasions work was demanded of us. The second reason was the year I had spent working on the trauma ward in Edinburgh’s Royal Infirmary. This had brought me into close contact with patients as I considered whether nursing was a career (although it was only called a ‘job’ back then) that I should attempt. The nursing staff, or ‘angels’ as the media called them, soon began to suggest I looked more in the direction of the Pathology Department, possibly a Mortician vacancy may arise they said, and that would lessen the dangers. I never quite knew what they were getting at however they stressed that they felt this was somehow more appropriate! I suppose it’s not everyone who can mistake a foot, attached to a leg recently emerged from a cartilage operation, for a crumpled sheet, as the owner of the leg discovered with a resounding scream one morning. Nor is it tactful to offer reassuring words to relatives concerned over their aged grandfather when he dies an hour later. Several of us hid behind the office door when they returned that evening! I will not mention what happened with that catheter that time…..

Anyway, I was employed for some years at the Maida Vale Hospital, as a porter, and in this small hospital I came into daily contact with all patients and staff and rarely did I come close to eradicating any of them, err, except for that incident with the stretcher on the front steps, obviously. This was a busy job and during the average day there were many times when we were doing several things at once, especially myself as I was considered so important to the running of that place. (Stop giggling at the back there!) An oxygen cylinder required on one ward, the lovely Louise in outpatients needing a visit, a patient needing direction, the lovely Elaine in the office over they way requiring attention, a problem with a dinner trolley, or Margaret on the switchboard needing me… …anyway I digress, I digress.

The point I was making is that when we are busy, and at the hospital we (meaning me!) often were very busy, it was easy to do several things at once, and visit outpatients for a chat. However come the weekend the world changed. Many of the inmates were allowed home, outpatients closed and scheduled operations were rare, so it tended to quieten down considerably. This brings me to the crux (is that allowed?) of the discussion. You see when Sunday came there was nothing to do! On occasions I would work a twelve hour shift to cover sickness and nothing happened! Now in one sense this is good, but in another it was hard. Taking the food trolleys upstairs three times. Taking them down again afterwards, and chucking out the uneaten porridge after breakfast (and no wonder!), became the main job for the day. Other jobs may arise but I didn’t want to do them! An oxygen cylinder needed changing but I struggled to get my feet of my desk, put down the paper, set aside the cup and struggle out to work. During the week it was almost unnoticed how many were changed as we were so overworked (especially me!). Not on Sunday however!

This came to mind as I looked around this dwelling, although ‘dwelling’ may be making it sound too luxurious. The desk is littered with paperwork needing attention. There is a pile of bills in the corner and one of them is dated 1998! A thin layer of dust lies over most of the place, and I hate to inform the world of whatever is in the laundry basket. I have no idea what that was but I swear it has moved three times today! I did find a clean cup, eventually, but really I have been overtaken, not hard, by sloth! This is because when there is so much free time small things, like ‘TechTris’ interferes with the free flow of ideas, and labour is shoved aside while the stomach is filled and the contents always require sleeping off. Naturally the sun has drawn me out several times, blinking into the brightness like a bat near a street light, but even then I dawdle when in a previous life I raced along. On Wednesday a tortoise overtook me! Anyway, I have been writing this since last January and I thought you ought to know.

Exercise

So this morning I got my bulk onto the bike and toddled around for a short while. I sauntered along the old railway enjoying the noise of the birds and the warmth of the sun. And warm sun at eight in the morning is an unusual occurrence around here. The line was littered with an assortment of bird life pecking at the pathway. Just what they were after I could not see but, invisible to the human eye, something was down there that attracted all the birds, Thrushes, Pigeons, and Dunnocks, etc. They all treated me with contempt, some loudly informing me where to go. I find a strange enjoyment while making my way along here. I tend to think it is all those years in London, the window of my slum faced east and while the view was tolerable the sun disappeared round the corner after midday! Now I cannot get enough of the daylight, the trees, birds and countryside that is around here, however boring that may be.

Party will not spend their way out of recession, but they will ensure more for their friends! I worry not however, as I ought to be faithful to the God who never leaves us. Maybe I should start this now? When I returned, weary and worn, I discovered my weight had gone down to just above When I weighed myself, to a strange creaking sound, I discovered the soup and bread I had been stuffing myself with, as part of a calorie controlled diet, has increased my bulk to fifteen and a half stone! It was supposed to go the other way. I may have to use smaller lentils I think. So later in the day I walked to the edge of town to Tesco's big shop there and was diddled by the fat chav bitch on the counter. Fifty pence she nicked. I will check on her later. Promenading along I indulged in another bout of guilt at those who still had to force themselves into work each day. By telling myself I have already encountered some forty years of such work made me feel better, but not for long! However the recession may well continue for some time, and under the next government, which will be Tory, the unemployed will have more stress put on them and less help. Their numbers will also increase, possibly more than doubling as the Conservativefifteen stone. This says much for the heat out there!

Aching knees did not stop me going out in the afternoon once again. The strength given by Lentil soup (without bread) enabled me to walk in the other direction. This route takes me through the delightful small industrial estate where I wondered if work may be available. As five members of one company were sitting in the sun at the back door, at the busiest time of the day, I reckoned they do not need my help. I came back through the railway but this time the walk was spoiled by all the mums gathering to fetch the brats from the school along there. Apart from the noise, loud chatter, laughing, screaming, and the kids are as bad, all these young mums walk too fast for me and I canny keep up! Anyway I am now just above fifteen stone, have red patches all over, and my knees feel as if they will fall apart soon. Health appears to be round the corner! What a way to spend a birthday. Mind you that reminded me of how lovely the family is. I am glad they are my family!

Soup

This cooking business is easy. I quite understand how men go into this cooking business, especially on TV, and make money out of it. You will remember that my 'Flanders Stew' has become world famous, there again so has 'Swine Flu' I suppose, but cooking is easy-peasy and I am thinking of making a cook book with my own special recipes. I would put a recipe on one page and a meditation from the Psalms on the other, I would call it "Wok in the Spirit!" It will be a success and I am sure thinking about it brings a lump to many throats. Take my home made soup for instance, something I began when musing on my mothers potato soup. My mothers soup kept us alive when young and few mums today cook in similar fashion. My great niece insists on this when visiting her great gran and has been known to take some back home with her because her mother, and gran, are so bad at cooking! This inspired me to try my own home made soups.

Today I took some (No need to soak) Red Lentils and chucked them in a pot and added boiling hot water. To this I added some green (No need to soak) Lentils and stirred. Having raided the cupboard I discovered some 'Lentilles Vertes' (No need to soak and what are they anyway?) and flung them in for luck. The next step was to chop up some foul looking potatoes, and even fouler looking onions, and amid tears and much stink fling them into the cauldron. The recipe obviously requires something to develop the taste so I crumbled, and then when I recovered placed an imitation chicken OXO cube in for flavour. Adding a dollop of cayenne pepper to spice things up a bit I then added the most important ingredient of all, Brown Sauce! There is no doubt that this is the true secret of success. I stirred the lot, allowed it to simmer and, eventually, sat down to lunch!

It was Foul!
It tasted rather like the famous Black Broth the Spartans lived off! Now, where is my spear....?





Possibly the hottest day of the year today, so I wandered away from my strenuous mental exertions and sat in the park and watched the girls read my book. Stretched across the bench I soaked up the sunshine and soon, like a pig in the sun, I was bacon. (Get it? oh never mind) After thirty or so minutes of this I removed my shirt in the sunshine for the first time since the early eighties. On that occasion, being unused to soaking up the sun, I sat there for hours slowly turning a deep beetroot colour. Soon afterwards I discovered this was unwise! The red turned to itching, the itching turned sore, the friends and colleagues turned ugly and insisted on rubbing my chest on each and every occasion. I often volunteered to do the same to theirs but women are fussy creatures you know. Naturally I did not stay too long like this, less than forty five minutes all told, and ran for cover. However I did enjoy my short stay in the sun and while there attempted to study the book, 'Western Society & the Church in the Middle Ages.' This was difficult as it was much better to inhale the aroma of the flowering bush nearby, watch the girls swifts chase one another across the deep blue sky, and generally just indulge myself in the rare pleasure of hot sunshine. Those who were not brought up in a nation in which cloud covers the land two days out of three, often carrying rain which it delights to leave with those below, will not understand the British preoccupation with sitting starkers in the sunshine.

When I first came to this county I discovered it had the lowest rainfall in the UK, this I soon proved wrong when I became a postman! I also disproved a theory at that time that the area was as flat as Norfolk, it isn't! Indeed there were many on my rounds, one right around the corner! But I must not let you think I am one to complain must I? Anyway I am enjoying the warmth of the earth, and understanding how people wish to sit under their own olive trees and rest in peace and safety. We Spartans can cope with this, for a few days!

Confederations Cup

Quite what this was all about, apart from making money for the men in Fifa, I am not sure. It can pass as a warm up to the World Cup next year, and the conditions in South Africa required a practice I suggest. However it appears to be more about Sepp Blatter and his cronies having a knees up around the world.

That said it gave us a few good games and one or two upsets. Spain losing to USA! USA! USA! was caused partly to Spanish overconfidence and I suggest a lot to do with a seasons weariness. Most of the Spanish players have been in action since last July, and with little of a break last year after their Euro Championship win, and it is time for a rest, physically and mentally, for them. USA! USA! USA! did indeed do very well. Getting to the final may have included a bit of luck, but all sides require this, and once in the final against the biggest team in the world they went two goals up! Few teams have ever done that! Even Scotland have never gone two goals up over Brazil! Brazil contain some of the worlds best players at present and the fear of losing spurred them to come back for a three goal victory. Meaningless competition this may be but we did have a great final!

I hope the citizens of USA! USA! USA! realise just how well their wee team performed in this competition. The future for the USA! USA! USA! is indeed bright on the football field.

However there were one or two grumbles regarding the BBC coverage, shoved aside on BBC 3 for some obscure reason, (how come tennis is considered more important than football?) the games played in the afternoon were only available to those with the magic 'Red Button!' Another flaw is Gabby Logan! Why is a woman presenting football? This lass was dumped by ITV after failing there, and even Clive Tyldsley keeps his job there! Yet the Beeb picked her up, at great expense, and dumped her, unwanted, on the football public. I'm sorry but women are not up to presenting or commentating on football, it's not their place!

Talking of not in the proper place brings us to Garth Crooks. Here we have another example of 'positive discrimination.' Like Gabby who got her job from being female Garth got his by being black. This was not something he mentioned when complaining that he could not apply for a managers job because, being black, he would not have been appointed. That was not racist I suppose? The fact that he never applied for a job fearing rejection may speak much about the lack off gumption required to manage a football side? However his colour and not his talent got him his job at the Beeb. At least neither will be prominent at the World Cup, surely?

There was a slight sound problem also. A technical glitch means the sound arrives a fraction of a second before the picture and this means the commentators (Johnathon Pearce, please someone shoot him now!) voice arrives before we see what he is screaming about. Only a half second but in football (where the feet and not the hands are used) this is important.

Heatwave!

The weather folk are predicting a 'heatwave' now! Of course you understand that in the UK any warmth that enables the individual to remove their jacket is considered a 'heatwave!' Grumbling begins immediately! "It's too hot," "Why is nothing done about this?" The government should hand out fans." "There are people dying from the heat!" The last I wonder about myself. Old folks may suffer but dying from the heat in the UK? We will catch flu from pigs next!

Closed

Nothing in my mind today,
not a thing.
Nothing, nowt, zilch.
Emptiness, hollowness and lots of space yes,
But no thoughts.
Daydreams and time wasting yes,
But thinking, no, not today!
Sorry....

Saturday Musings

I must confess to some cynicism regarding the death of Wacko Jacko.

The hour by hour coverage made me turn off, and the weeping girlie's brought some cynicism to my mind. While they cry from pain I suspect there are many boys crying for relief there will be no sleepovers there!

Poor sad Jacko, poor childhood, too much money and no sensible folk to turn to. No father figure in his life, at it appears not one that was of much use. When folks refuse to have a father, or insist two male/females can act as parents hey ignore the way we are made! Mind you, having said that I am left wondering what colour he was when he died? Somehow I suspect the phrase 'brown bread = dead' was never used, or am I cruel?

No doubt he will be reverenced for ever by some but I truly do not understand the fuss. I am happy not to comprehend young folks music, or their liking for weirdos, but Jackos song and dance routine was in my view meaningless pap. The videos represented an emptiness that music in the 60's never possessed. Then there was a meaning to music, a desire to change the world for the better, in theory if not in fact. Since the mid 70's music has been mostly self serving, getting worse with each decade. The occasional flash of something outside this occurs, punk for instance but that too was a meaningless grab for money!

Maybe it's just me......

In the meantime, while avoiding tennis or Michael Jackson conspiracy theories, I have spent the day in fantasy land. No, not like that, but dreaming of a house I saw in Edinburgh, well Leith actually, shock horror! if only I had around £400,000 going spare I could have changed my life for a while. I checked my accounts, £2:20 in, my pocket, a cider jar half full of copper coins and a few small silver ones, a credit card bill that Alistair Darling would be jealous off, and an overdraft that makes me shudder, especially when two bills arrive this week! I can see me "dwelling in the realms of fantasy Jones" for a while yet.

Grass, Flowers, Fragrance

It was when I was sitting in the park watching the gir reading my book that I noticed it. A worker bee was bouncing along the bench just like the lassies and watching him I began to cogitate, as you do. You see I had put the book down and allowed the fragrance of the newly cut grass to fill my senses. This was more profitable in the sunshine than the book was. There is little in God's earth that is better than the smell of newly cut grass. Quite why it is so sweet I have no idea but I love it. I considered the area the gardener had omitted while mowing, a patch about thirty feet by fifteen had been allowed to remain to attract the beasties. I watched the bee stop to rest on the bench and wondered if he was attracted by smell or sight to such things. The flowers, that is to say buttercups and dandelions and such like weeds, are bright yellow and this, they say, is to attract beasties at this time of year. Surely I suggest the aroma does similar as it appeared to me our bee was getting up close to things to inspect them rather than watching from a distance and heading towards his target. Chasing the bee on his way and wiping hundreds of little black beasts from my arms as I sat reddening I considered the 'Lillies of the field.'

Flowers are such wonderful things. Delicate, colourful and fragrant, just like the women in my life. Hold on, I'm not so sure about the 'delicate' part there. Our Thai Mike often shows pics of his gardening exploits and it is amazing how varied flowers and plants can be. In the UK we possess many that are thought to be indigenous but in fact are escapees. In the 18th and 19th century many rich folks collected specimens from all corners of the globe, in a similar manner to the way England collected an Empire! Some of the seeds escaped from their gardens, often aided by passing birds, and on occasion they reached the railway lines. As the railways spread through the land, with amazing speed as it happened, they took with them the seeds from the plants that had taken root alongside the track. The wheels carried them to all corners and they remain abundant throughout the land today.

I'm Annoyed

I'm annoyed!
Now as you know I never get annoyed. That is one of the disadvantages of being so nice! However, I always remain calm in all situations - not counting hurling bricks at those brats screaming past on their Vespa's of course, and using the chainsaw in the market place that time, but other wise I am always cool, calm and collected - oh yes I forgot the problem at the Hibs ground when the goal went in. Suggesting that Leith docker could go, er chase himself, was probably unwise with hindsight. Anyway I did get truly upset last night, so much so I even did the 'Daily Mail' thing and wrote to the BBC!
A British (which means she was probably not English) female tennis player was being interviewed after her defeat. She was somewhat emotional and instead of informing them where to go as she ought to, the lass burst into tears. Now in my mind the thing to do here was back off and give the lass space, but oh no, this is television, so the camera closed in, changed angles, and got a close up of her tears. The bastards! I was so angry at this! Clearly she was upset (clearly she was also rubbish!) but to use her tears because this is 'good television' was just wrong! I was so angry I spent a good long while attempting to e-mail the Beeb, (and this is not easy). Of course such shots are considered 'good television' in the business and are to be found in all reports from troubled regions. No war zone is complete without the crying women and bandaged children! To me using her this way was heartless! The picture has of course been repeated many times since, and "Dearie me," the commentators said, "Poor lass," but they use her just the same.
The bastards!


I'm still annoyed!
Stickies! These are wonderful things! Post it notes for the PC screen (That's Personal Computer not Political Correctness Dummy!) and I use them all the time. Excellent things I find. Even better they are FREE!!!!! However I have an annoying problem. Along the top of each one is the white control bar, and I use this to move each one into position. However I moved one small yellow Sticky right to the top of the screen and the white bar along the top went to far. Now I can't get the thing back down again!!!! I am right annoyed again!




Now I am about to watch Spain play the USA! USA! USA! at the Confederation Cup nonsense and the aerial is giving trouble again. But I am not one to complain.....Unless Spain lose to the Yanks I suppose...

Foul Mood

I have been in a foul mood today, unusual for me as I am usually so laid back and easy going. However today I am again for a change feeling foul! Everything goes wrong! Tennis dominates the TV, the radio and Andy Murray is constantly referred to as 'British' or even 'English' by TV people. England's racism never ceases! The weather is hot and I am stuck in here typing this, I pick up the yoghurt (spelt Yoghurt!) from the shelf and drop it on the floor (spelt floor!). The brats on their noisy, buzzing, scooters spend far too much time racing past my door upsetting the TV aerial , I awake too early for my own good and am soon half asleep again and cannot get back to snooze level. Memories of nasty incidents from the past keep rising in my mind (ever have this?) , and I touched up the painting this morning and now have once again got paint everywhere! I also got the water bill today and in spite of the fact I am well in regards payment they want to increase the monthly payment! The money grabbing privatised imitation bankers that they are! I would trust a banker more than a utility man these days. Bring back Joseph Chamberlain I say. He may have created an Empire but at least he knew what to do with gas!

Now I am not one to complain but I could list, but refuse to, all the things that have gone wrong in the past few days, however I am too nice. One man somewhere in Belgium has won £12 million on the lottery, why not me? I would put it to good use for the whole world, he will just waste it on himself! Greedy git! The tennis is still continuing, and worse, the sun will shine so the BBC will have this wall to wall for days yet, and who cares? Tennis was only created to make basketball look interesting, and it failed!

Now, after cycling each morning for health reasons I find my knees are aching and the 'Thai Curry House and Takeaway Massage Parlour' will not attend as they are fascinated by the men at the tennis! I would wander out and creak my way over to the gardens and sit and read a book but I cannot be bothered with any book at the moment. No doubt concentration would be disturbed by some ned playing tennis and skipping school. Right! That's it! I've had enough, I am off to drink metal polish and finish myself off. Goodbye cruel world!









er, can anybody lend me some metal polish........

The Longest Day

Today is the 'Longest Day' in the UK. By that I do not mean longest in the sense of waiting for the dentist to open so that a tooth can be extracted, nor do I mean longest in the sense of waiting for the bus to arrive while the rain pours down your neck. No indeed I mean longest between between sunrise and sunset. Now for many year man thought this moment was significant. Men without God sought him as they could and Stonehenge reflects early Britons ideas concerning the importance of sunrise, although some suggest that in fact the sunset was important instead. But clearly they felt this important enough to spend hundreds of years building Stonehenge into a major gathering point. Quite what occurred when they gathered is unclear but the event was important enough to transport huge blocks of stone all the way from darkest Wales to Salisbury plain. The transport of such blocks seems difficult enough today when cranes and lorries are employed to transport such loads, imagine the trouble taken in the days of yore? However early man ingenious and capable of great building works. The Tower of Babel, Pyramids, Standing stones, huge temples and palace complexes and the like are found in many places often dating back thousands of years. Today, it is impossible in some cases to understand the intellectual reasons behind their works, but clearly these were important social settings.

This morning vast numbers of numpties gathered at Stonehenge to see the sunrise. Naturally being Britain (not England as some would have it) the sky is covered with clouds and even here when I woke just after three the sky was coloured a darkish hue as morning approached, very disappointing but better than the dark black days to come! This is my favourite day off the year! I cannot be doing with these dark nights, I was made for light and sunshine - yet I was born in Edinburgh! Sometimes one wonders! These numpties at Stonehenge have gathered in imitation of pagan worship from the past. Few however actually have any idea what the past activities were all about as information regarding the ancient druids is almost non existent, so those who dress in fancy robes and gather so intently there each year are in fact living a fantasy life based on their own desires, not those of Iron or Bronze age man. The majority attend for the spectacle, with little care for the 'worship' and naturally the media will also gather there, anything to fill the press on slow news day.



In November 1918 Scapa Flow welcomed the German Fleet interned after the armistice. Some 74 ships, Battleships, Battle cruisers, and Cruisers along with destroyers were brought into the famous naval base. These ships were manned by a skeleton crew (that is skeleton as is small number of men, not a lot of bones running around the ship). Scapa Flow while an important base for the Royal navy was also much disliked as a posting. In the north of Scotland the weather becomes extremely cold in winter and there was little or nothing to appeal to the thousands of men normally based on Royal Naval ships. The German crews, who had spent most of the war in Williamshaven naval base, probably felt extremely unhappy with their lot! This could not have been helped by the news of revolution at home while Germany tore herself apart. By the middle of 1919 Rear Admiral von Reuter, in charge of the imprisoned ships, knew Germany would be forced to accept whatever terms were ordered by the Versailles discussions. So on this day 90 years ago, 21 June 1919, 72 warships of the German fleet were scuttled in Scapa Flow, Orkney. Many were scuttled where they lay and others were beached. This gave the Germans some sense of revenge as they realised this would stop their ships being used by the enemy. Most however were salvaged for scrap during the next twenty years.




Fathers Day is the day nasty women sent 'Fathers Day' cards to single men they feel spiteful towards."To Daddy from Johnny" it reads, "When will I ever see you?" Single man feels no little concern as this is the first time he has heard of 'Little Johnny' and begins to wonder just what did happen that time in the social club. he had a drink but, but....?

Fathers day was not thought off when I was a lad, fathers were, but no special day was set apart for them. Fathers Day, like Mothers, Valentine, and any other special day are only inventions from people making money out of emotional blackmail! My dad, like most of his generation, would appreciate some consideration I suppose, but he would not have been to bothered about a special day for this. For the kids, or mum yes, but not for himself. He probably thought that would be making him a bit of a 'Jessie!' He saw his role as providing for his family, especially as his mum, who he was close to, left his dad when he was about five, probably because of his drinking. My dads aim from then on was to do the right thing and provide for, care for and bring up a family properly! Naturally this went well for the most part, although he and I managed not to get on - too similar in some ways. He also felt a failure when my mother went out to work. When I, the last in the line, started secondary school she began to clean houses for the middle classes. She got on with them so well she is still a family friend with them over forty five years later! Dad still felt this made him inadequate but this I did not realise for years. While in the army he managed to scratch his initials on Stonehenge he claimed. Salisbury Plains being a huge army training area and I suspect he, and others, were indulging in the age old army occupation of dodging the work! He died from lung cancer, caused most likely by cigarette smoking, at the age of 61. Had he lived he would today be 101 and probably spent all day complaining about something. So unlike me! It has to be said we didn't get on, partly from the age gap, the sixties revolution and both of us sharing certain dispositions. However in the last twenty years I have often wondered what life would have been like had he lived? Sometimes I would like to ask him questions, but I suspect I already know the answers.

I Have Nothing to Say

So I don't think I will bother saying it. I suppose I could have a go at saying nothing, some folks like that sort of thing, usually women walking down the road blethering into a mobile phone. However I am too knackered from running around to think clearly enough to write nothing. Waking at quarter to six, rising at half past and then completing many of the urgent jobs by just before nine in the morning wore me out! It has it be said that watching paint dry also achieves similar results. Now I stare at the light evening, hidden behind the light cloud formation the weather girl so generously promised us, and find nothing crosses my mind. Nothing! There are no rants against cretins in shops, as those I met today were friendly. No rants at telly rubbish, as I didn't watch any of it. No rants at all because as always I am mild, gentle, quite and lying in my teeth! I think I will stop that and go lie in my bed instead.

Painting

Do you realise just how difficult it is to paint the window? Mind you is is several years since I attempted this and I had to relearn everything again. There again every time I have a tea break I need to relearn everything again but that's another matter.This takes forever this painting lark! I forgot how trying painting frames could be! Getting the brush to apply the stuff is hard enough, but getting it wiped off the glass when the brush makes a mistake is wearing me out! I had hoped to finish it, but naturally there are some bits that cannot be reached when the paint is still wet. Then there is the problem of the window dropping down when my paws are full of brush and tin, panic sets in, manhandling of wet window leaving paint on me that is somehow transferred to everything within a mile and a half! Then half an hour like 'Laurel & Hardy' until I get back into the swing of things. Naturally when I finished for the day, worn out and weary, I began to rinse the brushes under the tap. It was as I done so I realised this was 'undercoat' and not 'emulsion!' As I stared unbelievingly at my paint covered hands I realised there was no 'white spirit' in the house! (Why don't we call it 'Turpentine' any more?) This meant a sticky trail through the town until I found some from a cheerless non - English speaking type for whom smiling was a crime! (No it wasn't Mike S.) However the undercoat is now on most of the woodwork, and quite a lot of the floor, just a bit to finish when the rest is dry. Tomorrow we gloss. 'Once more unto the window we go!' As someone famous almost said.

Of course, then there are the other windows that needs doing also. I need a job to give me a rest!

Now I am Not One to Complain, but ...

There are far too many doctors in this town!
I have been feeling a bit rough recently, but that is not unusual. The sore throat, the tiredness, the lying in my bed from morn till night, all these were indications that I was sick. Then earlier today I walked through the town with the market on determined to be first to pick up the potatoes and cabbages that have fallen from the stalls and are left behind. On the way my condition was recognised by all these doctors and as I passed their 'Flu' prognosis was indicated to me, quite forcibly I must say, by cries off "Swine! Swine!" Just glad I was not in the US as this would have cost $300 a throw!

Then I had a run in with some bint in the chemist shop.
"Two wasps please," I asked politely.
"What?"
"Two wasps please," I repeated slowly.
"We don't sell wasps," she said in a somewhat strained and quizzical manner.
"Well," said I, "There's one in your window!"
Then the yelling started.

People often cause me bother, and I sometimes wonder if it is just me?
At the dole office when I was signing on the lassie asked for my name, "Six and Seven Eighths" I replied. "What? Why?" she muttered almost looking up from her paperwork. "Why Six and Seven Eighths?" "Because they just picked my name out of a hat," said I.

In times past I used to dress smartly, but my recession means I have had to dress more 'Off the peg' recently. Now however even that has been taken from me. My neighbours have stopped leaving their washing out at nights.

Life? Don't ask me about life!

Man of Letters

Like John Ruskin I have always been a ‘Man of letters.’

Admittedly my letters have never quite made me either rich or famous, however I keep trying, and one day I may succeed.

In the days before I reached this level of maturity (stop giggling at the back) I wrote occasional scribbles to various folk, usually inspired by TV programmes. However I never did win any prizes, either from ‘Blue Peter’ or the STV News programme children's bit. They did not show my drawing of the Forth Road Bridge either! The kid who had his picture displayed on said programme may well have seen his mother smile but his effort was nowhere near as good as mine! Not that I'm bitter....

Funnily enough I did, eventually. Receive a reply from the great Jim Cruickshank! Heart of Midlothians greatest ever goalkeeper! Fan mail that obtains a reply was rare in the days when stamps cost ‘3d.’ He did enclose a signed photo and for a few short moments I was a star at the new, Jerry built, complex that masqueraded as an education establishment. I still have the picture and no, you can’t see it! IT’S MINE!!!!! Naturally I never achieved that standard of fame at school again. There again I was no good at the important things, burglary, pick pocketing and gambling on the horses!

In my fourteenth year, (we left school at fifteen then, and in fact I was actually fourteen when blessed release arrived), I began the laborious slog of writing letters to employers whose last desire was to receive letters from ‘spotty Herbert’s’ with no desire to work. In those days the majority did waste time and money in replying politely ‘No chance pal!’ The unfortunate death trap whisky bond that did employ me in July 1966 often used to indicate their wish to have replied with just such a note! The boss often wandered about muttering "3d, just 3d!"

I suppose I must point out that there have been many occasions when I have indulged in such work related letters, not because I have been dismissed as cynics suggest. On the contrary that has never happened to me, I always strike the first blow! Today I am once more involved in such written pleadings, again through no fault of my own, and in a recession at that! Nowadays replies are unlikely, even if I use e-mail rather than ‘slow mail.’ However I have received a few replies. "Wot you? No chance pal," they say, although with a 'Thamespeak' accent of course.

Not all the letters I have written have received an encouraging reply. Take that weather girl for instance. While sweet in disposition, lovely in appearance she was of course female. Quite how she misread my epistle in that particular manner is a mystery to me! The two, rather large, policemen who appeared on my door at seven that morning did not share her disposition I am sorry to say. Anyway, an encouraging word to presenters of programmes sometimes elicits a photo in reply as a thank you, although John Motson sent the picture but withheld any comment that time I wrote to him! As indeed did Trevor Brooking when I enclosed a sock and suggested he shoved it into Motsons gob next time they shared commentary together. There has been a continual correspondence with one TV chap who often got round to answering, sometimes cheekily, my comments. His decision to make use of one of TV’s slappers ended his marriage, and the correspondence appeared an intrusion at the time so it ceased. We may take it up again later, once his eyes have healed!

Today, in between lying about my youthful, talented, capabilities, I am tasked with nothing more than begging letters, all of which fail. The "...children may be starving," and " ...my husband may have left..," or ".. the wife dying of mononucleosis," and ".. and one child may need constant 24 hour care...," but the mean rich folk feel no sympathy and offer no care. Indeed they treat my billets with contempt! It was as if I pretended to be some Nigerian Prince who had $25,000,000 US to give to some poor sucker daft enough to believe them. And let face it, there is always someone who falls for that one isn……hold on. I’ve just had an idea! I must go I have some letters to write......