Those of you who give a monkey's (no, we don't need a show of hands, thank you), may have noticed an absence of inane drivel for some time now. I can only hope that you have found an alternative sleeping pill to re balance your chakras. The reason for my absence is a lack of inspiration and a movement in the force.
Towards the end of last year a management meeting of Biddy Inc was held in the kitchen. Present were The Present Husband and myself. There was only one item on the agenda:
It's time to move.
The urge to embrace new places has been rumbling on for a while. The field that we once gazed out on at the back of our house is now a housing estate. From the bedroom window, the view is now a brick wall. Consequently, the decision was made; let's follow our dream to live in a bungalow near the sea and practice being a couple of old codgers. We had already been practising the codgerdom aspect, but the sea, sun and open spaces were required to fulfil the dream.
Thus, on a warm spring afternoon in May we moved into a lovely little bungalow, four miles from the nearest town (Shopping, yeh!) and twelve miles from the sea (fish & chips, sunscreen and bucket and spade, Woop-Woop!).
TPH fell in love with our new home on the first viewing. I took a second viewing to accept that it was the best of the six properties that we had seen on that day - I had actually lost the will to live and was willing to set up a tent on the beach by that stage.
The sale of our old house and the purchase of our dream home included all the usual hiccups. The phone and internet were cut off five weeks early (well done BT!). However, our fabulous neighbour let us log on to her wifi signal so that we could communicate with the utility and financial companies, the government departments that provide our pensions, and the family and chums who may one day wonder where we'd gone. (I accept that this is open to debate but let's be gentle).
Lists were made, remade and new lists added to the lists of what needed to be done, had been done, and didn't stand a chance of being done in this lifetime.
A survey of the dream home was requested to ensure it was not likely to fall down in the immediate future, or was a danger to life and limb. It transpired that this was a total waste of money. We have no idea which house the surveyor chappie assessed, but the report bears no reflection to the property we moved into. We are still looking for the damp problem in the bathroom. The infestation of black beetles in the shed (which apparently could cause it to fall down) are conspicuous by their absence.
He did miss the inability to access the boiler and fuse box due to a cupboard which had been built round them so tightly that the access panels could not be removed. He also missed the leaking guttering, which offers a damn good impersonation of Niagra Falls when it rains. The garden gate was sealed by years of non use - even WD40 wouldn't shift the blighter without the hinges coming off with the gate!
However, all these irritations have been sorted out and we are now on to purchasing curtains, rugs and the paraphernalia that make a house a home.
Our new neighbours appear a friendly, happy bunch who have offered any advice or assistance that we need.
Our best mates - who live a few miles away are always available for advice, alcohol, a bed for the night and general moral support. That's what mates are all about! Indeed, the day we moved in, my pal spent the whole day with me, preventing total meltdown. Once they had helped us settle the furniture into our new home - the removal men were delighted with the extra pairs of hands to fetch and carry - they rescued us that evening and took us to a smashing local hostelry where we ate, drank and chilled out.
All in all, this was a good move. It's now possible have a stroll by the sea, get the shopping and be home in time for an afternoon nap.
Onward and upward chaps!
Wednesday, 12 June 2019
Sunday, 9 December 2018
Memories of Christmas
I appear to be mellowing with age - an unlikely, but welcome scenario. I recently thought back to the christmas's of times past and once I started they positively flooded back.
My earliest memory is of my Dad taking us out to see the Salvation Army band that played outside our flat at Jubilee clock in Harlsden, north west London. My brother and I, along with Mum and Dad would sing along to the carols.
My Dad was a huge fan of the 'Sally Army'. he often recalled the welcome they gave to returning sailors during the war at Waterloo station when hot tea and a butties were offered to one and all.
Accompanying this was the vivid memory of being given a dolls house for Christmas. I could only have been around 3-4 years old, but the absolute joy of this gift took my breath away - I wonder what happened to it?
As the years passed and we moved to Wembley, Christmas morning became a lesson in self control that I never quite managed to grasp - and still struggle with to this day. My brother and I would wake up at, 'silly o,clock', to find Christmas stockings on the end of our beds - from Santa, naturally. The stockings contained a few nuts in the bottom (only useful for using as ammunition against each other in the absence of a nut cracker!), a satsuma which became ,first breakfast, and 2-3 small presents. Second breakfast consisted of chocolate provided by Aunty Betty, who always gave us a small box of Milk Tray each year - very grown up! One year Santa made the mistake of putting an aerosol of Crazy Foam in my stocking. This was a huge error of, otherwise impeccable, judgement as the yelling from my brother at being woken by a covering in the stuff woke our parents at around 5 am. Christmas morning was a little tense that year...
The Christmas nativity at school is also a very fond memory. Again, the carols, the proud parents and using the classrooms as dressing rooms for the participants - which was most of the school - combined with the novelty of being in school after 'the bell.
My thoughts then jumped ahead to my working years. As a nurse there was no guarantee of having Christmas off. However, the atmosphere of the wards and units I worked in changed, as did the moral of the staff and patients. Yet another Salvation Army memory of the band playing in the inner Quadrangle of the Middlesex Hospital in Mortimer street on Christmas eve night. As I peered out of the window on the 4th floor to see what was going on, I noticed that in all the other windows staff and patients were also watching the magical transformation of a Christmas eve late shift from anxiety and sadness to the sheer joy of sharing that moment in time - God Bless the Sally Army!
After we married, The Present Husband (TPH) and I would always attend Midnight mass which became very important to us as it was akin to firing the starting pistol for the festivities. After midnight mass we would go home to a mince pie, irish coffee, and the opening on one small present. This was always accompanied by waking at 3am with indigestion and an assault on the Gaviscon!
Our first Christmas as a married couple was a little inauspicious as I was working nights until Boxing day. Thus, midnight mass was given the heave ho along with the mince pie, irish coffee and indigestion. Thankfully, TPH collected me from work on Christmas morning - having got up at an unearthly hour, bless him - and we went home to tea and eggy soldiers for him and a huge mug of hot chocolate heavily laced with Cointreau for me. I slept like a baby for 5 hours and was woken to a Christmas lunch, served to me in bed, of Cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. We watched 'Dumbo' on the TV and celebrated Christmas with friends in the traditional manner next day.
Nowadays Christmas celebrations start 2 weeks before the day itself by the dressing of the tree, decorating the living room and turning it into Santa's Grotto with fairy lights and tinsel.
Presents have less and less significance as the years pass, though we still buy each other gifts. Our greatest joy is being able to make donations to our favourite charities - Sally Army at the front of the queue as always!
To all my family, chums and anyone else who accidently tripped over this blog I wish you all the joys of Christmas, and good health, hope and happiness in the new year.
Merry Christmas.
My earliest memory is of my Dad taking us out to see the Salvation Army band that played outside our flat at Jubilee clock in Harlsden, north west London. My brother and I, along with Mum and Dad would sing along to the carols.
My Dad was a huge fan of the 'Sally Army'. he often recalled the welcome they gave to returning sailors during the war at Waterloo station when hot tea and a butties were offered to one and all.
Accompanying this was the vivid memory of being given a dolls house for Christmas. I could only have been around 3-4 years old, but the absolute joy of this gift took my breath away - I wonder what happened to it?
As the years passed and we moved to Wembley, Christmas morning became a lesson in self control that I never quite managed to grasp - and still struggle with to this day. My brother and I would wake up at, 'silly o,clock', to find Christmas stockings on the end of our beds - from Santa, naturally. The stockings contained a few nuts in the bottom (only useful for using as ammunition against each other in the absence of a nut cracker!), a satsuma which became ,first breakfast, and 2-3 small presents. Second breakfast consisted of chocolate provided by Aunty Betty, who always gave us a small box of Milk Tray each year - very grown up! One year Santa made the mistake of putting an aerosol of Crazy Foam in my stocking. This was a huge error of, otherwise impeccable, judgement as the yelling from my brother at being woken by a covering in the stuff woke our parents at around 5 am. Christmas morning was a little tense that year...
The Christmas nativity at school is also a very fond memory. Again, the carols, the proud parents and using the classrooms as dressing rooms for the participants - which was most of the school - combined with the novelty of being in school after 'the bell.
My thoughts then jumped ahead to my working years. As a nurse there was no guarantee of having Christmas off. However, the atmosphere of the wards and units I worked in changed, as did the moral of the staff and patients. Yet another Salvation Army memory of the band playing in the inner Quadrangle of the Middlesex Hospital in Mortimer street on Christmas eve night. As I peered out of the window on the 4th floor to see what was going on, I noticed that in all the other windows staff and patients were also watching the magical transformation of a Christmas eve late shift from anxiety and sadness to the sheer joy of sharing that moment in time - God Bless the Sally Army!
After we married, The Present Husband (TPH) and I would always attend Midnight mass which became very important to us as it was akin to firing the starting pistol for the festivities. After midnight mass we would go home to a mince pie, irish coffee, and the opening on one small present. This was always accompanied by waking at 3am with indigestion and an assault on the Gaviscon!
Our first Christmas as a married couple was a little inauspicious as I was working nights until Boxing day. Thus, midnight mass was given the heave ho along with the mince pie, irish coffee and indigestion. Thankfully, TPH collected me from work on Christmas morning - having got up at an unearthly hour, bless him - and we went home to tea and eggy soldiers for him and a huge mug of hot chocolate heavily laced with Cointreau for me. I slept like a baby for 5 hours and was woken to a Christmas lunch, served to me in bed, of Cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. We watched 'Dumbo' on the TV and celebrated Christmas with friends in the traditional manner next day.
Nowadays Christmas celebrations start 2 weeks before the day itself by the dressing of the tree, decorating the living room and turning it into Santa's Grotto with fairy lights and tinsel.
Presents have less and less significance as the years pass, though we still buy each other gifts. Our greatest joy is being able to make donations to our favourite charities - Sally Army at the front of the queue as always!
To all my family, chums and anyone else who accidently tripped over this blog I wish you all the joys of Christmas, and good health, hope and happiness in the new year.
Merry Christmas.
Friday, 28 September 2018
The Grand Tour
Greetings chums.
It was pointed out to me recently by a chum that it has been far too long since my last blog (so don't blame me). Therefore it is with huge joy that I accede to my public and take to the laptop again, "time to irritate and annoy the great British public".
Actually, the reason that it's been so long between blogs is because I was living life rather than writing about it - something I highly recommend.
A thought occurred to me recently (not totally without precedent, but worrying all the same). The Present Husband (TPH) and I have taken lots of holidays in Europe and the USA; maybe it's time to explore our own little island?
A management meeting was called in the kitchen - while he was doing the washing up - and TPH was advised that we need to rectify this situation - happily the old boy agreed. Brochures were procured and it was decided that what we needed was a Grand Tour of the UK with Great Rail Journeys.
This trip started in London and proceeded to York, Edinburgh, Inverness, Fort William and Ballachulish, Glasgow, Chester, Bristol and finally back to London via Stonehenge.
8 hotels in 14 days - excellent, or so I thought...
Thus, we rolled up to the meeting point at St Pancras station to join the 38 other motley members of this magical mystery tour round the UK. The group of 40 included 3 American ladies, 12 Australians who were 'doing Europe', 1 New Zealander, 1 Scot (TPH) and 1 Taff - our tour guide, Peter.
Peter was a small delightfully Welsh, ex-secondary school headmaster who, after being escorted out of the school gates by an ambulance crew after having a massive myocardial infarction, (heart attack to those at the back) decided to retire and take up tour guide management instead.
It can safely be said that though you can take the headmaster out of the school, wild horses are not going to take the school out of the headmaster! Within seconds of meeting him an overwhelming urge to call him Sir descended on everyone in the group. It became an unspoken rule that if Peter said, be back at the bus in 15 minutes, you were standing next to the bus in 14 minutes and 45 seconds.
The group left Kings Cross to travel to York - a journey of just over 2 hours. We travelled First Class and were thus fed and watered by the rail equivalent of trolley dollies.
On arrival in York we were given our room keys and despatched to our rooms to settle in until the evening meal.
This is where an unexpected problem arose. The room that TPH and I shared was tiny - turning round in it simultaneously proved impossible. The double bed was became exhibit #1 in the potential divorce case. Not wanting to provide early evidence of being awkward sods - we kept that as a surprise for later - we managed as best we could and neither one of us slept for longer than 2-3 hours at a time.
The following day we were given a guided walking tour of York by a retired teacher turned tour guide (can you see a pattern emerging here?)
Nina reminded me of my Home Economics teacher - Mrs Selman - who's contempt for me was only surpassed by my hatred of her. We trolled round York, stopping for long periods so that Nina could hold forth on her knowledge of York's history - all obtained from a book.
Wilting from lack of sleep and back ache, TPH and I sloped off for 40 winks in the afternoon prior to finding a local Pizza Express for a bite to eat and a large glass of Merlot- bliss.
Following a further night of poor sleep, manifesting in a fantasy about throwing the dead body out of the window in order to get the bed to myself (in retrospect this was a little excessive as the old boy does all the washing up and keeps me entertained ) we travelled to Edinburgh for a 2 night stay.
The hotel in Edinburgh was much more conducive to marital happiness. A huge double bed in a room that, should we have been so inclined, we could have done a tango!
2 days of wandering round this beautiful city on our own was terrific, and 2 restful nights sleep followed by the most delicious haggis for breakfast, set us up for the next step of our tour - Inverness.
On our arrival in Inverness, contrary to meteorological expectations, the sun shone, and a gentle breeze kept us cool. TPH and I had never been this far north so we decided to go on one of the City Red Top Bus Tours to gain a little local culture.
We were told by the local landlady and a member of the local constabulary where to pick up the bus and obediently sat there waiting for 20 minutes until one appeared round a corner and shot straight past us. We expressed our disappointment in ways and language that would not have impressed our parents, and trundled back to the hotel for a nice cappuccino and a slice of cake whilst mumbling, "Didn't want to see Inverness anyway..."
Maintaining this, top of the country, theme our next stop was Fort William, where we stayed in a hotel in a village called Ballachulish.
The only signs of life in this beautiful village came from several houses and the hotel. The surrounding countryside was breathtakingly in it's magnificents. If there was ever a doubt about there being an almighty deity with a cunning plan, this would have knocked those doubts into a cocked hat!
A gentleman with an accordian entertained us in the lounge after dinner, while the hotel cat - Diego - looked on with disdain at these human interlopers to his domain.
This far north TPH finally put away his, Eric Morecambe, shorts and wore trousers and a jumper - at last!
The trip so far had allowed rest time each day. This had lulled us into a false sense of security as the following day was packed full to the brim.
Up with the sparrows to get a coach back to Fort William, from where we took the Jacobite Steam Train (the Hogwarts Express) to the coastal village of Mallaig. As a huge Harry Potter fan this thrilled me, though I was a little concerned that without my wand I would be unable to summon my patronus - a white horse - in the event of an attack by Dementors.
What?
After a chips and mushy peas lunch in Mallaig - scrummy - the coach collected us to take us back to Fort William from where we caught the train to Glasgow - 4 hours away.
I can't remember much about Glasgow except that the station was round the corner from the hotel - about 5 minutes walk - but Peter had organised a coach, which took about 15 minutes with road blocks and diversions, and he was determined that we were all going to get on this coach whether we liked it or not!
(he was a little stressed out by this point)
Glasgow was, sadly, only an overnight stop on our way to our next port of call - Chester. We were staying for 2 nights in Chester as the following day we were once again off on an excursion, this time to Liverpool.
For us, this became the highlight of the trip. We toured this beautiful city by coach, with a local guide, who's typical scouse wit and local knowledge brought the city to life.
The fabulous docks, which are now full of cafes, bars and museums, telling the story of immigration, emigration and the slave trade during the past 300 years.
The bus tour included the original, Penny Lane, Strawberry Fields, and sites where John, Paul, George and Ringo were born and raised, all accompanied by Beatles sound track songs, which even the grumpiest travellers hummed along to.
We were up to day 9 - the end was in sight (Thank God!)
Today we trundled off to Bristol; arriving early afternoon, just in time for a light lunch and a glass of something relaxing.
"Did someone mention Merlot!"
The hotel in Bristol was lovely; huge bed, huge shower, situated next to the river and within easy walking distance of numerous bars, restaurants etc.
This too was a two night stay as the following day our fellow travellers took off to Bath for a tour of the city. TPH and I decided to stay in Bristol (nothing to do with the lunchtime fixture of Spurs and Liverpool FC which was shown in one of the local bars...) and took one of the City Tour buses.
The final leg of this tour - which seemed such a good idea 3 months ago - was a coach trip to London, via a stop off at Stonehenge.
The last time I visited Stonehenge was in 1969 and it was a bitter experience for me as Michael Smith snogged Sharon Downey in the back of the coach on a school trip and thus broke my heart. This visit though there was no such nonsense as TPH didn't fancy anyone on our coach - RESULT!
Stonehenge continues to be a magical site - and the cornish pasties sold in the visitor centre are spectacular!
Our arrival in London, through Sunday afternoon traffic from the M3 motorway was long and lugubrious. The hotel in London was the worst of all the hotels we had stayed in over the previous 2 weeks and we consequently decided that after 1 further night of the two of us trying to sleep in a small bed, enough was enough. We bailed out on the penultimate day as the call of Kings Cross Station- 4 minutes walk down the road - was just too great.
The holiday overall was fabulous. we visited places, saw sights and met people that we would never have experienced otherwise.
What to do now we're home?
Sell our house and move on of course.
More anon...
Chin-Chin!
It was pointed out to me recently by a chum that it has been far too long since my last blog (so don't blame me). Therefore it is with huge joy that I accede to my public and take to the laptop again, "time to irritate and annoy the great British public".
Actually, the reason that it's been so long between blogs is because I was living life rather than writing about it - something I highly recommend.
A thought occurred to me recently (not totally without precedent, but worrying all the same). The Present Husband (TPH) and I have taken lots of holidays in Europe and the USA; maybe it's time to explore our own little island?
A management meeting was called in the kitchen - while he was doing the washing up - and TPH was advised that we need to rectify this situation - happily the old boy agreed. Brochures were procured and it was decided that what we needed was a Grand Tour of the UK with Great Rail Journeys.
This trip started in London and proceeded to York, Edinburgh, Inverness, Fort William and Ballachulish, Glasgow, Chester, Bristol and finally back to London via Stonehenge.
8 hotels in 14 days - excellent, or so I thought...
Thus, we rolled up to the meeting point at St Pancras station to join the 38 other motley members of this magical mystery tour round the UK. The group of 40 included 3 American ladies, 12 Australians who were 'doing Europe', 1 New Zealander, 1 Scot (TPH) and 1 Taff - our tour guide, Peter.
Peter was a small delightfully Welsh, ex-secondary school headmaster who, after being escorted out of the school gates by an ambulance crew after having a massive myocardial infarction, (heart attack to those at the back) decided to retire and take up tour guide management instead.
It can safely be said that though you can take the headmaster out of the school, wild horses are not going to take the school out of the headmaster! Within seconds of meeting him an overwhelming urge to call him Sir descended on everyone in the group. It became an unspoken rule that if Peter said, be back at the bus in 15 minutes, you were standing next to the bus in 14 minutes and 45 seconds.
The group left Kings Cross to travel to York - a journey of just over 2 hours. We travelled First Class and were thus fed and watered by the rail equivalent of trolley dollies.
On arrival in York we were given our room keys and despatched to our rooms to settle in until the evening meal.
This is where an unexpected problem arose. The room that TPH and I shared was tiny - turning round in it simultaneously proved impossible. The double bed was became exhibit #1 in the potential divorce case. Not wanting to provide early evidence of being awkward sods - we kept that as a surprise for later - we managed as best we could and neither one of us slept for longer than 2-3 hours at a time.
The following day we were given a guided walking tour of York by a retired teacher turned tour guide (can you see a pattern emerging here?)
Nina reminded me of my Home Economics teacher - Mrs Selman - who's contempt for me was only surpassed by my hatred of her. We trolled round York, stopping for long periods so that Nina could hold forth on her knowledge of York's history - all obtained from a book.
Wilting from lack of sleep and back ache, TPH and I sloped off for 40 winks in the afternoon prior to finding a local Pizza Express for a bite to eat and a large glass of Merlot- bliss.
Following a further night of poor sleep, manifesting in a fantasy about throwing the dead body out of the window in order to get the bed to myself (in retrospect this was a little excessive as the old boy does all the washing up and keeps me entertained ) we travelled to Edinburgh for a 2 night stay.
The hotel in Edinburgh was much more conducive to marital happiness. A huge double bed in a room that, should we have been so inclined, we could have done a tango!
2 days of wandering round this beautiful city on our own was terrific, and 2 restful nights sleep followed by the most delicious haggis for breakfast, set us up for the next step of our tour - Inverness.
On our arrival in Inverness, contrary to meteorological expectations, the sun shone, and a gentle breeze kept us cool. TPH and I had never been this far north so we decided to go on one of the City Red Top Bus Tours to gain a little local culture.
We were told by the local landlady and a member of the local constabulary where to pick up the bus and obediently sat there waiting for 20 minutes until one appeared round a corner and shot straight past us. We expressed our disappointment in ways and language that would not have impressed our parents, and trundled back to the hotel for a nice cappuccino and a slice of cake whilst mumbling, "Didn't want to see Inverness anyway..."
Maintaining this, top of the country, theme our next stop was Fort William, where we stayed in a hotel in a village called Ballachulish.
The only signs of life in this beautiful village came from several houses and the hotel. The surrounding countryside was breathtakingly in it's magnificents. If there was ever a doubt about there being an almighty deity with a cunning plan, this would have knocked those doubts into a cocked hat!
A gentleman with an accordian entertained us in the lounge after dinner, while the hotel cat - Diego - looked on with disdain at these human interlopers to his domain.
This far north TPH finally put away his, Eric Morecambe, shorts and wore trousers and a jumper - at last!
The trip so far had allowed rest time each day. This had lulled us into a false sense of security as the following day was packed full to the brim.
Up with the sparrows to get a coach back to Fort William, from where we took the Jacobite Steam Train (the Hogwarts Express) to the coastal village of Mallaig. As a huge Harry Potter fan this thrilled me, though I was a little concerned that without my wand I would be unable to summon my patronus - a white horse - in the event of an attack by Dementors.
What?
After a chips and mushy peas lunch in Mallaig - scrummy - the coach collected us to take us back to Fort William from where we caught the train to Glasgow - 4 hours away.
I can't remember much about Glasgow except that the station was round the corner from the hotel - about 5 minutes walk - but Peter had organised a coach, which took about 15 minutes with road blocks and diversions, and he was determined that we were all going to get on this coach whether we liked it or not!
(he was a little stressed out by this point)
Glasgow was, sadly, only an overnight stop on our way to our next port of call - Chester. We were staying for 2 nights in Chester as the following day we were once again off on an excursion, this time to Liverpool.
For us, this became the highlight of the trip. We toured this beautiful city by coach, with a local guide, who's typical scouse wit and local knowledge brought the city to life.
The fabulous docks, which are now full of cafes, bars and museums, telling the story of immigration, emigration and the slave trade during the past 300 years.
The bus tour included the original, Penny Lane, Strawberry Fields, and sites where John, Paul, George and Ringo were born and raised, all accompanied by Beatles sound track songs, which even the grumpiest travellers hummed along to.
We were up to day 9 - the end was in sight (Thank God!)
Today we trundled off to Bristol; arriving early afternoon, just in time for a light lunch and a glass of something relaxing.
"Did someone mention Merlot!"
The hotel in Bristol was lovely; huge bed, huge shower, situated next to the river and within easy walking distance of numerous bars, restaurants etc.
This too was a two night stay as the following day our fellow travellers took off to Bath for a tour of the city. TPH and I decided to stay in Bristol (nothing to do with the lunchtime fixture of Spurs and Liverpool FC which was shown in one of the local bars...) and took one of the City Tour buses.
The final leg of this tour - which seemed such a good idea 3 months ago - was a coach trip to London, via a stop off at Stonehenge.
The last time I visited Stonehenge was in 1969 and it was a bitter experience for me as Michael Smith snogged Sharon Downey in the back of the coach on a school trip and thus broke my heart. This visit though there was no such nonsense as TPH didn't fancy anyone on our coach - RESULT!
Stonehenge continues to be a magical site - and the cornish pasties sold in the visitor centre are spectacular!
Our arrival in London, through Sunday afternoon traffic from the M3 motorway was long and lugubrious. The hotel in London was the worst of all the hotels we had stayed in over the previous 2 weeks and we consequently decided that after 1 further night of the two of us trying to sleep in a small bed, enough was enough. We bailed out on the penultimate day as the call of Kings Cross Station- 4 minutes walk down the road - was just too great.
The holiday overall was fabulous. we visited places, saw sights and met people that we would never have experienced otherwise.
What to do now we're home?
Sell our house and move on of course.
More anon...
Chin-Chin!
Friday, 10 November 2017
We All Need Mates
Earnest Capstaff died last month in Accrington, Lancashire.
At the age of 101 Earnest had outlived all his mates and his family - except for a niece and her husband. His funeral was set to be a very small affair, not worthy of the send off that Earnest deserved, having survived service in the Royal Navy during WW2 fighting the Imperial Japanese Fleet.
Earnest's niece obviously felt that he should embark on his heavenly journey with a celebration of his life,as befits a much loved uncle. Consequently she put the word out on the social media network where it was picked up by Ex Servicemen and Armed Forces Groups. The request for attendees for his funeral went viral.
Hundreds of people, accompanied by the local British Legion and guards of honour from the Armed Forces groups turned up to see Earnest off and celebrate his life.
These were Earnest's mates.
I am very lucky to have several good mates, and lots of acquaintances, who I hope would be able to see me off at my funeral - I have no immediate plans, but you never know, do you?
We all need mates. People without mates have nobody to help them keep a perspective of life's ups and downs.
During the times when life is throwing buckets of poo over you - we've all been there folks! - a mate is someone who will roll up, having heard that you're under siege, and listen, sympathise, make the tea - or pour a large glass of something with vasodilatory properties (Booze!), and eventually tell you to get a grip because life has gone on anyway.
Those horrible, 3 o'clock in the morning gremlins, who torment, terrify and deny you sleep, can be easily seen off by the sage words of a chum who has been there, done that, got the tee shirt and not only survived, but thrived from what they've learned from the experience.
There is of course a huge difference between men and their mates, and women and their mates.
It's a well known fact that men do not share emotional worries and fears. A bloke will meet his mates at the pub, the football, the gym, standing around outside the supermarket waiting for the wife etc, and talk about anything and everything except their worries. Thus, the worry does not exist. This is known as HUB syndrome (Head Up Bum).
Women will arrange to meet their mates to share, dissect, evaluate and manage their worries. A worry to a woman is something that needs to be addressed and managed. Head Up Bum syndrome only applies to odd lumps, discharges or rashes that have suddenly appeared.
We must remember of course that mates are not only there to share grief and woe. A win on the Premium Bonds, an achievement long wished for or the all clear from the doctor needs to be celebrated.
Luckily there are as many types of mate as there are problems and joys to share. When you're lucky enough to have mates, you know what their reactions will be - most of the time.
There are the mates who will automatically buy a round; mates who will hug and kiss you; mates who will say,"I told you so", and mates who step foot back on planet Earth just to celebrate with you.
Yup!
We definitely all need mates.
Carry on...
Saturday, 28 October 2017
Graduated Retirement
Yes folks, she's back!
I have evolved once again from a Rambling Biddy to a Retired Battleaxe.
I decided in 2016 that the Health Service had suffered enough - and so had I - so the impulse to retire and become a lady of leisure was grasped firmly with both hands and shaken, until I emerged a happier and better person (the jury's still out but watch this space).
How do I fill my time I hear you ask? (damned voices... )
Well it was dead easy. For one thing it gave me the time I wanted to complete a Bachelor of Arts Degree with the Open University. I have now graduated and have the posed photo, complete with posh certificate, batman cape and mortar board to prove it.
I started the degree course in 2011 as a means of sanctuary against the anxieties and demands of everyday life. It's mostly worked out a treat, though their have been a few tears, tantrums and downright strops along the way.
Most of the modules I've completed have been great fun. However, the 5th module (Counselling: Exploring Grief and Sadness) was a bit of a strain as I started it a couple of weeks after my Mum died. I am not ashamed to say I sobbed my way through this module, but in many ways it helped. Ironically I also got the best grade for this module, which just proves you can't beat practical experience.
I came hurtling back to earth with the 6th module (Why Is Religion Controversial?) My answer to this was that it isn't! This could be why I suffered the ignominy of failing - for the first and only time - one of the essays. I felt I would never hold my head up in Tesco again.
Nil desperandum I cried (yes, I still talk to myself only now it's in the foreign!) as I launched myself into my final module (Advanced Creative Writing) This was a hoot. I'd thoroughly enjoyed the basic Creative Writing module and lost myself in a few bits of dodgy poetry and a story involving two elderly sisters and a parrot. The advanced module was just as much fun, but with less dodgy poetry and a few more twiddly bits. I learned how to write scripts for film, TV and plays, and had a lovely time writing a script for a 30 minute comedy involving the Women's' Institute taking on a mob of anarchists in Trafalgar Square - the W.I won by a knockout!
Having now completed my studies The Present Husband (he who would like to be obeyed - dream on chuckles!) was concerned that my boredom threshold - which is similar to that of a 5 year old - would once again challenge the domestic bliss (not sure where this is.. I'll look it up).
'Fear not, delight of my life', I reassured him, 'I can take sanctuary in the online," Futurelearn", modules'. These are terrific as they last between 3 - 6 weeks each, they are free and only require around 3 hours attention a week. Thus there is plenty of time to go to the pictures, take theatre trips, go off on jollies hither and yon, and go and drink coffee in the supermarket car park every morning while we howl with laughter at the appalling attempts at parking.
Life at the moment is good, which is just as well as I'm approaching the ripe old age of 60 at warp factor 9.
Who knows, I may even take to writing this drivel a little more often.
You have been warned...
Tootle pip!
I have evolved once again from a Rambling Biddy to a Retired Battleaxe.
I decided in 2016 that the Health Service had suffered enough - and so had I - so the impulse to retire and become a lady of leisure was grasped firmly with both hands and shaken, until I emerged a happier and better person (the jury's still out but watch this space).
How do I fill my time I hear you ask? (damned voices... )
Well it was dead easy. For one thing it gave me the time I wanted to complete a Bachelor of Arts Degree with the Open University. I have now graduated and have the posed photo, complete with posh certificate, batman cape and mortar board to prove it.
I started the degree course in 2011 as a means of sanctuary against the anxieties and demands of everyday life. It's mostly worked out a treat, though their have been a few tears, tantrums and downright strops along the way.
Most of the modules I've completed have been great fun. However, the 5th module (Counselling: Exploring Grief and Sadness) was a bit of a strain as I started it a couple of weeks after my Mum died. I am not ashamed to say I sobbed my way through this module, but in many ways it helped. Ironically I also got the best grade for this module, which just proves you can't beat practical experience.
I came hurtling back to earth with the 6th module (Why Is Religion Controversial?) My answer to this was that it isn't! This could be why I suffered the ignominy of failing - for the first and only time - one of the essays. I felt I would never hold my head up in Tesco again.
Nil desperandum I cried (yes, I still talk to myself only now it's in the foreign!) as I launched myself into my final module (Advanced Creative Writing) This was a hoot. I'd thoroughly enjoyed the basic Creative Writing module and lost myself in a few bits of dodgy poetry and a story involving two elderly sisters and a parrot. The advanced module was just as much fun, but with less dodgy poetry and a few more twiddly bits. I learned how to write scripts for film, TV and plays, and had a lovely time writing a script for a 30 minute comedy involving the Women's' Institute taking on a mob of anarchists in Trafalgar Square - the W.I won by a knockout!
Having now completed my studies The Present Husband (he who would like to be obeyed - dream on chuckles!) was concerned that my boredom threshold - which is similar to that of a 5 year old - would once again challenge the domestic bliss (not sure where this is.. I'll look it up).
'Fear not, delight of my life', I reassured him, 'I can take sanctuary in the online," Futurelearn", modules'. These are terrific as they last between 3 - 6 weeks each, they are free and only require around 3 hours attention a week. Thus there is plenty of time to go to the pictures, take theatre trips, go off on jollies hither and yon, and go and drink coffee in the supermarket car park every morning while we howl with laughter at the appalling attempts at parking.
Life at the moment is good, which is just as well as I'm approaching the ripe old age of 60 at warp factor 9.
Who knows, I may even take to writing this drivel a little more often.
You have been warned...
Tootle pip!
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