A Sunday in the Life

BiblePlaces

 

Sunday saw me shuffling down to the Kirk.  

I have not been for a few weeks and it was delight to see how the young women crowded around me.  I did not realise just how much they missed my weekly cash offering!  My tired mind did not enjoy much however, the service was a long one, too long for tired little me.  

Not only was it the church's 53rd anniversary, but it was also the 'Harvest Festival.'  This adds to the time as offerings were made, offerings this time being items wanted by the local 'Food Bank,' which the church supports and is itself used as an 'Food Bank' opening.  So, plastic bags of required substances abounded at the front, unlike in days of long ago when a sheaf of wheat or two would lie alongside local apples, fruits and vegetables.  Today, a more practical, and sadly required, offering is demanded.  We have a Conservative MP, who is also the Foreign Minister (at the moment, but things change quickly under this government), the town council is almost totally Conservative, and the County council also dominated by the Conservative Party.  However, the 'Food Bank' in this town has two openings within the town, and one on the rather 'better to do' area just outside.  There is also another in nearby, and better off, Halstead, and one in not so well of London overspill Witham!  Conservative areas these, and the MP has not, as yet, visited any of them.  All of these are based in church halls, I wonder why?  Does no-one else have the care, or would it cost too much?  Maybe the next 'Harvest Festival' might be different, maybe of course, it could be much worse.  

On top of this we had a child baptised.  Now I am not one for Christenings or child baptisms, however, the CoE is, and the vicar goes along with this so, when a local woman requests baptism he accedes to her demand, and attempts to use this as an 'outreach' to those who attend church only for 'Birth, death and marriages.'  And as I entered, shrugging off the women, I noticed the first three rows taken up with men in suits, and women dressed for an occasion. "Strangers," thought I.  Easy to identify such as the rest of the church takes a 'Come as you are,' approach, and rightly so, this means visitors all dressed up stand out.  Funny how they all think going to church requires 'dressing up,' I wonder how those thoughts get into their minds?  It does however, show the lack of understanding regarding churches today.

I say Christenings and child baptism have no place in scripture.  Such are never found there, what we do find however, is, for instance, in Mark's 'Good News,' where the disciples are clearing up after Jesus has finished for the day, and the women then approach for Jesus to 'bless' their children.  Obviously, no major Rabbi of the time wishes to waste time on the women or their children, so the disciples lovingly tell them to "Clear off."  At this Jesus, says Mark, is 'Indignant.'  The Greek word he uses is a very strong word indeed, indicating how God in human form, walking the earth, saw the women and children.  

However, baptism, such as from John at the Jordan, and occasionally elsewhere, does not mention children, only 'people.'  It is possible they were involved, but no mention of them is made.  The 'Christening service' is unknown.  

Non-denominational churches, based on scripture rather than 'liturgy,' do not have 'Christenings,' but what I might call 'presentations.'  That is, new born children are 'presented to God,' and the church, along with thanks to God, promises to care for them.  Can I just say at this point, I am no longer available for babysitting.  

They are welcomed into the church but no demand on the child is made re belief. 

The reason child baptism is accepted is based on Pauls time in Philippi. 

When Paul was in Philippi spreading the Good News, he was confronted by a woman with an evil spirit.  She was a slave girl, common in those far off days, and not uncommon even in this country today, who earned much for her owners by fortune telling.  Demons have much knowledge and are not to be laughed at.  This woman followed Paul telling people that "These men are servants of the Most High God, and are telling you the way to be saved."  After a few days of this Paul turned round and in Jesus name commanded the spirit to leave her.  This was seen by the owners as unfortunate as they lost money, so a 'hubbub' arose and a crowd soon saw Paul and Silas stripped and flogged, then dumped in prison as serious offenders.  My reaction would have been one filled with rude words, Paul and Silas are found at midnight praying and singing hymns to God, with the other prisoners listening to them.  Clearly they had an effect on the others.  

An earthquake follows, not unusual in the region, and the prison walls shake, doors open, fetters loosened.  Not surprisingly the prison jailor fears for his life as everyone must have escaped.  However, Paul stops him and indicates all remain inside, revealing Pauls hold on them.  The Jailor then asks, "What can I do to be saved?"  The answer, "Believe in the Lord Jesus, and you will be saved, you and your household."  Paul then spoke the 'word of the Lord' to the household, the jailor washed their wounds, and soon he and his family were baptised. 

It is this incident that allows some to accept child baptism.  The jailor 'and all his family,' to some, indicates children were baptised.  But I wonder?  

This was Philippi, a Roman town, a place emptied by Augustus in 42 BC and used as a pension for retired Roman soldiers.  Each man was given something, a wine bar, a fast food joint, whatever suited them, and that was their pension.  By Pauls time their sons and grandsons, plus other ex-service men had filled the town, thus the jailor may well have been a member of the Roman army at some point.  I see him as a man, at least in his 40s, if not older, with grown up children, at least of teenage years.  His position as prison governor would not have been given lightly, so he may well have been at least a Centurion, with experience of leadership.  Therefore those who reckon children were involved in his household being baptised are merely surmising that to be the case.  My surmise may also be wrong but I will not mention this.    

Anyway, the kid here was baptised, then, learned how to toddle freely, spent much time toddling around the church drowning out the vicar, to everyone, bar the vicars, amusement.  These days kids get more freedom than in days gone by, but eventually someone grabbed him and others and dumped the in a play room.  Being a special service the normal kids events did not occur, and this may have been a mistake.  The kid was enjoyable, and all loved him.

 

I did not wish to stay and talk, I was very tired, but enough people spoke and listened to my idea of 'TikTok' fame.  The results were disappointing.  " What, You?" was a common expression, "Fame?" followed by sarcastic laughter, another.  Some wondered if a live picture of myself early in the day might breach the 'Law of England & Wales.'  One suggested wearing a Burqa, just in case.  The treasurer wished me well in obtaining cash and gave me the church bank numbers but with a strong hint of sarcasm as he did so, his son, a 'TikTok' follower just banged his head on the desk muttering something unclear.   I failed to understand their thinking.  Other indications of a lack of support drove me from the field and home to rest my ego and remain in poverty.     

With no little relief I have finished my Turmeric soup.  I am now planning another, somewhat lighter, and this time I may even attempt to add flavour, maybe...  

Fame and Fortune the Slappers Way

I am contemplating the suggestion that I ought to set up a video link and offering myself to the world on 'Only Fans' or some such channel.  One of my young women has made this suggestion and I have been cogitating on it all day.  

Obviously the days of the week would determine the normal routine, though some may not notice a difference, and carrying the camera through the park and into Tesco or wherever might find some difficulties arising.  Especially with that big bloke on security at Sainsburys.  

However, my daily trip to the laptop ought to be worth something cash wise from DELL, as it is their machine that is driving me mad.  Also Microsoft would get many a mention throughout the day, just as they did yesterday when I could not work my way through 'Outlook' as it has been amended again by a 13 year old maniac.  Their name was used often.

'Firefox,' would get less attention as bad language is rare with that browser, but for a fee it could be mentioned daily.  As indeed would 'Opera,' which I use to scribble this rubbish as it has a much used spellchecker on it.  

A camera in an appropriate place would offer views of me slumming it working during the morning, hopefully with a bit of sunshine creeping in.  I say 'working,' I mean 'reading the online press and Twitter.'  My opinions are freely offered loudly if the neighbours are out.   Surely there is a number of viewers for such a sight?  

Also, when I rise, like Larry the Cat chasing a Fox from Downing Street, the viewers would then enjoy my catering skills at the oven.  Brandishing sauces (donated by a variety of companies) while placing mince pies from Murdoch's Butchers in Forres in the oven would surely acquire interest from the far north.  Indeed even abroad!  The dash and daring with which I stir the pot, throwing in, and I mean throwing, a variety of spices, sauces, and things found at the back of the freezer, would be an encouragement to many in these 'hard up times.'   Enabling the world to note how a large pan can produce enough soup for a week must be worth something, if even only to the 'Food Banks!'  

'Waterstones' and 'Amazon,' not to say 'World of Books,' must be willing to part company with the readies for an advert?  I could pose on the filthy couch surrounded by their offerings, reading the latest (non-fiction) tome that has been obtained through a gifted book token.  My opinion would surely be of benefit to the aspiring author, to those concerned with the subject, and readers desiring to purchase.

Doing this while quaffing 'Sainsburys Red Label Tea,' or 'Bells Scotch Whisky,' surely would deserve a decent response?  

The surrounding scenery, the dust on the mantlepiece, the unhoovered floor, the drying washing hanging around like a bad smell,  would ring a bell with many a man devoid of women to tidy up.  They too would enjoy the coverage of football, even if their team was losing.  After all, it's not whether you win or lose but how you play the game.  All football fans agree to this.

What...?  Oh!

Obviously, with the latest Tory Chancellor denying outright his intention to become the next Prime Minister and thereby making clear his intention to become the next Prime Minister, we can be assured that energy costs will rise again.  This may mean mush of my coverage on these 'TikTok' channels will be somewhat dark.  This, especially when advertising swimwear, which appears to be the only thing that the women actually do, might of course be better in the dark.  

Political harangues,  football commentary, Sunday sermons (that will bring in the crowds, to complain), travelogues of places I have never visited, family history, until the injunctions arrive, and constant references to 'The War,' though I will probably mean the 'Great One,' are surely the stuff to bring sponsors knocking on my door, instead of 'Hermes Drivers' looking for my neighbour. 

I can start planning the camera positions, not counting the one seeking stars in the sky as there is little room in the sink, and then await the many offers that must fall through my door.  

Of course, if successful the price demands rise accordingly.

Calamity All Round Day

Another week filled with joy and happiness heads towards its end.  The thin cloud covering the world, the chill in the air, and the leaves lying across the world indicate the time of year.

The choking cough I suffer today indicates I did a  washing yesterday.  This involved a lot of shirts and one blanket.  Some fool forgot that this blanket leaves fluff on everything, so I now have fluff on everything!  Including my throat.  I had kept the red duvet cover separate to avoid more pink items, and put that through on its own today, but having done that separately I now have to wash all the rest once again on Monday.  Life, as it is normally lived, in this house!  

Oh yes, and I had to hoover the fluff off the floor afterwards also.  Fool!

Of course I can add to the delights my Turmeric soup.  I did not plan on making Turmeric soup but as I added a bit of this, a bit of that, I also added a bit of oops, too much Turmeric!  The flavour, for want of a better word, will not earn me a place on one of the ten times a day, cooking programmes  on television.  I heard the dog downstairs howling as I ate, I suspect the aroma got down to him.

As it is the end off the week the weather had deteriorated accordingly.  Wind has gathered its power, clouds gather, huge clouds gathering in mid Atlantic awaiting Monday morning, and football ruined by the wind.  Tsk!  The clouds also mean I canny get a better shot of Jupiter than the last one.  Once again my wee camera is not reaching that far out.  I thought I had got something special last night, but it was just a plane leaving Stansted and passing over us.  Those lights are confusing.

It now transpires there are only three Prime Ministers until Christmas.  How time flies?  The shortest ever Chancellor has gone back to making more money and dodging tax, while the woman responsible for his policies that ended with him thrown under the bus in a vain attempt to save her own skin, remains planning decorations at No 10.  

I'm not sure she needs bother.

The somewhat smug Chancellor has been replaced by a very smug Chancellor, one Jeremey Hunt of Freudian slip fame.  He of course is no fan of our Liz but he is a fan of taking her job.  Clearly he sees an opportunity falling towards him here and she has not.  Liz not comprehending surprises no-one. 

So, what now?  Satirists are struggling to keep up here.   It is not possible to write something today and know it will not have changed by tomorrow.  I wonder if she can find a small war to occupy people's minds?

Nothing to Say with all this Football

 

Nothing to say.

Too much European football to watch.

Too much housework to do.

Too much food to stuff down and regret.

 

Mooning...

 I really consider it's time they moved the moon over a bit.  Here is me, late at night, squeezing through the wee window in the kitchen, attempting to take a photograph of the 'Harvest Moon,' while knocking assorted items, 'Fairy Liquid' bottles, pans, cups and a fork or two into the sink.  All the time attempting to remain quiet so as not to disturb the neighbours.  

Considering the brute is always positioned in the wrong place, tonight I hoped to catch it alongside Jupiter, but Jupiter had moved too far away, and the edge of the window frame kept coming into focus. I wonder how others get such good shots?  I suppose they have gardens, and sheds they can stand on.  Or windows that are not obscured by the tree line that appears so worthy during the sunny days but a nuisance when seeking planets or moons.  

I certainly will not get a shot tonight, I am about to rush of slowly and attend the SPAM meeting at the club.  Here, the intelligentsia (no women) of the church meet to discuss items of great moment.  As the football that matters, at 6 pm and 8 pm, does not begin until tomorrow, I can take a night off from straining my eyes and enter the half light of the club and meet the bright sparks of the congregation.

Ticket to Ride

This is a good book.  

Published in 2016, Tom Chesshyre road the rail in 2013/14, so it is slightly dated.  Non the worse for that.  It is understandable that situations have changed somewhat in some of the countries Ton

m has travelled through.  And what countries, what trains!  

Written from the point of view of someone who likes trains without becoming an anorak train enthusiast, Tom travels through China, India, USA and Russia amongst others places.  Detailing the trips, the people, the country that he meets on board and sees through the window.  

The fact that he has put so many trips into the book means each trip could have been a single book in itself, though I suspect his run in with a mutinous bunch of Aussies who rebelled against him he probably does not wish to cover again.  

His writing style is good.  We are there listening to the Chinese coughing loudly, we see the red soil of Australia fade into the distance, we note the differing attitudes of guards, both at the borders and on the trains.  The North Korean guards are not what I expected, the drugged up lout in New York was. 

In most nations Tom comes across ano rail enthusiasts.  Those who travel on every line, ensuring all they see, trains, coaches, signals, stations, drivers are photographed, and those who just like travelling by train.

On such trips people open up about themselves and life in general.  By avoiding controversy guides can become quite friendly and open in even the most 'locked in' nation.  Train travel, especially on long journeys, does tend to loosen the passengers, drink also helps.  Speaking to a stranger, often about their private life, is possible for some, especially when you will never meet again.  Something about train travel relaxes people, the smooth ride possible on most lines today, the sights from the train, green verdant land, streams, seas, mountains, all calm the mind.  

Of course there is the other type.  The drunk, the lout, the man or woman on the phone sharing their work or private life with one and all.  Surely murder is not wrong in such situations?  The staff, sometimes happy, sometimes grumpy, depending on where you are and how they have been treated.

'Ticket to Ride' offers all this.  It was a book I found hard to put down.  Also, the trips being separated means this book need not be read in one go, each chapter a differing delight.  The descriptions of the train delights the anor fan, the hope to be there one day delights me.  

I recommend this book, both as a 'railway' book and as a travel book.  

Tom Chesshyre

I've just realised I have read one of his before.  'From Source to Sea.'  A walk from the source of the Thames to the sea.

OAP Aid

I received a letter the other day, with an incomplete address, though the postman managed to get it to my door.  This was from someone new, the county council.  As part of Liz Truss's response to the energy crisis she has sent cash around the country to aid us poor folks in our distress.  This is kind of her, so kind that I will not inform her that by nationalising the energy companies she could have saved us a lot more money, and saved the cots of this gift.

However, £80 is quite decent, and a big surprise.  So, wide eyed and having checked this was not a spam merchant playing games, I trotted off to the store this morning to take advantage and fill shelves.  I confirmed with one of the better staff members that this was legal and they were aware of these 'handouts' from a woman who does not do 'handouts,' and began collecting the required goodies.  With my freezer quite full, not of steak however, I obtained the tinned stuff, and other long term goods as I intend to use them much more in my culinary arts. (The word 'arts' here is a misnomer.)  Some £19 was used, the young woman at the checkout appeared happy, and I carried my heavy load away already scribbling in my mind a return visit for other long term goods soon.  

Did I need this money?  I am doing OK here.  I am not starving, indeed the bug helped me lose weight, and I am seeking lighter meals anyway.  However, it is when the gas and electric contracts run out they will then raise the prices to who knows what.  That is when this will be a benefit.  Some have gone from £400 a year to £1500 or so. These often OAPs who do struggle.  How can they pay such bills?  We can take hope that this temporary PM will soon be gone, that a sensible individual will take over, and that intellectually satisfying policies can be offered.  Hmmm... we wait and see...

Soup, Spiders and Australian Railways

 

Because a bug attached itself to me I have managed to lose almost half a stone by not eating.

Today however, I began to eat.  I put some chopped Chick Pea things, I forget the name, in the pan last night and covered them with water.  This morning I boiled them, flattened them, sort off, and added the ingredients.  These are easy to find, I just put in what is lying around.  Salt, brown and red sauce, cayenne pepper, vinegar, turmeric, coriander oops, too much, chicken Oxo and tin of chicken soup.  Add onions, green lentils the only tin available, and some frozen leeks, heat, simmer, and wait.

I now have a coriander soup.

This is not one the local cafe's will be asking about any time soon.

I did my best, ate two bowls of this, er, stuff, and cooled the rest for the week.     

My prayer, "Lord, I'll get it down, if you keep it down."

I have been hosting quite a few of these guys recently.  One has been above me in the corner for several years now, though whether he, or she, is the same one I cannot tell.  Above the window a long legged creature has been moving about for some time, first here, then there, sometimes just 'hanging about to my left.'  This smaller fellow is living on the wall just outside my door.  He has been there several days now.  No web, no friends, possibly no idea where he is heading, but he is still there, though he has managed to move several inches during today.  

None of these are the Australian type, small, non dangerous, and mostly wanting to keep in the dark places rather than a hallway with occasional lights.  My aunt, who moved to Australia in 1926 I think, was not impressed with my sisters response to what she referred to as a 'small spider.'  My sister was not impressed by what she considered a 'dirty big brute.'  I think Aunt Lizzies tales of the spiders she met while living in one of the big houses (as caretaker) on one of Sydney's many bays put my sister of her dinner for several days.

They can stay in Aussieland.    

When I am rich, I will take the train, the Indian Pacific, from Perth to Sydney one day.  There is only one way to meet Australia, to see the lie of the land and to understand how the people develop, but by train travel.  Railways open countries, first of all in the days of long ago, and now in the days of tourism.  Commuter travel is still a busy rail service, though clearly it is quicker to cross such land masses by air.  To see the land however, you must take the train.

Hmmm...I canny even get to the train here.  I must jump on one soon, before all the strikes restart. 

A Scottish Poem

I bought this book years ago and found it once again while staring into the bookcase.

Trevor Royle has brought together poetry and prose, including some fictionalised acounts, of the great War.  I was touched by this poem, something that does not usually happen, as it reflected the emotions felt by the couple involved.  It spoke better than most works from the time.

 

Pilgrimage: Being the thoughts of an ex-soldier at Ypres, 8/8/28

Me, an’ Jean, an’ the bairn;
The wee lad spierin’ an’ starin’;
Daunderin’ quiet an’ douce-like doun
The Menin road into Ypres toun.
‘Did ye kill ony Germans here?’
Man, it’s sair what a laddie’ll spier.
An’ Jean whispers ‘Wheest!’ – an’ there comes
The band wi’ its trumpets an’ drums.
There’s a glower i’ the wee laddie’s ee.
Ay, he’s ettlin’ ti sojer like me.
An’ Jean whispers low in her pain:
‘Lord, Ye’ll no lat it happen again!’
Syne the Gate whaur the weary feet trod
Like a white kind o’ promise fae God.
An’ in silence we’re spierin’ an’ starin’
– Me, an’ Jean, an’ the bairn.

Me an’ Jean
Her wi’ a saft warm licht in her een,
Thankfu’ that I am come through,
But trimlin’ a wee at the mou’,
Prood o’ the medals I wear –
The same as the Prince stan’in’ there;
Her hand grippin’ hard in mine here
– Oh Jeannie! Oh Jeannie, my dear! –
An’ I ken a’ the things she wud say
An’ Geordie was fond o’ her tae.
We saw Geordie’s bivvy yestreen,
Me an’ Jean.

Me,
Lookin’ yont ower the years juist tae see
Yon War like the ploy of a loon;
But a queer kind o’ shiver rins doon
My back as the things dribble in
– A hallikit lauch i’ the din,
The sangs, an’ the mud, an’ the claes,
An’ my buits, an’ yon glint through the haze
O’ anither lad’s bayonet, an’ lichts
Makin’ day o’ the darkest o’ nichts,
An’ the drinkin’ our tea fae ae can.
– Oh Geordie! Oh Geordie, my man!
An’ – deil tak’ this dust i’ my ee.
Me!

---

J. B. Salmond

from The Old Stalker and Other Verses (Edinburgh: The Moray Press, 1936)

The poems were often written in an Arbroath dialect.

I found this on the excellent Scottish Poetry Library.

 

Whithorn Woman

Whithorn Priory in Galloway is found in the very south west of Scotland.  A church is attested by the great Bede in 731 AD to have been found here in 700 AD.  It is rumoured than Ninian founded a church here around the year 400.  A Roman coin engraved with Emperor Constans (337-350 AD) was found near the altar, indicating something was in place at the time.  

The locals like to refer to Whithorn as the 'Cradle of Christianity' in Scotland, and possibly in the Britain we know today, and they may not be far wrong.

Several 'Digs' have uncovered Bishop Walter, who died in 1235, his ring and crozier defining him.  Research indicates the Bishop was 'portly,' and had a diet rich in fish.  This was not what the locals ate, even though the sea is close by.  Another clergyman of the time lies nearby.  The second man may not be a clergyman, yet he is interred close to the altar.  He had a cleft Jaw, which would make reading Mass difficult, yet this is where he is buried.  

The picture above is is the face of a woman who was buried amongst the Lay people (the lower orders) in what was later to become the 'Glebe Field.'  The Glebe Field was used to sustain the minister of a church.  This woman is believed to have lived in the 1300s.  This is in the days of Robert the Bruce, and life was often full of war.  She is in her early  20s, and when she died she was buried on a bed of shells, for reasons unknown.  The sea lies just down the road and conjecture as to the reason for the shells could go on for ever.  Nothing else is known of her.  Clearly not rich, she is just a woman of her time who died early.

I have noticed quite a few of these reconstructed faces appearing over the past few years.  Allowing for the difficulties in reconstructing an actual perfect likeness I find these fascinating.  While they cannot perfectly reveal the actual person, their habits, dress, attitudes and the like often remain unknown or guesswork, they do show an insight into life in the past.  It makes our forefathers real, no longer just a name on a rich mans tomb, or a mass of bodies buried in a local graveyard and soon forgotten.  The past becomes real, and if you are descended from this area it is always possible this may been one of your relatives.  If I remember correctly, a man in Cheddar Grove was through DNA research, found to contain the same DNA as a skeleton dating back into prehistory found in the area.  

One thing soon becomes clear, people today, mobile phones, cars, technological adept, are no different from those who have gone before.  What has been will be again, as it were.  Wherever such reconstructions are found they always turn out to be human, just like you and I, and therefore carry all the same sin nature we carry.  Humans never change, and these reconstructions prove this.

Ruaridh's Blog is full of info on Whithorn 

    

Crash Dive!

aljazeera

You may have noticed movement in the earths superstructure lately.  This was caused by Liz Truss (the Prime Minister no less, stop laughing at the back) who encouraged her Chancellor to drive the nation over the cliff.  It seems Brexit was not enough, we now need to line the pockets of the rich by stealing from the poor.  The usual, but not so bare-faced, Tory approach.  The intention is to 'Drive Growth.'   She did this so well that yesterday, in an unexpected move, the Bank of England stepped in (at £60 Billion or so) to stop all the Pension funds running out of cash and destroying the lives of millions.  The response from the leader, who hid for several days, was "No bother."

Now, she is connected to many organisations based in 'Tufton Street.'  These are the people who drove Brexit, 'Leave.EU,' 'Taxpayers Alliance,' and 'IEA,' all companies of sorts who do not reveal who pays their wages.  This is easy however, it is US billionaires and their friends, those who pushed for Brexit, and made millions, and push now for deregulation of everything, no matter the cost, so they can make more millions.  Liz receives money from most of the backers.  

There is little surprise in these moves, they have been coming, but few expected them to actually happen.  Now the UK is seen worldwide as a 'Basket case,' and not just in the UK.  Corruption at the top is driving this.  Intelligent thought, care for those suffering, and taking responsibility are not on the agenda.  'I'm all right Jack,' however is.  

 

Vaccination and Microsoft equal Anger

Science Museum

 

The letter came the other day, this followed on from the email, informing me that I was now eligible for the 'seasonal' Covid vaccination.  'Hooray,' said I, and returned to slumber.

Today, I looked up the online process, I clicked, I clicked again, always in the appropriate places, and clicked again.

I entered my National Health number.

I entered my date of birth, 2nd Jan 1990.

I clicked 'continue.'

I then selected the nearest centre offering the vaccination.

Witham!

Witham!  Six miles away, an hour on the bus, and even then I have to walk miles to find the place in the outskirts of town!

Other offerings were further afield.

I searched for the 'Walk in Centre.' 

I found one in town!

This operates at the 'Braintree Village' shopping experience.

I looked up the opening times.

SUNDAY!

Sunday, the one day buses do not run!

There is a Hospital up the road, 20 minutes walk away even for me, and that is where I got the previous two vaccinations.  The local 'Christchurch Pharmacy' run by a local church, offered the last booster.

No more.

For no good reason, cost in other words, if I take up this generous offer I must travel miles for it.

Shambles, that bloody Tories!

Bloody Microsoft!

They have kept me waiting a month before accepting the change of details, for no reason.  

Today I tried to sign in and had to go through all the hoops.

Eventually I was told to offer the last 4 digits of the phone number.

This I did.

I waited.

I waited.

I waited.

Nothing came.

I went through it all once more, informing them of my honest opinion.

I waited.

I waited.

I gave up.

I did get far enough into the mish mash of an organisation run by 14 year olds to find the phone number they required me to add was correct, however, the phone number on my details made no sense whatsoever.  Where did it come from?  I tried to delete it, but it appears to be still there.

Then I had to log in again, and now they are making me wait another month before I can go through all this again!

Happiness is not my name today.

Night Trip in the 80s

Reading a book on rail travel my mind returned to the days of long ago when I regularly caught a late night train from Kings Cross Station to Edinburgh.  I canny mind who informed me of this train, especially as it did not stop in Edinburgh, but I boarded the thing anyway.  When I say it did not stop, what I mean is that it was not meant to stop there officially, this stop did not appear on the timetable, yet stop there it did, at 3 am in the morning.

Once I knew about it I made for it.  I am sure it left about 10 in the evening, but memory says it was 8 pm, however, it was a slow train, not an express, and the luxury about it was the fact that all the coaches were aged corridor coaches.  Indeed, these had long been pushed aside for the open plan coaches normal today, and being made up of small compartments, with very few passengers travelling late at night, it was very comfortable.  The lighting in the compartment could be dimmed, most important for night travel, and once aboard and settled in there was nothing to do but enjoy the dark view of the world outside passing slowly by.  Some things did pass by quickly of course, express passenger trains full of express passengers, goods trains, which we now refer to as 'freight' for some reason, and often we would slow to a dark halt in a loop and wait while something flew past in a hurry.

This was a great experience for young me.  I was never disturbed, except by a man in a peaked cab looking for tickets, and once a group of young soldiers looked in, growled and made their way to the far end and exercising in the Cairngorms.  Good luck to them!  

Travelling at off-peak times was my preference, and this train was off-peak.  The night view from a dimmed compartment gave a differing outlook from the dreary day.  Lights appeared here and there, pausing near a block of houses, some were lit up, most in darkness, an occasion pair of green eyes watching from beneath a hedge, red flashing lights high up in the distance, and passing movements in the opposite direction, lit passenger trains, dark bulky goods ones.  Stations were not quite bare of people.  Well lit, a railwayman walking about here and there, at least in the larger stations such as York.  Anoraks,  sorry, enthusiasts, two far from young men at York in the middle of the night, eagerly recognising a number on one of the coaches.  This appeared to I to be one step too far with train watching.  Travelling at low speed watching the houses in the distance, traffic flowing on major highways, occasional cars on lesser roads.  Shops signs lit up, industrial units with steam from vents and chimneys, with obscure dark shapes looming up and passing by  silently.  

We would arrive at the Waverley on time almost exactly, and once I was confident the train would actually stop and not drop me at Dundee or Aberdeen, I would 'alight' as they say into a near empty station.  Usually two or three at most taxi's would sit there hopefully, a knock on the window, a sleeping driver awake, muttering "Three O'clock," and coming back to life, I would be driven home in style.    

I enjoyed those journeys, soon to be amended with the introduction of a new service, via the west coast for some reason, in open coaches with far too bright lighting.  On one occasion this broke down, almost all passengers were grateful and slumbered happily, none complaining to the guard when he informed us of the problem.  On another trip I was met by an elderly (to me then) Pakistani man who chatted happily about his business in Aberdeen.  He was pleasant, kind and good company, and I did not wish to tell him to leave me alone so I could sleep.  He drifted of somewhere about the midlands and we snoozed uneasily into an Edinburgh dawn.

It is time I got back on a train!

   

Moronic Media

We need more about this woman.  Today's media is stuffed full of garbage regarding actors, TV celebs, and other nobody's and their love lives, 'floods of tears,' and similar non stories.  Once again people wrongly diagnosed by overworked doctors (they never mention those who were successfully treated) tell us their woes among the routine murder, rape and 'Kiss & tell,' stories that I loathe.  

Even the football pages struggle as the international games are upon us once again.  This means the routine lies and half truths offered week by week will not do.  Hacks spend must time filling space with  nothing at all and expect to be paid for it.  

The reluctance to grumble about this lying government, today announcing more benefits for the rich and taking money from the poor, is still ongoing.  Serious journalism is hard to find, especially when Twitter remains blocked, and the variety of news feeds I come across are either too far left or too far right.  Journalism cannot be one sided, it requires an open mind, but that does not sell the press. 

A quick look at the TV guide and all hope has gone.  Bread and Circus's without jam.  I am so glad there is some football on tonight.

Cancelled Truth

 

As mentioned the other day I have been banned from Twitter for standing up for the truth.  Naturally I appealed this nonsense and await a reply.  Until then I am banned, I suspect they will keep me waiting in the hope I delete the truth and save them the bother.  They are foolhardy if they think this.

However, while we await a known apparent infringement of their rules an email arrived informing me I was permanently banned from the 'Online Daily Mail.'  Tsk!  They did not even have the decency to inform me as to what I said wrong.  This is annoying.  I looked it up and wonder what could be the problem, possibly not agreeing with the Queens mob, possibly not agreeing with the Mail most days I suspect.  Anyway, that is one name that will not be seen again on the 'Mail Online' sadly.  

Of course I discovered another name I use there still works, three Brexiteers proved that tis morning, and so I am limited to using that one alone for now.  No more agreeing with myself to boost numbers...

The 'cancel culture' is an undemocratic movement, and when those strongly opposed to it begin cancelling those with whom they disagree it speaks volumes about them, and society in general.

Society is often confused, conflicted, and led by those who really care nothing for society.  This has left this nation with a browbeaten population, youth with much confusion as to what life they ought to be living, no belief in right and wrong, just an exaggerated expression of 'Me First,' and 'My feelings are important.'  The 'silent majority,' many of whom queued up to pay respects to their queen the other day are being let down by those who ought to lead them.  Politicians, church leaders, the media and whoever has a voice in society ought to be speaking truth.  This is not happening.  UK Politicians in government are owned by US Billionaires, and speak policy that benefits the rich, this is not leading the people, just the few.  Church leaders are taking the congregations with them under 'Stonewall' control. Jesus is forgotten, scripture ignored, the nation kept in ignorance by those who ought to proclaim Jesu crucified from the housetops.  The nearest we have seen this in recent days was the Archbishop speaking at the queens funeral, an almost proper sermon, so rare even from him, though she would have agreed. Those who consider men or women believing they were born in the wrong body browbeat any who rightly oppose them, nobody wishes to stand up to the mob!  Facebook and Twitter and other social media do not know how to cope, and just continue to gather data.  TV and press offer 'Bread & Circus's' while journalism and investigation is passed over according to whoever owns the works.  

Amos the prophet, saw such events many years ago.  The Lord himself loved the people, even though they had walked away from him and ignored him.  He sent many prophets but Amos sums up some of our day quite well.  The rich get richer, the poor do not get justice, and soon judgement falls. 

Individually and as a nation we cannot continue to live so far from a God who created us and who desperately wants us, so he can give us real life, a life that satisfies.  

How God cares, how Jesus weeps.

Walk the Lines, by Mark Mason

This is another result of Christmas and birthday book vouchers.  A trip to Waterstones and sever books later back home to work the way through them all.  As I am reading three or four at once it does not always flow, at last one is finished. 

The basis of this book is simple.  The writer takes note of the different Underground lines, marks them out on a map, he is obsessed with maps, and then walks along the streets and byways that are covered by each individual line.  Clearly he is young, clearly he is fit, clearly he is off his head.

I like the idea.

Beginning with the Victoria line our hero walks from one end to the other, offering small talk, descriptions of stations, conversations with individuals, and vague history as he passes.  This is good and quite enjoyable, especially when involving stations, streets, and situations we have all met with.

He then walks across all lines, visiting all stations, and describing the changing scene from built up London, rich London, depressing Harrow, and a vast number of green areas within the city itself.  

The only problem I encounter with the book is that after a while it all becomes somewhat 'same.'  That is, one line sound just like another, one street like one passed before.  This is because he has taken on too big a job.  Such an adventure featuring one line only could have investigated the much deeper, offered many more tales of past adventures, crimes and mishaps, and become a more enjoyable read.

However, the sheer size of London, as our friend Fun has shown, means it takes a much deeper enquiry into the locale before we get the best out of the city.  This is not to disparage the effort here, on the contrary, it reveals how wide and full the whole of 'London' actually is, and it is not just a spot somewhere in the centre seen regularly on postcards, TV and rubbish films.

The people met along the way can be interesting, though an artist who makes cakes would have been better thrown from the top of the former Nat West Tower Putin fashion rather than entertained.  

The whole of the Greater London area covered by the Tube lines, meaning much of the south over the Thames is ignored, reflecting the wide divergence of people, dwellings and high streets that make up the conurbation.  London, like all towns and cities, has its own atmosphere. not always pleasant, but it is an enticing place to live.  It is also overcrowded, full of pig ignorant people, far too much traffic, and expensive.  For instance, to live in the residence I once occupied many years ago, allowing for much improvement to the place, would require around £500 a week to live there.  This, plus gas, electric and all those other costs is not something everyone can afford.  

The book is well worth a read for anyone who has lived there, it is well written, even allowing for his 'interesting' thought processes as he tries to understand and comprehend what London actually is, and a good book to read, one line at a  time.  Published in 2011 but not yet out of date regarding most lines and their happenings.  I recommend it.   

1908

The Monarchs Funeral and Twitter

Very quiet this morning.  By 8 am an empty airport bus slogged its way slowly past, a black woman, dressed West Indian style walked slowly up the road, a car or two hastened nowhere.  With the major shops shut, a bank holiday declared, and many waiting in for the queens funeral procession on TV there is an air of silence about the town.  Well, apart from that siren just now, trouble down at the bypass I reckon.  Even the dogwalkers are silent, no barking, no gossip, very quiet even for here.  

The constant TV pictures on YouTube, happily without the sycophantic commentary elsewhere, show us men in uniform taking position, crowds eagerly awaiting, some have been there in position for three days!  What loo do they use is my first question?  10,000 Police march into position, all dressed in dark uniforms, the Royal Navy take their position also.  In 1901 the horses pulling Queen Victoria failed for some reason so the RN standing guard were called in to pull the gun carriage on which she lay.  This became the tradition and will be done today also.  Tradition being very important on such occasions.  Massed pipe bands, glowing in Highland dress, full of colours most Highlanders before the 1800s never knew, play as they march to their spot in the ranks.  The crowds cheering almost every move be it police, army or workers preparing the ground.  Others praise the unity found upon such occasions, I find myself asking, will it last?  An event brings people together, daily life soon returns and today will be forgotten by Thursday.

Of course when the media tells us all have fallen silent for the funeral not all have done so willingly.  There is a need for the nation to take note of a monarchs passing but to be honest so much has been over the top and a hindrance to many.  With a growing republican feeling in parts of the UK, not yet an overpowering growth however, many are irked by the response and feel ignored, sometimes angry.  Much of this is somewhat childish, protesting at a funeral for instance, and much a 'chip on the shoulder' feeling about rich folks.  I ask such about their wealth, and many have plenty of it, and enquire as to how they spend time helping the poor?  "Do you work in a foodbank?" is always a good question, one which gets no reply.  A more balanced debate is required here.

While all this was going on I participated in one or two discussions on Twitter.  A great place to meet objective dialog and sympathetic listeners.  In answer to one man's statement that gay sex was normal I reminded him that this was abnormal, not normal.  He was based in Germany, the German Twitter has informed me this was not breaking the rules, however, UK Twitter has blocked me.  So I appealed, on scriptural grounds.  I am blocked completely now while this is investigated.  We shall see if the gay lobby rules Twitter or not soon.

Saturday Queuing

Walking through the cold north wind back from Tesco I cogitated on the people seen slowly walking by the Queens coffin.  A never ending TV channel allows us to see the mourners pass by, sometimes hurried by the men in black coats.  All ages appear, a surprising number of children have waited for hours to see this event.  All colours, all ages, all types appear.  Of course MPs and others have privileged entrance, no queuing amongst the plebs for the Rees-Moggs of this world.  David Beckham made an appearance, a publicity stunt clearly, and one that will bring in more cash to pay his wife's debts.  No doubt also that she thought up the idea.  While 45% of Scots claim to wish a republic, 36% a monarchy, in England the proportion is much higher.  No doubt the Brexiteer mob are among the most loyal, the Tory Blue everywhere like to consider they may one day touch that royalty themselves.  Fat chance really.  Today, many pass through the ancient hall, few knowing its History, almost none knowing the queen except for media images and possibly a handshake once upon a time.  But they have come, endured the wait, bossed by the controllers, stand for a moment, bow gently or almost touching the floor, curtsey or salute, or just nod the head and wander thoughtfully on.  Some cross themselves in a variety of manners, others blow a kiss, while servicemen bearing a row of medals from various wars stand tall, adjust their caps, stiffly salute, and march on.  The serviceman's loyalty to the crown is deeper than many realise, this is built into them during service.  The queen herself would enjoy the attention and the show of loyalty.  She would understand also those who wish not to attend, unlike the media whose coverage continues to be sycophantic.