An Escape from the House and to Sudbury by Rail

 

 

On Thursday, my best looking, most intelligent and highly talented niece, called me to a meet.  This meant heading for Sudbury.  For reasons unknown she and him were spending a week at Bury St Edmunds and wished to see me.  Having not met for well over 18 months and with her expecting in September it was important to meet now, but how?  He does not drive, I have no car, and no bus runs between here and there (Thank you Mrs Thatcher!).   After much thought and confusion, a reading of timetables, still a difficult operation, in the end they caught a bus to Sudbury and I took the train.  I still pray for the maroon Landrover to arrive, still waiting...

Train travel as you know, is a simple matter of taking the train to Witham, changing, travelling two stops to Marks Tey, changing into the one grubby coach, travelling three stops to Sudbury.  Easy.

 

So, rising before dawn, I shuffled down the slope to the station early, just to ensure I got a ticket from the man and did not have to use the complicated machine.  I was able to make use of my 'Railcard' and get some money off the cost.  First time in two years I think.  The night before I checked the 'Greater Anglia' website and looked at the various prices.  If I set a time the journey cost it £10:60.  If I had an 'open return,' the cost was £16:50.  At the station in the morning I paid £11:05, no wonder the rail staff are confused about ticket prices today?  I chatted to a gran showing the child the railway and soon I was aboard the high speed express, 30 mph at times, heading south.

 

 

Easy?

Naturally, at Witham confusion reigned!

The signals had failed between here and Marks Tey, two stops of trouble!  In this picture you see the Norwich train awaiting instruction in the loop, on the right the Ipswich train also awaits while behind us, as seen in the previous foto another Norwich train arrives  These usually have at least 30 minutes between them.  The two railway employees were doing wonders in the situation as every passenger (sorry, customer) had the same question and the poor lads had no answers.    

Quicker than expected the 'all clear' was given, instructions announced, and I now had to clamber up stairs and down to catch the Ipswich service as that was now going to stop at Marks Tey, if the driver remembered.  Apart from my knee giving way and almost falling down, a workman reached out his hand to stop me, there were no more mishaps and the destination was reached.

Indeed the passengers, like the workman, were mostly pleasent to one another in this confusion, no blame being attached to the workers either.

 

 

At Marks Tey the change was simple, the platforms merging into one another.  Much to my surprise the grubby coach no longer runs, replaced during LockDown by this glamerous three coach set.  Very nice indeed I must say.

 

While many travelling had been affected by the short disruption there was a healthy use of this train, clearly much used during commuter hours for those travelling to London or in the other direction towards Ipswich.  

Having not been anywhere for so long it was good to view the acres of green fields with early crops beginning to show through.  Occasional cattle, small villages with houses priced so high no pleb will be moving there anytime soon, a church spire here, a tower there, trees and bushes lining the track, something not allowed in days of steam.  Altogether a bright day with a colourful landscape, such a change from being indoors.  The recent weather harming the windows prevented any chance of a picture from the train, this one does not see the washing machines daily obviously.  So far, an enjoyable and 'interesting' day out.

 

I was quite surprised to see my niece, young attractive, slim, as I half expected to see a bell tent on legs, but it is far too soon for that, maybe August.  James, her owner, looked as expected, balding more I noticed, come Christmas what he has left, may well be pulled out of course.  

Here we have one of life's mysteries.  How come and attractive talented young woman in London cannot find a rich man?  How come she ended up with a hill walking university librarian as opposed to a rich man with a yacht in the Med?  

I will never understand women, and James has probably found he will never understand them either to his cost!

 

 

'Sudbury,' meaning 'South of Bury,' has been around since Saxon times, the twice weekly market, which was busy when we passed by, itself being over a thousand years old.  The town became wealthy in the days of long ago through the Flemish weavers who flooded into East Anglia, many sheep in the area and judging by the size of the ancient 'Corn Hall,' now used as a library, there was great money in agriculture also.

 

 

Certainly some people made a great deal of money in times past but looking up house prices I find Sudbury to be considerably cheaper than this area.  These house on Gainsborough Road maybe no more than £350,000.  You can of course pay a million nearby if you wish but round here these would add a hundred thousand to the price.  There is still a great deal of money in Suffolk but being further from London may keep prices down.

 

We found a cafe for tea and cake and a chance to natter, more about the cafe later, and wandered back and forth along the main street, there not being much else to see.  There was limited time as even on holiday my niece chose to follow up on her piano teaching work, money makes demands, and had to return for a certain time to their high class lodgings.  I hope the tent was dry.  

Sudbury is a small Bury St Edmunds with a mains street, a big church, no longer used, indeed it has three medieval churches and a famous archbishiop called Simon Sudbury.  He had arranged for a Leper hospital to the north of the town and has also come up with the idea of the Poll Tax.  This however, in 1381, did not go down well with the natives.  They collected him from the Tower of London, took him somewhat unwillingly to Tower Hill and chopped his head off, eventually, as it took 7 or 8 strokes.  Some 'Brass Neck' on an Archbishop.  Why did we not do this with Maggie when she had the same idea?  Simon's body was buried in Canterbury but his head remains in St Gregory's Church, Sudbury.  Maybe we ought to have gone and had a look?

We wandered past Gainsborough's House, he was not in as the workmen were renovating it.  Famous as a landscape and portrait painter a statue was erected in 1903 to commemorate the man, long after he was dead you note.   At the OU I had to comment on one of his pictures, that of Mr & Mrs Andrews of around 1748.  It was said he wanted a landscape and they a portrait, whether this is true or not it is fact that he had his landscape and put them at the side of it.  Very well done.

 

In amongst the wealth of weaving, agriculture and the vast array of vehicular traffic the townspeople, all 14,000 of them struggle to survive like the rest of us.  I wonder what proportion take the early train to Ipswich or London?

Too soon in my opinion came time to depart.  Parting is such sweet sorrow, well no, it isn't!  I was enjoying them, James is a great man and will fit in this deranged family very weel, he comes from Burnley you see.  Burnley, it is a place up north, I believe they call it 'Blackburn's little brother,' but I will have to check that.  They clambered aboard the bus that took them round all the houses and through the suitably named 'Long Melford,' another place well worth a visit if you ever venture up that way, and I hurried to the station to catch the train that would be soon to depart wiping away tears from my eye.

 

Naturally, I had read the timetable wrong, it was not 46 mins past but 26!   

This meant a wait in the sun, which was fine by me.  This short platform here is extremely well kept, I wonder if volunteers do this rather than staff?  I suspect that as there are no permanent staff it is indeed a voluntary job, well doen to them!  Neat and tidy with a background of varied plants it is a welcome resting place for the traveller.

Not only do the birds get a home made for them...

So do the bees...

Wildlife must flourish in such circumstances, here's another enjoying life here.

 

 

It once was common for railways stations to be a gardeners delight.  Dunbar I believe still is, and many others have some attempt at improving the environment.  Staff themselves probably have less time today, certainly at bigger stations, and in such places the public may be less concerned with the surroundings.  I consider Sudbury Station a wee treasure.  Awaiting a train in the sun is a delight when birds sing in the trees, creatures move around amongs the flora opposite and you know people appreciate the surroundings.

On time as always the 335 arrives and soon we were heading home.  On the way the conductor (what we used to call 'guard') chatted amiably.  Ian, his name, explained the difficulties of his job re ticket pricing.  So many railcards (Indeed, I counted 28 on the website) some of course only for certain parts of the country, all making Ian's job difficult.  On this train the conductor collects fares, no ticket booth at such stations, add to this a crowded train, a short journey and the mad rush you could see how he enjoyed this late, quiet, shift.  It is not unusual to find rail staff friendly on the quieter lines.

We sauntered across the famous Chappel Viaduct, some 32 spans made from around 7 million bricks. Completed in 1849 it reveals why so many young men became bricklayers.  A 'Brickies' life, or indeed a Bricklayers assistants life, in Victorian days was one of constant work.  Railways required bridges, buildings and a wide variety of other constructions.  A great housebuilding increase saw towns spread out and follow rail lines, no wonder there are so many 'Bricklayers Arms' to be found in the nation.  It was at such pubs that men would gather once a week and pay their 'subs.'  Usually a sixpence would cover it, if they fell ill or were injured they could then draw a few shillings a week to keep them alive, hence the pubs took their name.  Just imagine how many bricks are in the buildings around you now, Victorian made and still doing their job.

 

By now my feet as well as my knees were telling me to go home.  Naturally, at the modern Marks Tey Station to cross the line you use the stairs.  I have my own opinion on stairs.  This modern station has no lift!  How do you cross in a wheelchair?  I captured this train arriving, to slow to rush down, and allowed it to depart knowing another would be along soon enough.  I then clambered up another flight to the coffee shop in the main entrance only to find it closed because of Covid!  

I was pleased.

So I waited in the shelter as Norwich trains raced by, on time now, and the Liverpool Street from Norwich rushed the other way.  Why do I find such things entrancing?  I just wish they were steam!

Every station has a numpty taking pictures of trains, some staff object, others don't care.  Here a dirty look from the far side from someone, possibly not working on the railway, failed to discourage me.  I was Thursdays train numpty.  How I was enjoying being allowed out!  

I note nobody else was enjoying me being out however.

 

 

I clambered up the stair at Witham muttering many things unfit for this gentle blog, I muttered much more when at the top I remembered they do have lifts at WithamI  So I descended gracefully by the lift to the platform.  By the time I reached the end of the busy station the train arrived.   The short sun filled wait at quiet Marks Tey being better than a longer wait at this now busy place.

 

Soon I was hobbling up the Hill, a hill I used to refer to as a slope.  Once I hardly noticed the slope, now I trudged on feeling like I was in the Cairngorms and not Essex.  This was made worse by realizing  I had failed to take anything from the freezer last night and now, for some reason being hungry, I was forced to trudge round Tesco and struggle home with a bag of ready to cook pasta.  Another staircase, a fight with an oven, a burnt pasta mess, tastless, burnt, but all eaten no matter what, and bed with a very  stiff drink to stop me from calling an ambulance.  Totally whacked, soon out for the count.

Today's breakfast... 

 

I must say I was really glad I saw them. 

 

Remembrance or Obsession Plus Time Drifting Away

 

                                         Sgt Jez Doak RAF?MOD

I often wonder about people who study the Great War.  

On my Twitter feed there are many, apparently normal, men who spend an enormous amount of time visiting war graves to 'pay their respects.'  On occasion I begin to wonder if these men are trapped in a war fantasy.  I quite understand the desire to know more about the two major wars, individual stories and actions, I see the interest there clearly.  However, it appears to me something is not quite right.  Many such men are living near the Great War Battlefields in France and Flanders, just up from their homes lie several war cemeteries, and during good years they often act as guides to the areas of action, relating stories learnt over many years and often from ex-servicemen themselves.  

But I sometimes wonder if they lack something in their lives?

Men require something they can attach themselves to.  Many spend an enormous amount of time reading ancient railway timetables, others visit war graves, still others rebuild ancient cars or motorbikes, some are 'Star Wars' fantasists, some support a local football team, all fine and respectable activities, although those that have wives, and not all do, may find the women have differing opinions to them.  Women, for reasons of their own may not like a house disguised as a railway station, or a football museum.  Some go to far and yell and scream when the engine of the BSA 250 is found in bits on her best tablecover, or yet again the young nephew is being regaled, willingly or not, about the 'Retreat from Mons' for the umpteenth time.  

Women are strange.

Why do men require such obsessions?  

I suppose they could become obsessed with drink or drugs, neither of which do much good in the long term, a gardening obsession could at least feed you and fill the house with attractive flowers, and the accompanying beasties.  Other obsessions could be found which may not please the wife nor be so useful.  

I wonder about men who spend their time 'paying respects' at war graves.  I appreciate remembrance from most people, I wonder about it with such men however.  Some may well have been in the forces, others have no war experience.  

It just makes me wonder if they really comprehend the individuals whom they stand before.  Do they think dead servicemen are greater than men around them today?  If so they clearly do not understand the men involved.  These were ordinary men of their day, just like those around them now, not 'Heroes' for the most part, certainly not the 'Best Generation' as the gutter press would have it, these were just men forced into a Great War, their sons forced into the second war, often without ever knowing their fathers.  Good men, often producing heroic actions, bad men, living off everyone around them and committing war crimes, most men, just responding in a good or bad manner to the situation trapping them.  Some enjoyed war, some hated it, especially those who got hurt, some profited from their time, others lost much.  But do these men standing at their graves really see the real man under the slab?

Just what does drive them to 'pay respects' so often in this way?  We all pay respects at least once a year, what causes this reaction, annually, monthly weekly even daily with such men?  An obsession with war that is in their minds or an understanding of the real thing?  

Also, if they respect the dead like this do they also consider the wounded of recent wars?  Those suffering PTSD and all too often committing suicide months or years after serving?  It is easier to remember the long dead than the suffering living today.

My knackered bodies day was complete as when leaving Tesco I got caught in a downpour.  Forgetting to eat last night turns out not to have been a good idea.  Carrying a bag full of veg (how come it was so heavy?) did not appeal either.  Lockdown has not helped my fitness.  

Standing puffing under a tree, many were doing this while the rain hammered down, I glanced at the back door of the 'Subway' opposite.  I was interested in the year '1902' with initials vaguely seen high up, as people sometimes argue about when this row of shops appeared.  However it took a moment or two before I realised the TV seen opposite that made me wonder again was in fact part of the air control system in the shop.  At least I think it is.  No matter how smart a shop may look from the front it is always worth a look round the rear, an impressive image of a business can be gleamed this way.

 

 

Who is stealing time?  

I arose at 7:22 this morning, slowly as normal, yet within minutes this clock claimed it was 10:22!

This does not make sense to me.

After the Tesco trip I found time to eat sausage rolls and drink tea, next thing it was 4:22!

Who keeps stealing the time?

Now I have time to myself I note it is almost 7pm, what is going on?

Worse than this is the calendar.

The other day it was early March, today is the 25th of May!  

What happened in between?  Who stole the days?

Time is rushing past just to fast for some of us.  When will it stop?

 

Royal Bumf Again

Another day, another pretend outrage about the BBC.

The press is filled with this mock attack on the Beeb.  How the royals are hurt, how Diana was deceived, how bad was Bashir?  Each London based paper is full of this guff.

'William the Dim' tells us BBC lies ruined her life, nothing about marrying an older thoughtful man when she had the brains of a chicken then?   Diana's flirting with the press that used her for cash never hurt her?  Diana's use of other men did not hurt?  Just the BBC Willie, just the BBC?  William of course may just be following orders.

'Harry the Dimmer' claims a 'toxic culture' led to her death, not a gang of paparatzzi following her everywhere on motorbikes and cars then?  It was not the press demanding pictures and stories, it was not the women reading this guff and living their broken lives through her that hurt, just 'toxic culture,' a culture she tried to make use of but did not have the brains to control?  Really, I think he must have a word with his scriptwriter.

What we have here is a small story magnified out of all proportion so Boris and his mob can attack the BBC.  Already there is talk of 'change' being demanded (by whom?) and with Tory control of the BBC meaning no questions on the Boris gang are allowed it appears we shall see an end to the BBC as we have known it soon.

How many of Boris's viewers will notice?

The future of the monarchy is in doubt.  Charles will not last more than 20 years when he takes over, William has all the qualities required for statehood as King, no deep thought, a wife to parade in the press, and no questions asked.  The future is bright, the future King is not.    

Today Boris has commented on the BBC 'Journalistic standards' by saying he is 'concerned' about them. This is Boris, the man who lied about the EU and anything else for 30 years and was sacked twice for lying now 'concerned' about BBC standards?  The whole Bashir thing is being used to clamp down on the BBC and journalistic investigation of Boris, nothing else.

Let's Have a 'Butchers' at Pies.

Today's excitement, such as it is, came from the arrival, eventually, of the famous 'Killie Pies.'  I thought I would try a different butcher to see what they were like and chose the pie claimed to be the best at Scottish football grounds.  

Naturally, with me involved things go wrong.  

For a start the famous 'Killie Pie' Butcher had a falling out with the famous 'Kilmarnock Football Club' where they were sold.  A dispute of the trademarking the name 'Killie,' a name Kilmarnock have trademarked years ago and are unwilling to lose.  The butchers, 'Brownings,' a local company, wished to trademark 'Killie Pie' the name used on the pies sold at the ground.  In spite of putting money into the club, in spite of making money from pie sales, and with an already bad feeling between owner and butcher, the dispute went to court.  'Brownings' now sell the 'Kilmarnock Pie,' and they sell well around Scotand's supermarkets.  What Kilmarnock use for their pies now I know not, but I think they call theirs 'Killie Pies.'  Not that there is anyone in the ground these days.

Anyway, the pies, steak pies at that, are not bad, I had two for lunch along with a mixture of salad veg.

It surprised me how long they took to deliver.  I ordered on a Tuesday and noticed they sent out the orders on a Wednesday.  However, acknowledgement implied the delivery would be the next week.  

So I waited.  

The next week I looked to the Thursday delivery and was surprised at no notification of delivery arriving.  I checked order, they have dated it for the next week again!  

What?  

Too late to worry, so I waited.

 

 

Last night an email informed me the delivery would be today.

Today I kept watch on the APC delivery log to see when and if.

Eventually the time of possible delivery appeared along with a map indicating drivers whereabouts.  This is a good idea but the DPD one is much better!

So, in between today's other jobs I was ignoring I watched the map.  

The driver followed a sensible tour round the town in a fashion I remember from the distant past when doing similar in London.

I waited.

Eventually the map said he was two drops away, just down the road, so I prepared.

I took the rubbish out, posted a wrongly delivered letter through correct door (another debt collector) and weeded a bit of the front.

Then I waited. 

The postman came, chatted and departed, informing me he is 62 (I call him the 'Old fellah,') and I waited.  

No van came.

I checked the map and for no good reason it no longer offered me a map!

The van had gone!

I checked, I was right, the van had gone, no map, no contact?

Had he missed me?  

Had he dropped me?  

Had he lost the packet?  

Would a man like me panic?

Yes!

I panicked sufficiently to phone the APC company, phoning is not what I do, it costs money!

A young woman with a 'tired' if not 'exasperated' voice convinced me, eventually, that he was on his way.  I accepted this with good grace, though I was puffing as I had rushed up the stairs!

Five minutes later the van arrived.

He smiled, offered the goods and departed to drop number 31.

She must have texted him to put his dinner aside and deliver the goods!

Satisfied I ate the pies, they were quite good, and understandably popular.

 

 

However, this must be compared to 'Murdoch' up there in Forres, the usual man who I order pies from. 

Had I ordered on Tuesday I suspect by evening I would have had an email informing me the order was on it's way, certainly this would have arrived by the next day.  The box would be taken to Inverness, trunked to Newcastle by midnight down the A9, and thence to Harlow by 6am, the time I was waking up. 

The white van man would load his van, press buttons on the computer, and by 10:30 I would know he was on his way.

Just after lunchtime, usually around two o'clock he would be banging on the door.  

So, within 24 or 48 hours I would have had a delivery.

Very good. 

Murdoch's 'Champion Scotch Pies' are also, Champion!

 

The chattering postman gave me one letter, a brown envelope!  These are usually things that demand a response to officialdom.  In days of old the had OHMS along the top with a 2 indicating it was 2nd class urgent.  In this case however, there was no indication along the top of the envelope, just an address on the rear.  

This was the new driving licence.  My age, 32, had demanded I renew the plastic card, so, as it cost nothing I renewed.  It is useful as an ID card if for nothing else.  

Considering I have not driven since getting it, no job, retirement, the pension, all combining to rob me of the transport I wished for and instead I have a Bus Pass!  Useful, but not quite what I had been dreaming off going through all that far off paperwork.  I could have done with transport this past few months.  

Anyway, I'm alive, and grateful for that.  

Nothing Happened -Again

Nothing happened.

Since Friday I have just watched the football.

Occasionaly I watched the rain.

Once I went quickly round Tesco.

Once I popped into the museum shop.

I say 'popped in' I meant 'dragged in there' by the girl on duty as she had sold nothing that day.

She could not have sold anything as she had just opened!

Never trust a woman, it cost me a fortune.

I watched poor football.

I watched quite good football.

I ate lots of veg.

Veg is becoming a habit this week.

I never went out anywhere else.

Nothing was happening.

Except for a loud argument downstairs between the lassie and her visitor.

Just before bedtime.

Today, even less happened, unless you count hailstorms as a happening.

I am not sure if I can handle such excitement these days...

 

 

Magazine Reading

 

 

It struck me the other day, while reading the 'Oldie' magazine, how little I have been reading these magazines, indeed I appear to have stopped reading any books come to think of it.  Having glanced through the mags for the most part, the 'Western Front' ones are packed full and do not require urgent reading and make a great library, while the others can take me ages to dawdle through these days, I am left wondering what is wrong with me.  I have already ended the excellent 'Nutmeg' magazine (Scottish Football writing at its best) as I was four or five mags behind and had no time to read them!  

Since the first 'LockDown' I have read little in the way of books, even the interesting ones, and am struggling with the ones using big words.  How difficult they make it by forcing me to seek to understand what I am reading!  I have managed to read Twitter and upset people, I glance through the press and scowl, and still find I read little there, most headlines sum a story up and allow me to avoid it.   Twitter is of course a different world.  A terrible situation this, what with the charity shops opening up and lots of books appearing and I may be in there...

 

Thought's Occasioned by a Magazine

The Oldie

 

'The Oldie' is a magazine I have been reading most of the year.  It is well laid out, attractive design, with many items, some regular some occasional, they are all accompanied by astounding cartoons, relevant to life today.

However, this morning filling time reading a page or two I was once more aware of how limited many items were.  'Middle Class Angst' replaced with 'Middle Class Hero's.'  The 'heroic' stature given to long dead drunks, perverts or scoundrels, becomes a wee bit boring after a while.  People who the author would not allow through their front door are raised up as some sort of role model and we are expected to laugh at their doings as if they were worthwhile.  Usually these 'doings' just reflect an empty life.

In my mind several things can be said here, the most obvious is that the mostly middle class readership (who can afford the mag) want to identify with such individuals.  They desire to live lives that are 'free' from society objection, ignoring the cost, broken marriage, lost and confused children, sickness, death and other minor hindrences.  

One cause that often appears is lack of parental care.   

Boarding School: Such schools at eight years old is not, in my experience, something that binds a family, even if dad is in the forces or diplomatic service or some form of business.  Dumping kids at a distance, with no family contact, especially in the days before mobile phones such as we now possess, is cruel in my mind.  I am not surprised to find so many gay folks informing us of their situation often began in such circumstances.  How many 'celebs' have similar broken family lives behind them?

Public School:  The Public school ethos, whatever that is, where future leaders of power, church, media, government, get together to form friends or enemies for life and encourage 'The Old School Tie.'  This is the manner Boris has been making use off to run the country.  The attitudes encouraged at such schools do not encourage care for others, they certainly do not encourage 'socialism' in any form, instead it has become 'Look after number one,' us!

Bad Parents:  Whether sending kids to far off schools or just having too much money in the end, bad parents are responsible for bad children.  Fathers who have no intention of loyalty, mothers who play around, those who use the other for class, money or position reasons and make no effort at a real marriage will not produce contented children.  The lack of assurance, the lack of love will always show.  'Love' of course is not a feeling here, it is an action.  A daily action, often in difficult circumstances, a costly action, that is why so many fail!  When the wealthy fail it is not through lack of cash, it is lack of many other things.  Children are thus taught selfishness, lack of concern for others and indeed many spend their lives looking for the missing parental care elsewhere. 

Money:  Those who can afford Public Schools have no knowledge or understanding of how the people live, whether those of what we call 'working class' or indeed 'middle class.'  Their world is far removed from the daily life of most.  

It is clear Boris and his kind wish to keep it that way.  The moneyed class, and where did that cash come from? The moneyed class care little beyond themselves.  It is true that in the past some have taken action to change the world for the better.  Well educated Clement Atlee took to looking after those in London's East End, eventually leading the most radical government the UK has known.   Harold MacMillan, Eton boy at that, was far to the left of Tony Blair and that guy who is now the Labour leader.  He met the lower orders during the Great War, respected them and served them in the 1930's in Stockton to the extent of running soup kitchens for them, and depised Thatcher and all she stood for.  Thatcher of course was Lower middle class, the daughter of a shopkeeper.     

War:  Of course many mentioned in the magazine pages were born before or during the war.  This affected the entire nation and while all suffered a reaction the upper section of society had the privelage of being able to move about and spread their problems in a less stressful fashion.  Money was available, better jobs also, the rest of us just had to 'get on with it' and make the most of their lives.

Reading about some cad this morning brought Boris to mind as many mentioned in the mag are very Boris like.  Indeed one individual rather scathingly mentioned parents of today's cabinet members in passing, and I am left wondering if the failures of school,lack of parents care and having too much cash has led to the Boris we see today?  His cheeky personality wins him many fans though udnerneath he is a scheming brat, very schoolboyish.  His battle for power with Eton Boy Dave Cameron saw him win, though honesty and integrity played no part.  It is difficult to consider what went on behind the scenes!  He now has power, without the ability or drive to make it work.  Where will it all end?  

His latest policies, declared by the queen, who managed not to spit even once, include Bills to cut the number of Labour voters, hinder judges from stopping parliament wrongs, both attempts to oppose anyone who might disagree with his decisions.  

This is the actions of a man afraid to debate, a man who needs control, a man who is afraid of the consequences when he loses that control, not the sort of man to be called democratic.  Boris has learned a lot from Fascist Steve Bannon, these are actions copied from Adolf during the 30's, although the press was already on Boris's side and only the BBC was to be taken over.  The nation has suffered a coup and does not see it.  Soon, the 'Red Wall' will realise they have been had, then what?

 

 

Tuesday Lunch

 Nothing to say, so I am just having a Greek style lunch instead.

 

 

Monday Mixture

Rubbish Day.

Early weather lousy when I am out.

Sun now shines when I am in.

Washing done, drying washing done, nothing else done.

War in Israel.

Everyone blaming the 'other side.' 

Boris planning to curtail votes for Labour by using ID cards when voting.

Boris planning to curtail Judicial reviews to stop people attacking him.

Boris tightening his grip Fascist like.

Boris to ban 'Conversion Therapy' thereby making criminals of Christians everywhere who will continue to pray for healing of gays.  This because 'Stonewall' advised the government.  'Stonewall' a lobby group with many friends in high places, each willing to follow similar fascist paths as Boris.

Good news!  St Johnstone to beat Hibernian in the Scottish Cup Final soon.

 

Banging and thumping indicates John the Handyman has come to fix something somewhere.  Soon fixed, he banged and thumped his way out again.

More banging, gentle this time, almost ignored, then I glimpse a van outside and realise it is an Amazon man.  

An Amazon man, from Eastern Europe, who knocks on a door because he is scared to ring the bell in case he catches a virus!  So many do this that I miss them!  

Of course this is not for me, it is for next door.  They work awkward hours and I take in their deliveries.  She gave me some Polish chocolates the other day for being nice, and very nice they are too!

More banging, this time downstairs as the neighbour has come home and wants me to know he is there.  He is on early shift with the Polis and leaves around 2:30 am.  

Recently I was watching football in the bedroom, as I usually do, and upset him as he tried to sleep down below.  He made banging noises, which I ignored thinking it his woman cleaning the room, and next day he played loud, bad music for a couple of hours.  However he never thought of knocking on the door to inform me that he was on earlies.  Some Polis?  How would I know his hours?  Should I change a ten year routine for him?   Usually I am considerate but that evening the Dunfermline PPV was loud I admit, but how do I know he is sleeping?

Anyway, the game was drawn and Raith Rovers won the second leg.

Right, now I'm off to upset someone else...

 

VE-Day and Alex

I find it a little strange that those posting on Twitter re the end of the Second World War talk as if this is something people know little about.  They speak of the war as if it were distant History.  For many it appears to be just that, something from the far past, yet to me it is part of my life, and I was not even there when it occurred!

The generation gap over the past 80 or so years is quite noticeable today.  A 19 year-old in 1945 would be 95 years today, unless the cigarettes so freely donated at the time have got to him first.  His children, if any, would be in their 60's and 70's, and they with children and grandchildren and possibly great grandchildren themselves.  A very likely situation in parts of Essex I can tell you!  There is a wide variation in understanding between the five generations.  Good grief, my dad could not comprehend the 1960's, though cancer did not help his understanding, how can the younger generation today understand the war.  'The War,' so many adults talk about, reading almost daily in the gutter press memento's of days they did not see.  The attitudes, an understanding of life, has changed considerably, but not for the better, in so many ways.  Many economic improvements can be seen, but moral ones disappear rapidly. I suppose we call this 'freedom,' though the results are rarely magnified by the 'free press' who encourage such 'freedom.'

Few will notice VE Day today, the election has seen to that, and of course attention has been averted to the ongoing 'War with France' occuring in the Channel Islands, even though the 'war' does not exist.  I am told French and Royal Naval vessels fill the Forth of Forth at the moment on combined exercises, I am not sure how this affects Boris's 'War.'  Schools do tend to offer reasonable history concerning the two wars, the museum had many primary classes attending for that purpose alone, so while not ignorant of the event how can people under 60 comprehend the war and the after effects today?

 

Sadly the ALBA Party has not done well in the elections.  I suspect two reasons for this.  

The first is the deliberate decision by the media to ignore Alex.  Clearly the best politician in the land and as a danger to the rest he has been blocked from transmission, and therefore ignored by the pubic.  

The other reason is the deliberate and calculated smear campaign waged by Nicola and her acolytes.  In spite of being cleared by a female judge and mostly female jury and awarded £500,000 the smear was continued throughout. The result was Nocola's women came out and voted SNP.  Nicola makes a point of appealing to women, always claiming to be on their side, offering many opportunities for women.  Men are clearly seen as bad, and this appeals to many of today's 'women.'  As a result she keeps her job.  Well done Nicola.  

So for the time being Alex and his many followers are out in the cold.  They will be back, especially when it becomes clear Nicola does not wish for Indy after all, the many and varied excuses to 'wait' are already being offered by her people.  Alex would not agree.   

 

Lies will Succeed

It appears to me, sitting here in my garret, that there are two reasons for the debacle that has occurred to the Labour Party in England.  One is the poor leadership of Keith Starmer.  Though at heart a talented Barrister and determined to make a better society than the one offered across the Despatch Box he has failed to make a mark on the gangster Boris Johnson and his cohorts.  

The other is the acumulation of anti-migrant and anti-EU propaganda spewed out by the Conservatives for the past 30 years.  Constant attacks, usually lies, in the Right-wing press on the EU and migrants, often from Boris Johnson himself, with little if any evidence to show, has led to the lower middle classes and white working classes feeling 'Left out' by Labour policies which are perceived to be in favour of incomers at the indigenous populations expense.  The result is the 'Sun,' 'Daily Express,' and 'Daily Mail' reading public convinced they are on the losing side, so they reach out to the Tories to save them.

 

The Tories have learned much from Goebbels, possibly with the help of Steve Bannon, one of the neo Nazis of today.  Point the finger over there - at the Jews in the Nazis case, and if you repeat the same lie long enough, a simple straight forward lie, people will become convinced of its truth.  It worked in the 1930's it has worked again here.  The thinking middle classes, usually University educated and full of themselves, are less likely to follow the Tory line.  Electricians, engineers, small shopkeepers and artisans, often wise and sensible people, however see some substance in the Tory message, one perpetrated via the press and the Tory run BBC, the channel the majority watch.  With no mention of Boris's corruption, no questioning of Brexit, no desire to make politicians accountable the man in the street has little knowledge of what is going on.  Many are happy with this, the effort to seek out varied opinions does not trouble them.  

The results will soon burn the voters.  Tory councils will be approached by many wishing to build houses in the voters backyards, objections will get little support.  The disabled, the hungry, the unemployed, the local NHS will soon start to show the cracks of Tory policy.  

The question then will be, can the nation recover from this?       

Jab, Vote and Home

 

Last night's sunset as seen through the filthy window in my filthy living room.  The bright sun glowing over the horse meat factory in the industrial estate, industrial as in closed by Brexit that is, and brightening the evening sky.

Today, as I looked out the window, clearing away the lunchtime crumbs, I noticed dark clouds pushed past by the wind eager to drop rain as they knew I was about to hobble up to the hospital for the second Jab.  I was not pleased, it was cold, wet and windy, so l donned my winter garb, prepared myself for the jab, and walked out into bright, indeed, hot sunshine!  Typical!  I sweltered as, being late, I rushed gasping along the road.  Almost twenty minutes it took to get there and I had to get there on time.  Strict time is an important part of these Jabs.

There was the well usual organised set-up.  A minutes wait, questioned by the volunteer Stasi, then a short socially distanced queue before being sent in to Nurse Number 2.  Efficient and capable, both nurse and admin, swiftly I was questioned, jabbed, informed and thrown out the back door so as not to upset the ones waiting outside.  Simple efficient and no hang up's, so far.

And I then had to go elsewhere. 

 

 

I hobbled round to the museum Hall, used as a Polling Booth to vote, followed the instructions and waited at the door chatting to an attractive, efficient young woman, who was acting guard.  However, I was choking as walking down the street unmasked I swallowed a fly, or some such object, and was none to pleased with life.  Neither indeed were the people trying to avoid me as I coughed, all of them thinking I had Covid when in fact I had a wee beastie trying to kill me.  So, uncomfortable as I was I entered to meet the usual crew, including the Museum boss who acts as local election agent.  Money goes to money!  Marking my X in the required spot, the spot marked 'anyone but a Tory,' I placed both forms (County Council and Police Commissioner) in the box knowing both would support the loser.  The Conservative sheep were slowly passing through, all placing their X dutifully for the man who would soon vote to remove all the amenities they use because 'the Council cannot afford them.'  Their expenses will increase soon enough mind.

 

 

 

So it was time for home, food and WHAT!?  No football tonight?  This canny be right!  But it is.  The end of season means so few games left now.  One or two leagues still to finish, one or two play-offs to go through, then nothing!  

I may start seeing spiders climbing up the wall soon.   

Dearie me, even Fridays have little, only an English game there.  Tsk!