Lumbered

A young lass has lumbered me with what is called the 'Versatile Blogger Award,' for reasons of spite I believe!

The rules insist I must first post this :-

Then blether share seven things about myself.  Now as you know I am a humble and retiring sort, and sharing one thing about myself is difficult for one so shy, and therefore finding seven things to lay before you may be difficult indeed.  However I did make a start and considered what I could post here for your delectation. This at first glance appeared quite easy, however by the time I was working on the sixth item the detritus that makes up my life revealed itself starkly to my face.  The emergency services who talked me down of Marks & Spencer's roof in Chelmsford were very kind. The interesting white suit with arms that tie behind my back has been removed now the Valium is taking hold.  


Here instead are seven things that have crossed my numbed brain during this time.  Maybe some of those who bother to read, and being Friday few will be around, life offering them a break from the routine at last, those who bother to read might identify with dome of these things.  Help is available if you do, but please don't jump off tall buildings, it hinders the traffic, apparently.

The Bike!  Yes this bike is struggling a bit these days, it is about 15 years old, and that's older than my mentality.  The gears are not quite what they should be, my technical skill remains at switching on the light and turning a key in a lock, the mudguards have long lost the screws that keep them together (and replacements do not exist you must buy a new mudguard!) and the tyres are so thin that punctures come easily.  I was out for 15 minutes this morning and had one by the time I returned!  However that said one of the great activities open to most people whatever their age is riding a bike!  If you have quiet streets, a country lane, or a path by the beach it can be even better.  Some folks are into walking, over long pathways, hills and mountains and even deserts, but nothing beats riding a bike.  You cover much the same ground and at three times the speed. If the view is boring you accelerate, if it is excellent you stop.  The only hassle is rain, wind and motorists.  Oh and punctures!  One of the great joys, and I would do it more if my knees did not keep aching.  I will be out again tomorrow although I think I made a blooper fixing the tyre, it may go again!

    Roman Britain.org

History!  There are only four subjects kids need to learn at school, reading and writing, counting, geography and history.  Everything else should prepare them for the real world in whatever role they wish to participate in.  Lack of proper History teaching leads to myths, and all nations have them.  These myths are often propaganda that began during war time and have become part of the nation.  Often half truths and omitting those events that put the nation in a bad light myths can come to be a major part of a nations psyche.  You will know of many in your own land.  Factual history not only tells us the reality of the past, and we need to know this to see how we became what we are, but the truth enables us to develop a better structure for the future.  Some people slant history to their own advantage, though I have never known a Scot to do this, and politicians are very adept are taking portions that speak to the nations heart, whether right or wrong.  The study of History is therefor the most important and in these days one of the least supported by education establishments.  This is a pity.  History tells us about ourselves, and maybe that is why it is not too popular!  However I find it not only important but fun!  There is a strange and difficult to explain thrill to stand where a great event in the past, so long talked about, occurs, whatever this may be.  To be on a battlefield a hundred years after the war is not only safer, it aids understanding and sets the mind working.  To stand on steps Jesus must have walked on, and by working it out by yourself rather than trust a guide, is a thrill.  For some reason while watching 'Time Team' I found myself very interested in what once was the doorway into a store,  yet if I stand outside a warehouse today I find it less interesting than one stuck in the mud from 250 years before?  Hey ho, life is strange.  But history tells us about us, because wherever folks come from and whatever time they lived they are just like us, human nature never changes.

Blogs!  Yes I know there are a hundred billion of them out there, and that one third have not been updated for yonks, but they are a fabulous way to keep in touch, entertain, inform or just let of a scream into the world!  The last is what many people are indeed doing, yelling "I am here and I am important too!" to a disinterested world caught up in its own importance.  Writers, both serious and er, dilettantish, can state their opinions, sort the world, meet people, and I have met good people this way, and upset most off them, and widen the experience of life by crossing frontiers from a keyboard.  Lonely old folks, or indeed younger ones, would benefit by making n effort this way, much better than staring at a TV as many do, numbing the mind and killing and wasting the life experience of many. Blogs and bloggers, whatever their reasons, are excellent I say!  Oh yes and you can post your fotos also, which is another fabulous use of a blog, try it!

Dole!  There is nothing like being unemployed!  The lack of money, the debts that do not go down, the threadbare shoes, and the sideways glances from those that say, "Scrounger, workshy and lazy,' all these can wear you down.  Nothing is more objectionable however than millionaire Cabinet ministers (Yes Duncan Smith I mean you!) appearing in the press saying with an innocent expression 'The unemployed just need to square their skills with the vacancies.' all the while ignoring the fact that there are five unemployed, at least, for each one, and that most are unsuitable!  This from a man who is putting seriously sick people onto the dole just to save a few bob on sickness benefit!  Maybe it's my age but I don't care as much as I used to.  I have had enough of office politics, inept and often corrupt management, and the buck passing that work brings.  I want work, indeed a man needs to work, it is part of his makeup, but after all this time I wonder what to do?  I have on occasion found myself sitting in the park with a blank expression, having done all and having no idea what to do next.  Usually this is followed by tales of some nobody who finds a penny and within a year is a multi-millionaire and a member of the House of Lords.  I hate folks like that!  Sometimes I think I should have struggled on at work, although that did not appear good at the time, sometimes I wonder what is the point?  However, searching for dead soldiers, reading blogs and keeping in touch with the football brings me back to life again, unless we get royally stuffed of course!  Something will turn up, one day.

Day by Day

Edinburgh!  Scotia's darling!  My birthplace and the best city in the world, apart from the rain of course! The city has a thousand years of history for those who like that sort of thing.  The life of the everyday people mixing in close proximity to their leaders engenders an egalitarian attitude not seen in Englandshire.  This does not preclude a social structure of course, oh no, an establishment exists here indeed!  The castle towering over Prices Street has seen wars, indeed it was bombed in 1916 by a passing Zeppelin, royal births, massacres (of English mostly so that's alright), tattoos and festivals, and today ranks as one of the most visited tourist attractions in the British Isles!  The half million people can crowd in shops and offices, and some factories exist but not as many as in the past, and nowhere near as many as in Glasgow and the west, and finance still makes Edinburgh second only to London where money is concerned, although what the banks do with it is worth pondering.  To the north the Firth of Forth rolls into the north sea, and once watched as the fleet sallied forth on the Forth to defend the waves she claimed to rule.  They did not all return.  Behind Edinburgh rise the Pentland hills, with the odd historical site, a gun range and people of old age sauntering along in a manner that makes me weary!  The city has everything most folks wish for and these days is, they claim, full of jollity and fun, carnivals and exhibitions, young folks entertaining, with cafe's and bars, and an openness to visitors.  Sod that for a game of soldiers, I'll stay here where it's miserable enough!

Humour!  Jenny, an intelligent and able lass, whom I will not mention because she is the woman who lumbered me with this, appears to think I have a cynical view on life, me?  I fail to see why she links me with Anthony  Aloysius Hancock.  He was a great comedy actor who, using the writings of Galton & Simpson,  brought the nation to a halt once a week, whether on radio or TV.  It was claimed that some 25 million people would turn on the gramophone and listen into 'Hancock's Half Hour' in the early 50's. Later, along with Sid James, Bill Kerr and Hattie Jacques he transferred to TV and again stopped the world.  Hancock's ability to read a script and act it out first time perfectly, plus impeccable timing, made him a giant of the comedy world.  His talent matched the writers skill perfectly, their insights both into the subject and his personality and the world in general still makes the programme worth listening out for.  Individual lines have stayed in the nations memory for generations now.  The programme is broadcast still on BBC 4 Extra.  Quiet how anyone could say I was cynical like Tubbs escapes me I'm sure. Before we had TV the family would visit 'The Empire Theatre,' or the Edinburgh 'Palladium' for a variety show.  I used to laugh my head off all the way through these shows, right up to the end, until a David Whitfield type singer would appear and I demanded to go!  Few escaped my censure apart from Wee Willy Harris, emerald green Teddy Boy jacket and red hair,in 1957!  Or the man with the golden trumpet, Eddie Calvert. I liked them.  I would have loved to be a comedian and to that end I lacked only one thing, talent!  Oh yes, and humour!  Oh and wit, understanding, timing, ......  

God!  The one thing that keeps me from topping myself on gloomy days is the thought that this man Jesus not only died for me, he came and told me about it. Now I don't wish to give the wrong impression, there was no voice or manifestation, but Jesus broke into my life, and over (far too) many years has been trying to get me to trust him completely, and his life will flood mine. This has been a struggle, he has sweated a lot over me I can tell you!  Yet the Love of God is seen in his coming to seek me, and only I know how bad I am, and offers forgiveness and life, to me!  You see people also who have found this, a strange lot some say, but when the living God appears you must change.  Even sitting blankly staring after another joyless meeting at the job shop if the thought of Jesus love comes to mind all else is put in perspective.  I sometimes ever smile at strangers!  My twisted personality would be awful without his interference. In fact I would be dead by now.  As a teen I just wished to visit Edinburgh's 500 pubs, and chase women, no doubt had drugs appeared I would have gone for them like an idiot and been long dead!  Looking back it is clear he led me to London, although quite what I am to do out in this wilderness is less clear I can tell you.  The car crash in 1986 revealed God's hand.  We could easily be dead.  The healing afterwards saw Jesus at work in many ways, and his participation in the life of the church at that time was evident.  He is alive today and wishes to let us know him!  Nothing tastes in life once you have tasted something better!  Jesus is the best!

Oh yes, another rule of this was to list 15 pour souls to pass this on to.  However I do not know 15 souls, only a handful.  I will mention the names of some, and if you wish to pursue this or not I leave with you.  I select  first the great Max, then Soub, a man of many talents!  Mike, is a man who understands the world, RDG, a poet and a sweetie, and 'A,' who makes me laugh!  Rab also, a thoughtful and erudite man well worth reading. Feel free to ignore this if you wish. These things usually annoy me yet how can I resist a pretty face?  




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Wednesday Evening

I was writing something for the blog but got so bogged down with it and the football commentary began on the wireless so I gave it up and posted this instead.  I thought it very funny and clever.  I did log on to the Twitter thing, not so much to post when I was drinking coffee, sitting on a bus or washing my face but to read what football players were saying about their injuries.  I have posted more than I thought, and thought far too little when I posted.  It seems that is all to often the way.  However I can add my short thoughts to the outpourings from various football reporters, I avoid the word 'journalist,' and rarely do they reply.  I think one at least has blocked me.  Oops.!  You would not believe how many people disagree with my opinions.  The 'Glasgow Herald' will not let me post unless a moderator passes my comment, asking questions regarding Rangers football club upset them, and the 'Daily mail' regularly indicates a post has been withdrawn following a complaint.  The 'Guardian' objects to their mods being referred to as 'Nazis' or 'fascists,' for some reason.  


On the other hand I have five fingers these are opportunities tor each the powerful and the movers and shakers amongst us.  The web allows us to e-mail our MP's and I did send a comment to that idiot Ian Duncan Smith regarding his use of young unemployed as slave labour for his friends in Tesco's. Not too sure if that will get a response that one.  Every comment reveals our opinions of happenings great and small.  This can be a good way of informing these powerful people, even if they do not wish to care a toss about what we think.  The thought comes to my mind that the BBC does not have such a facility.  I mean I do not know the leading man/woman/confused gender who runs BBC1 for instance.  I would like to make my views knows directly, I wonder if it wishes to hear? So I suppose that such things as Twitter, blogs, forums have improved the knowledge our leaders, MP's, Editors and others, have of their peoples opinions.  It doesn't appear to make too much difference mind does it?



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St Paul's

Henry Dawson painted this view of St Paul's high above the Thames in 1877.  The river is full of craft of various types. Behind the artist many large ships would be unloading, lighters would be transferring goods from ship to shore, and I suspect that even at that late date some 'taxi' boat still crossed the river in places, not all bridges having been built by then I guess.  I say 'guess as I am to lazy busy to check for myself.  Until the early sixties when the dockers lost out to cheaper, more profitable, and less likely to be pilfered container ships the Thames was a busy, dirty river.  Today a few barges pass by, the tourist boats rip off the clients, and some private craft are seen.  The warehouses are trendy flats, office blocks avoid taxpaying as much as possible and the view of St Paul's is still possible, if you find the few places where a gap in the building reaching for the sky allows this. Dawsons view is better than today's, but the lifestyle of the people, as well as their health thanks to the NHS must be considerably better!    


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Now I'm not one to complain, but...

This is the scruffy, unkempt face of the Scotland team manager.  He presented it, along with a smile borrowed from a tired airline steward, to the illiterates that form the Scottish press football corps.  These devious lying cretins arrive with only two thoughts, "How can we make this seem bad no matter how good it appears, and how can we get him to talk about our club, Rangers?"  Today they gathered at Hampden pretending to care about the Scotland side. These worm like creatures would have noticed the three Celtic players but only one Rangers player in the squad.  This would have been alleviated by the three ex- Rangers and only two ex- Celtic players announced.  Of such childish sectarianism does the Glasgow media feed!  What would have missed their attention was the ever increasing number of players born outside of Scotland, some of at least one Scots parent, and others selected simply because they read 'Treasure Island,' as a kid or once ate an oatmeal biscuit without any butter to prove they were a man! And that only last week!


It is gone to far now, this foreign import of 'Scotsmen.'  We have reached a stage, although the media miss this as there is no mileage in it for them nor are they willing to think outside of the OF box, we have reached a stage where a halt has to be called to Leveins choice of foreigner. Do players like Murphy and Lasley not matter?  Are Dundee United players not yet ready? I am sure Levein does not wish to play young men too early, and with this I agree, however they have to start sometime, and if they are true born Scots they must get a look in somewhere, even in a friendly. We have to take a chance and develop young players, even if not ready, and use them for at least half a game.  Instead we bring in those not nearly good enough to ever get a call up for the nation of their birth, and indeed of their choice.  It is true some have done well and I do not suggest they be thrown out now they have played, but we weaken the development of young players without a sixteen team league, and by taking away their opportunities by filling the gap with 'journeymen! If we are to play such talents let them be Scots 'journeymen' I say, not English ones!


Maybe Levein is right when he says his job is to Progress into tournaments."  Maybe he is more intent on succeeding here and moving to a better job afterwards down in England, or even juts doing enough to keep his job as manager of the Scotland side.  We all know how trustworthy the SFA are.  Once the press turn against the manager he is out, unless he has Ibrox connections. I have nothing against the chancers players myself, it is just that they are NOT Scotsmen, had no thought for the most part concerning Scotland, and only heard of it when that ageing granny said "Wee," and "Scunner!"  Now they have the chance all players wish for, to play at International level.  Who can blame them?  However I could never put on an England shirt, how can they turn on their nation so easily?  Have they no pride except when lying about '66?  The idea of allowing sons of nationals born abroad is indeed a good one, however where it falls down is when the slightest connection allows you to play thus hindering the development of young home grown players.  This may keep a manager in a job, it may even bring success, but it is NOT right!


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Half Time

Could it get worse?  I sit here listening to the game at Motherwell and the Heart of Midlothian are losing two nil at half time, I am freezing here with the north wind howling through the gaps in the window and now rain is lashing down storm like!  The only bright spot in this dull, damp, dreich, Dundee like day is the news that Rangers, in such financial trouble they might perish, have drawn a huge crowd to Ibrox Park and are now not only losing but have had a man sent off!  Every cloud has a silver lining I suppose!  
No it hasn't. Motherwell, two nil ahead, have a man sent off!  Now we have a chance to get back into the game, isn't this good?  No it isn't, we are three nil down..... The rain is still falling, the sky is dark, my fingers have frostbite, but I am not one to complain.....


It's cold, the dinner is burning, we lost, life is cruel, it's being so cheerful wot keeps me going....


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Invincible

I have been engaging my dim intellect on a search for this ship today, 'HMS Invincible.'  I was actually not really looking for the ship, I know where she lies, but for information regarding Acting Leading Stoker Henry Samuel Goodchild.  The centenary of the beginning of the Great War arrives in August 2014 and I am trawling around for one or two local men named on the war memorial for the museum.  Goodchild is one of them, as his parents lived in 72 Manor Street, just around the corner from me.  


There is little concerning him online as far as I can see although the Commonwealth War Graves Commission site does tell us his parents address and that he was a native of Gorleston on Sea, up in Norfolk near Great Yarmouth.  A quick glance informs me this was a poor little town that survived on fishing in the 19th century as far as I can see, life appears to have been very hard and the inhabitants poor.  I presume that this brought them all the way to this area, I suppose at the turn of the century, in search of a better life. Quite what that employment would be I can only guess at. Henry Samuel's employment was as a stoker on his Majesty's Battlecruiser 'HMS Invincible!'  This ship was built in 1909 yet by the war she was far from being the most modern amongst the fleet.  Newer ships were faster and had updated equipment.  However she saw service at the Battle of the Heligoland Bight and a major part in the 'Battle of the Falkland Islands' where, along with the 'Inflexible,'  she sank both the 'Scharnhorst' and the 'Gneisenau.'  However after playing her part during the 'Battle of Jutland'  she herself received a barrage of shells courtesy of the German Navy, from both the 'Lutzow' and the 'Derfflinger.'  German gunnery was accurate and several shells from each hit the ship.  One pierced the 'Q' Funnel and the resultant explosion made its way to the middle of the ship. 'HMS Invincible' was rent asunder and withing 90 seconds all that remained were the front and rear ends of the ship sticking out of the water.  Six men in the Control Top firing the guns, were flung clear and were found clinging to a raft cheering on the other ships in the chase, they were the only survivors. 


So this morning I attempted to develop my limited knowledge of both the battle itself and Acting Leading Stoker Goodchild.  I found out that he was only 'acting,' and this shows not only that he was capable and trusted by his superiors, but also the cheapskate way the services promote.  'Acting' means you possess the rank but not the salary, and many men, even of quite high rank, find that later the rank may be withdrawn and you revert to a previous position. Not all accept this with good grace!  A stoker is usually considered but nothing other than shoveling coal into a boiler, an extremely hard job, however there was skill involved as the coal had oil sprayed onto it to increase the burn rate, and stokers had to attend to the engines as well as the boilers.  He may well have had some technical skill therefore.  Somehow I must discover when he enlisted, was it before the war?  He was 29 when the ship went down so maybe the enthusiasm of 1914 called him to enlist. Gorleston was by the sea and possibly he had always hankered for the sea again, and pride in the Royal Navy was high, far too many men volunteered for the Navy in the end.  It is always possible that he had already tried the fishing at Gorleston, maybe that made the family move!  So all morning I searched the web, being sidetracked here and there, until I discovered nothing other than it was afternoon and I was getting nowhere.  My eyes had begun to shrink into black dots by then and now I find I'm still writing about it now for goodness sake!  Enough! 

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How to Word an Advert

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Woolpack Inn

This fine old building is the Woolpack Inn, Bocking.  Or at least it was in times past.  Today it is divided into three 'cottages,' the far one selling for just under £300,000 if you are interested.  The two outer buildings have dates of 1590 carved into them, the old Woolpack is dated around 1660,  There are of course many 'Woolpack Inns' around these parts.  Wool was England's greatest export for many years and until recently the Lord Chancellor sat on the 'Woolsack' in the House of Lords, this to represent England's wealth!  Today the speaker sits on a pouf!  Very apt!  Not sure what the carvings are supposed to represent but there are many in this long road.  An attractive road apart from the constant traffic that thunders down here throughout the day and night. The houses are very old and attract the 'best' type of resident, I do not live here. A man named Savill bought the pub in 1779 and his family were still running the place in 1841, it appears to have closed shortly after this as old photographs show the buildings as housing.  There were many more public houses in the past, partly because of the poor water, partly as eating places, and partly because the English are drunks I tell you!  1590 to 1660 concerns Raleigh, Shakespeare, Marlowe and Elizabeth as Queen.  James VI & I became King of two nations and he called it 'Great Britain' for the first time. We have the gunpowder plot, English settlers at Jamestown, plague, fire and war.  We can speculate as to how the residents of this area dealt with those occurrences but I wonder if the needs of the moment meant more to them than national events?  News spread very fast, although slower when  there was no 'Twitter' service, and people in small villages and towns would have been aware of much outside their own area.  Most surely would not have wandered that far from home unless war called, wouldn't they?  I wonder?  The house has recently been sold, if next door cost £300,000 then this would be more, I didn't make an offer.


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Hope....

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Camulodunum

Camulodunum was very cold today, in spite of the weather man claiming the cold snap was lessening.  Here we see the wall forming the first defensive barrier.  Behind the land slopes up to where I suspect another barrier once stood.  Well it would have had I anything to do with it!

Not exactly straight!  Age has indeed wearied this wall which has lasted many years.

 

The variety of stones includes many slim red tiles.  These are Roman bricks I believe but I am too busy to check it out and I wonder if this forms part of the wall created as part of the new defences after Boudicca's revolt. 

   

Can you make out the thin layer of ice that lies on top of the river?

I wondered what this was at first.  The design and brickwork was typical 1950's and must have appeared very modern at the time.  It forms part of the Fire Station and while I am unsure as to whether it is a chimney or part of the training routine I found it strangely atmospheric of its time!

I was amazed by the lamp standards in this area.  Very dated and very badly maintained.  Much more attractive than the concrete type that appeared in the 50's, or would be if painted once again.

My meeting there was once again with a different person.   Yet another has walked off to tour the world and I am now on my fourth worker, and I suspect this will change to another next time I trundle along there.  Still this lass has plenty of common sense and a great deal of the females normal attitudes, she nagged me, browbeat me and was totally unreasonable in her demands!  However I am much encouraged by the news that the employment situation will worsen and 'bosses are losing staff' claim the press.  It did not mention where they lose them however.

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The Skies are Becoming Lighter!

At five this evening I noticed the clouds outside were still light gray.  This was because the days are getting longer and soon Spring will Spring into view and once Spring has Sprung life will be better, and cheaper, than it is now!  Soon this horrible white stuff that still lies in heaps around us will melt, allowing the media to complain about floods everywhere.  Once gone it will not return, at least not like this, and life will once again be beautiful, apart from all the reasons to grump of course!  No more gathering around a candle wishing I could afford a box of matches.  No more wearing woolen gloves with the fingers cut out, in bed, and walking the streets to keep warm as it is colder inside than out!  Daffodils are already sprouting, Easter eggs are lining the shelves of supermarkets waiting for Valentines Day to pass, and offers of holidays in the sun are flooding the spam markets.  The days are getting longer, the geese are getting fat, let's put a £20 note into my old hat!


Well that was  worth a try.........

  

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You Canny Fix Stupid

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Isn't Life Great?

This is a sink.  In the sink lies a bowl.  Inside the bowl lies, just visible, a frying pan. Now it is not unusual to see a pan in a washing u bowl, but this one is different.  This is a symbol of my life today!  You see I used the pan to fry some mushrooms and tomatoes to go along with my fish, chips and beans, a nourishing but unspectacular chow the other night.  The pan was later stored away at the bottom of the oven, some oil still inside, awaiting further use. Last night, using all my intellect to the fullest effect, I decided that eating the remains from the bag of oven chips would equal my tea because I was too lazy busy to fix anything that required effort.
It was while I searched the web for dead soldiers in the fields of France and Gallipoli that I began to actually taste the aroma of war. The burning smell from the shells and destroyed buildings was very clear to me as I Googled.  It was as if I was there!  I was!  The frying pan was burning and the house was filling with smoke and all was danger!  I ate in a calm atmosphere, eyes nipping with the smoke in the air, doors and windows open, and a cold draught going right up my kilt!  The smell still lingers today, even after a lot of elbow grease has been involved.  
Life will be better from now on, I wonder if I bought that lottery ticket.....?

Bump

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What the Dickens?

Charles Dickens

Today, we have been repeatedly told by the media, commemorates the two hundredth year since the birth of Charles Dickens.  I find myself saying,"So?"  Why is there such a fuss about a man who made his living by writing story books?  Dickens was obsessed with two things, one was his 'suffering' as a child and the other was the theatre.  Put together he produced books which told stories that adapt easily for the stage or screen and are filled with pathos, often concerning small boys and their suffering.  I give you that he could write well when he wished, his first chapter of 'Bleak House,' is a marvel and makes the reader imagine he is struggling up and down the slopes of Holborn. The third chapter takes the reader into a slum dwelling and fills the mind with a very real picture of the dingy dwelling.  The book gets thrown away by the reader who finds the intervening chapters more slushy than the streets of Moscow during a thaw! 

Why is he so revered?  Possibly because his books have been turned into television and film events more than his actual writing.  Possibly because once a book becomes a 'must read' it is forced upon the world even by those who have never read any of them.  Other authors have more depth, more interesting tales, yet remain less popular.  I am surprised by the amount of praise Dickens receives when had he published such works today the PC lobby would have the social services on him, the police would be removing his laptop and the media would be crucifying him as a danger to children.

It's a funny old world saint!

Charles Dickens Museum

                                    

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Failed Trip

I checked the rail website this morning and fund some trains were still running.  Someone called from the meeting place but left no message on the ansafone, usually this means it is a female!  I called back, at great expense, and asked for the appropriate person. She was in another part of the building and I had to call a different number, at great expense. Here I discovered the woman I wanted only to discover she was not the woman I wanted.  She was another woman who had stood in for the first woman who was, wait for it, back in the first part of the building. I called once more the first number, at great expense, and found the woman I wanted, or rather didn't find her as she was with somebody else.  I left a message and wondered how to pay the bill.  


Checking the website I looked for updates on the train troubles, sadly while many lines out of Liverpool Street were suffering delays, by stalled trains, frozen points and lost trains, my line was clear, for the most part.  I checked the site before I left, the train was 'On Time!'  After slithering down to the station, the feet damp from leaking shoes which were attracted magnetically to all slush puddles en route, I discovered the train was running but a mere seventeen minutes late.  I joined the queue who were glancing anxiously at the timetable screen while fingering their wallets.  I paid my money to the friendly efficient man in the ticket office and took my place on the platform. 


Only one other was there and he was only there to make a call on his mobile away from the others.  The others rested together in the waiting room, a waiting room equipped with a coffee and 'stuff you need on trains stall.'  I wondered what the connection would be like?  I wondered if it would arrive on time? I wondered where the yellow went when I brushed my teeth with Pepsodent? A female voice descended upon my ears from somewhere unknown.  The voice intoned the details of the train, but not its whereabouts. "The ten o'clock train is cancelled," she informed us with ill concealed boredom. It was possibly the thousandth such call she had made since her shift began and it was beginning to show.  "The next train to depart from Platform 1 (Platform 1? There is only one platform?) will be the eleven o'clock."  As my meeting was timed for eleven fifteen and I would arrive just before she left for home I obtained a refund, along with the rest, and struggled home via the slush. I informed the lass I would not arrive and she cared less for this information than I care for a woman talking about her baby.  


I did the washing instead and fell asleep.  Something tells me this was more productive than visiting Camoludunum would have been.

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Snow is Horrid!

It all went very quiet for a Saturday night last evening.  Around ten I got off my butt and looked out of the side window to find the threatened snow had ceased threatening!  It was falling all night, small flakes drizzling down but to thin to be caught in the picture. 

  

I crossed the park trudging through almost six inches of snow (although the weather folk always talk in centimeters now for some reason!).  Not much if you are in Canada but a lot for this neck of the woods. Naturally the world has ceased to operate so it is kind of lucky this is a Sunday.  If this is not cleared by Monday there will be massive disruption, the media full of dire warnings, late buses, trains, and hospitals full of people falling over.  Which reminds me I am on the train at ten tomorrow, or maybe not as the case may be.  Two dogs were in the park this morning and in spite of the snow one insisted on chasing a stick which it could not find in the depth of the snow!

  

The bustling town centre early in the morning.  It is probably not much better at bustling tonight.  

The entire atmosphere changes in these conditions, for a start it was warmer than the past two days when there was no snow, and all sound is softened by the snow, all except the cries of the fallen of course. 

By the morning it is possible that all this will be nothing but mush of course.

  

The News Biscuit sums it up very well

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I Couldn't Possibly Comment...

More Here

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Thoughts to Ponder

My husband and I divorced over religious differences. He thought he was God and I didn't.

I don't suffer from insanity; I enjoy every minute of it.

Some people are alive only because it's illegal to kill them.

You're just jealous because the voices only talk to me

I'm not a complete idiot -- Some parts are missing.

Out of my mind. Back in five minutes.

God must love stupid people; He made so many.

The gene pool could use a little chlorine.

Ever stop to think, and forget to start again?

Being "over the hill" is much better than being under it!

Procrastinate Now!

I Have a Degree in Liberal Arts; Do You Want Fries With That?

A journey of a thousand miles begins with a cash advance

They call it PMS because MadCow Disease was already taken.

He who dies with the most toys is nonetheless dead.

A picture is worth a thousand words, but it uses up three thousand times the memory.

Ham and eggs. A day's work for a chicken, a lifetime commitment for a pig.

The trouble with life is there's no background music.

The original point and click interface was a Smith and Wesson.

I smile because I don't know what the hell is going on.

"What is the point of this Blog? What am I trying to say?"

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Thick Skulled Tonight

So here instead is a pretty girl

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Lynch Mob

International Business Times

Sir Fred Goodwin became powerful at the Royal Bank of Scotland during the good times. The money flowed and nobody knew nor cared who he was.  However the crash came and the world banking system went into meltdown and the exploits of Fred and his kind came to public attention as front page news.  Fred retired on a healthy pension of £760,000 a year, causing public outcry as people were beginning to feel the pain of recession by then, especially the 20,000 who had lost their jobs under his control!  His house was attacked forcing him to move into a more secure accommodation costing a mere two or three million, depending on whom you choose to believe. After some debate his pension was lowered to a mere £360,000 annually and he went of looking for work as a taxi driver at the weekends. Recently the bankers habit of awarding themselves multi million pound bonus's, even while the bank shares are losing value and thousands are being dumped on the streets, individuals and small to medium businesses are failing to secure much needed loans.  An outcry has arisen with bankers now considered among the low in society, alongside estate agents, MP's and tabloid journalists.  

To this end a lynch mob has attacked leading bankers receiving the odd million or two bonus and a campaign in the media has seen a chairman or two refuse to accept his bonus and others forced to turn theirs down, although we all know this will be made good to them all in the end. For Sir Fred Goodwin this meant that an uproar has demanded he be stripped of his Knighthood and return to being mere 'Mr' Goodwin. The cynic in me finds this somewhat unsettling in a couple of ways.  Apart from the fact that he keeps the money, position attained amongst his peers and while disgruntled will not otherwise be bothered,it smacks of jealousy and spite rather than justice.  While Goodwin appears to possess the face and character that makes normal folk wish to slap him hard  the lynch mob approach does not bring back the billions wasted worldwide.  In the end it shows merely that once again the PR PM Cameron is responding to a public outcry in the 'Daily Mail,' while doing nothing to end the bonus payment culture that lines the pockets of those who pay vast sums into his Conservative party.  Oh, could these be linked perhaps, surely no!    

When the editor of the 'Daily Mail,' one Paul Dacre I believe, who is paid £1.65 Million a year complains about a banker £1.2 million wage plus a million pound bonus I begin to wonder what kind of bonus Dacre receives let alone the other benefits he gains from mixing in the same company as the bankers. It has been said that Dacre has earwigged Tony Blair, Gordon Brown and now David Cameron in an attempt to be made a member of the house of Lords, if so could this be for the sake of the nation, to benefit the world by his opinions or just for the sake of pretentious emptiness, I wonder?  Goodwin and his kind participated in the great downfall (that began in the US) was encouraged by governments short sightedness and mostly by the public's greed, the one cause rarely mentioned.  The demand for loans far outstripping what we could repay (I can talk!), mortgaged to the hilt and the loss of jobs has brought our world crashing down. Vengeance, not justice, makes us attack those responsible, but only the ones we know about, while we excuse our own mistakes and join other greedy, selfish men who give even less than bankers and take even more from us, as in the case of the media they take our soul itself, and we hang out Sir Fred by removing his Knighthood and feel a strange satisfaction by this.

Goodwin was guilty, other bankers and financial men are also. However the behaviour of many well paid bonus takers attacking another is not a way out of the troubles we are in.  A failed PM satisfying a lust for vengeance does not reveal either leadership nor an understanding of a solution to the economic downturn.  The media liars appealing to the lowest common denominator, and the 'Daily Mail' certainly is this, does no one any good either.  Where do we stop here?  A Knight in England in the past was knighted because of his service to the King, while in Scotland all Nobles could and did give Knighthoods to those they chose.  Today this honour comes to those who have reached the highest levels of the Civil Service, or an MP who has voted the way he was told to vote for twenty years.  Singers and anyone who keeps in the public eye can today become a Knight, even an actress or two can receive the female version by being created a Dame simply by lasting at the top, and earning vast sums on the way, no matter how mediocre (Judy Dench!?).  The nation does require to commend those who deserve such awards but what about those who have, like Goodwin, turned out to be 'Bad 'uns?'  Do they also have the reward taken from them?  Where do we start?  How many would lose theirs?  Goodwin and his kind may have been wrong but a lynch mob does not return us to a state of normality!  

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A Man's a Man for A' That

A Man's a Man for A' That

Is there for honest Poverty 

That hings his head, an' a' that; 

The coward slave-we pass him by, 

We dare be poor for a' that! 

For a' that, an' a' that. 

Our toils obscure an' a' that, 

The rank is but the guinea's stamp, 

The Man's the gowd for a' that. 

What though on hamely fare we dine, 

Wear hoddin grey, an' a that; 

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine; 

A Man's a Man for a' that: 

For a' that, and a' that, 

Their tinsel show, an' a' that; 

The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor, 

Is king o' men for a' that. 

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, 

Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that; 

Tho' hundreds worship at his word, 

He's but a coof for a' that: 

For a' that, an' a' that, 

His ribband, star, an' a' that: 

The man o' independent mind 

He looks an' laughs at a' that. 

A prince can mak a belted knight, 

A marquis, duke, an' a' that; 

But an honest man's abon his might, 

Gude faith, he maunna fa' that! 

For a' that, an' a' that, 

Their dignities an' a' that; 

The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth, 

Are higher rank than a' that. 

Then let us pray that come it may, 

(As come it will for a' that,) 

That Sense and Worth, o'er a' the earth, 

Shall bear the gree, an' a' that. 

For a' that, an' a' that, 

It's coming yet for a' that, 

That Man to Man, the world o'er, 

Shall brothers be for a' that.

BBC Robert Burns

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Tidy Desk

I was going to regale you with a post full of insight and understanding.  I could have put the world in its place, given wisdom regarding the problems and difficulties we all face, but as I mused on my subject I realsied I just couldn't be bothered!  It is Sunday evening, I am listening to 'Mellow Jazz' on http://www.jazzradio.com/ and this therefore is a time to relax and fill the mind with thoughts of good things. 'Whatsoever is pure, whatsoever is lovely think on these things' is the way.  Anyway I am tired after a hard days football watching, freezing my socks off in the chilly air, and watching my Nan turn into a charred, blackened brick as I have yet to get a grip on the grill on the oven.  The smell ought to disperse by Tuesday.   The picture is my view whenever I sit here to contemplate or watch football.  The picture manages to hide the thick layer of dust that lies over everything (any spare women out there?) however it does show piles of unattended items, like bills!  The sheet of paper directly in front of me was put there to remind me to attend to it straight away,, it has been lying there since the 9th of the month!  I might look at it tomorrow after I have checked the money situation, I fear the overdraught has once more gone over the overdraught!  This means a letter from the bank informing me they cannot pay as I have no money but as I have no money they wish £20 more thanks a bunch!  That nice Mr Hester at the Royal bank of Scotland has just been given a bonus of just under a million pounds. He is not the best paid, and I wonder what the CEO got as a bonus at my bank?  I know where it comes from! Grrr 'Whatsoever is lovely'....think man, think!






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'The Real Dad's Army'

'The Real Dad's Army' is the diary of Rodney Foster, written during the Second World War.  Foster had been born in India a son of the Raj and educated in England as so many  were. Commissioned into the army he returned to India to serve there for some time before realising promotion was stilted within the regiment structure and moved to the Indian version of the Ordinance Survey, the Survey of India, where he spent most of his time. He did return to England (never Britain please note) to collect a wife and back to the Indian army once more when the Great War broke out.  After retirement in 1932 he took a house in Hythe on the south coast of England in time to prepare for the Second World War.  Because of Mr Hitlers desire to turn Poland and Russia into his new Empire this soon followed in 1939.  After Dunkirk in 1940 a great fear of invasion by Germany took hold of Britain. A Militia was called for and hundreds of thousands of men, many ex-servicemen from the 'Last Lot' enlisted. This organisation was called at first the 'Local Defence Volunteers (the 'LDV,' known as 'Look, Duck and Vanish!').  Using whatever weapons were to hand, including spears and broom handles with sharp knives attached, these determined squads of men prepared to defend their homes.  At first it was a haphazard organisation without uniforms or proper weapons, and in some cases a motley collection of leaders.  Later called ' the 'Home Guard,' this was to become a very efficient militia thanks in part to the men like Rodney Foster who took charge of  the 'Saltwood' platoon in his own locale and later 'B' Company in Folkstone a couple of miles to the east.

'Dad's Army' was a very successful comedy show made in the 70's and still shown regularly on BBC television.  This was based on a small town similar to Hythe, on the south coast, and in immediate danger of enemy action.  A great many of the stories involved situations that arose with the 'Home Guard, the real 'Dad's Army!'  A comedy it may have been but the situations that arose were very deadly at time.  Fosters diary comments on almost daily air raids, often hitting the town with resultant loss, shells fired from across the channel, and replied to by big guns based at Dover a little further along the coast, shelling from ships of both sides in the channel and convoys attacked by enemy aircraft and fast moving 'E' Boats as the convoys passed one way or another.  In spite of the danger, and the rest of the houses in their road being commandeered by the army, the Fosters remained in their home until the end of the war.  This is remarkable as they possessed no shelter bar the big kitchen table, and all three often slept through the constant air raids and accompanying sirens!  Explosions which awoke them or shook the house from afar did not always see them rise to take an interest, sleep was more important!

The diary entries are short and to the point.  These reveal something of Rodney's character and the real daily life of the war years.  Little is said about the deprivations, although hints are abundant, and the red tape that follows from major military operations in the area is constant when he drives around as a member of the 'volunteer driving pool.' This last meant often taking the sick into hospitals or various individuals around Kent on their 'war work,' some of whom bring out Mr Fosters opinions quite clearly.  Deaths, sometimes tragic, are occasionally mentioned, but his response is a soldiers response of just 'Keep calm and get on with it,' an attitude that stayed with many who endured the war, and an attitude not so common today.  Descriptions, brief but enlightening are given of the troops around them, reports of the war in far off places, and occasional rumours, which usually abound in war under the secrecy prevailing.  One interesting aspect is the weather.  How often the entry records a summers day with the words, 'Cold,' or 'Rain all day,' 'fog,' indicating in Britain some things never change.  An occasional very 'hot' day is recorded, but not many!  A notable fact is the swing from the early years of constant fear of enemy air raids to the mentions of our aircraft, in ever increasing numbers, flying of by day and by night over the coast into enemy held territory.  Also noted are the noise of explosions and the shaking of the buildings when actions take place out of sight deep in France and Belgium. Like many others Foster compares the number going out with the number returning.  Difficulties with a senior officer caused Rodney to leave the Home Guard and become an ARP warden (Air Raid Precautions) an occupation which gave him an easier life physically and with much less 'office politics' stress.  Self importance is a curse in all military establishments.  

Rodney had developed his artistic skills while working on the 'Survey of India,' and continued to sketch and paint throughout the war, even becoming considered a 'spy' at one point for painting in a main street!  He wrote a great deal and a huge archive is now in private hands, some 22 volumes, covering his time in India and elsewhere, plus paintings etc, yet he died an obscure unknown with little if anything published.  His diary has now been published, almost by accident, and his insight into the war years are very revealing of daily life in one of the more dangerous parts of the world at that time.  A great many servicemen saw less action than those remaining in the south coast of England at that time.  This diary was difficult to put down.  Easy to read and full of interesting details revealing life as it happened during the war.  Different from other war books I have read and appealing to many folks from all backgrounds I think this was an excellent book, and not just because it was a gift!


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Friday Post

Friday is the sixth day of the week, unless you are Jewish, Muslim or unable to count. The name in northern Europe derives from 'Frigg'  being the name given to the wife of Odin in Norse mythology, and therefore implies Friday is the day you, er... 'cough'... 'attend' to the wife I suppose.  Various European Fridays also have a female base for Friday, so not much work would be done in the northern hemisphere in times past on that day then.  Some think Friday is an unlucky day, but probably not many women, and allied with the thirteenth day can cause much alarm in the UK. How often have you come across those, mostly female, people informing the wide world that as it is the thirteenth things will go wrong.  When you inform the congregation that earthquakes, fires, accidents, tornadoes and toothache happen on other days you are regarded as an unbeliever!  Any investigation into actual hardships on that day reveal nothing untowards and even less knowledge as to why thirteen or Friday the is unlucky!  


Islam of course regards Friday as the Holy day.  Mosques fill up with the faithful to pray and listen to sermons from the Imam.  Troubled Islamic nations often find rioting occurring after such sermons and avoiding such places in troubled lands is advisable.  Christians only regard 'Good Friday' as relevant although Roman Catholics used to avoid meat on Fridays as a form of 'penance,' although the bible does not contain such a word. Only 'repentance' is found, which refers to turning from wrong and following Christ himself. Today the RC's tend to eat more than fish on Fridays. Sundown on Friday is the beginning of the Jewish Sabbath, this lasts until sundown on Saturday.  Disasters on a Friday are often referred to as 'Black Fridays,' while 'Casual Friday,' or 'Dress down Friday,' has become popular in some business premises as an easing of the normal office dress code. It rarely made much difference to me,whether in office or otherwise. A 'Girl Friday,' was a term coined by those looking for a secretary to do the odd jobs around the office.  Today however feminist clowns object to this and 'Person Fridays' must be asked for. Only the female ones get jobs however.  The term is based on the 'Robinson Crusoe' stories where the hero discovers a black man to do all his work for him, very English that.  The author stole the idea for the story while touring Scotland selling the nation to the English parliament.  The original was Alexander Selkirk, a young man from Lower Largo, Fife, who ran away to sea and ended up on a Pacific island for several years.  He did not meet any 'Man Friday.'  


For most people Friday is the last day of the working week.  This means leisure time tonight, fun and enjoyment on Saturday and Sunday, then back to work on Monday, unless you are on the dole of course.  Whatever you do, enjoy your Friday, with or without a 'Person Friday' to help you.