Tuesday 18 December 2018

Yep! That's Another Year Over!

I've twisted my own arm to get started on this post - I put.the address on some of my Christmas Cards, in lieu of a Round Robin.  

I celebrated my 68th birthday in October with a trip with the whole family to the Dean Forest Railway, where my father's signal box found a home long after he ceased to need it. That was great fun - bringing the generations together, telling the family stories, creating memories. I think this is what grandparents are for!

Ray keeps the Chapions League afloat by traversing Europe with high quality recordings of the games. He's been to everywhere beginning with 'Li' recently; Lisbon, Lithuania, Lichtenstein ... (I may be making Lichtenstein up, I shall have to ask him. ) I accompanied him to Cyprus once, but spent the whole weekend throwing up in a hotel room, and have not been tempted to go since. Oporto in Portugal is lined up in March, Brussels and Amsterdam, Vilnius and Vienna already ticked off. 

He  was stopped by a zealous border guard on one occasion, who suspected he might be couriering something more contraband than a football match ... 

We had a wonderful break (August) in North American, riding the Rocky Mountaineer with Darlene and Steve. Drank gin, took photos of lakes and forests (sadly wreathed in smoke) and actually got to touch the bob sleigh that was used in the film, "Cool Runnings", near Calgary. Interesting side-bar:I hear  Calgary is 'in the running' for the next Winter Olympics. Lovely town. 

The grandchildren are growing up, and doing splendidly. they range on age from 11 years to 8 months, and I'm happy to announce, a seventh is due early next year. 


From top left (clockwise) Ray and I, Frank, Alfie, Finley, Abigail , Rosie and Sam. 

Among my accomplishments this year has been being elected to chair both the local branch of the Labour Party, AND the Parish Council. There! That says everything you need to know about my passions. 

Our thanks to all of you who remembered us this Christmas. You WILL receive a reply, but I hear there's a five-day backlog at the local sorting office, and we missed today's post! 


Ive stolen my my friend Jean's  Christmas Card for this post. Guess which camp she's in! 





You gotta laugh ... 

And finally, especially for Caroline and Kelvin: A plaque that has been on my wall in several homes since 1988:



Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, to you all, wherever you are! 

Saturday 1 December 2018

Something I Can Believe In

In an inspired moment, faced with two ten year old boys engaged in an "It wasn't me, it was him!" explanation for their latest fight, I sighed deeply and sent them out into the cloakroom to, "Work on a story I can believe in, then come back and tell HIS side of it ...! " I tell you, I'm good.

The number of fights dropped significantly, because my genius way of dealing them, was just too tedious to repeat.

Happy New Year! Yes, really, it's the beginning of the Church's liturgical year: the beautiful season of Advent. I NEED Advent: the rush of the secular pre-Chritmas with it's intense activity and expectation of being jovial to strangers, is intensely stressful to we introverts. I revel instead, in drawing inwards to the place of quiet, to reflect deeply on the mystery of incarnation.

Do I believe the story of the Babe In The Manger? I believe in the possibility, but without a birth certificate and selfies posted on Facebook, it's impossible to be sure. (.Although, when Barack Obama showed his birth certificate, the people who really didn't want to believe him, still didn't ... Soooo...)

Putting the manger, shepherds and Kings to one side for a moment, there is a truth that I hold very dear:

"God became man and dwelt amongst us"

As a baby in Bethlehem, possibly, yes, but also as every loving word spoken, and every compassionate act undertaken,  by every incarnate soul, that ever lived. Me. You. Everyone.


Tuesday 27 November 2018

Reflection On The Centenary of The Ending Of The Great War

"Ghost Soldiers" Slimbridge, Glos.


I cry. Every year during the ritual two minutes silence, and the solemn recitation: ''We will remember them ...'' The sorrow, the waste. What is there to do, but weep?

I watched the official ceremony around the Cenotaph in Whitehall with my usual mix of immense gratitude for the men and women who died, and disdain for the political leaders who will send more men and women to their deaths, for, what? WE become Terror to subjugate Terror. How's that working out?

We're currently complicit in the slaughter of  civilians in Syria, and Yemen. It's as though, mindful of the political cost of the mass-slaughter of armies, political  leaders have switched to slaying women and children instead. The faceless operator of a drone has replaced the Tommy with his gun.

My war-hero is Harry Patch, who died just a few years ago at 111, the last British survivor of the First World War. He held politicians in even greater disdain than I do. Harry and his four closest comrades made a pact not to kill anyone: they shot to maim. So here's the irony: the political leaders who fawned over Harry every year on Armistace Day, would have shot him as a traitor. Yes, refusing to kill was treason. Probably still is. God help us all.

''Thou shalt not kill..''

Harry Patch Anti-War Hero








Who Am I Lord? Who Are You?

St Francis of Assissi used these phrases to open a door into the Kingdom of Heaven, and to sit a while in the space where God dwells.
My friend Margareta would say, very emphatically on occasions, "Know who you really are!" And I thought it about time I gave the issue some serious thought.
The cause of this spiritual introspection? I am due to reveal the meanderings of my spiritual journey to the world, that is to say those members of my Church interested and brave enough to. turn out on a November evening, and I need to think about what I'm going to say.
So who am I REALLY? (Here I find that repeating the question, doesn't necessarily get me any closer the answer ... ) The biblical text that comes to mind is a rather unsettling, "I am called Legion, for we are many!"
I am enthusiastic about the self-revelation, and have been practising it over and over. I am rather startled by how different each iteration is and I have concluded that I will need to write a book.
Other News:
Margareta came very much to the forefront of my mind this week. After her death, her son, Br Loarne, invited me to take anything from the house to remember her by. I took Patricia, one of her dolls, because I would always remember where she sat in the Workroom, and recall the intense discussions Margareta and I had as we journeyed together ... and a fine china mug, because of the tea.
On Tuesday, dropped the mug. I dropped it on my foot, hitting toes that I had injured rather badly in the summer, and that still gave trouble. Here's the thing: if the mug had hit my ceramic floor, it would have smashed to smithereens, a small miracle but one I appreciate, AND a rather more significant blessing, since the blow, no pain in the injured toes! I have rubbed them and wobbled them, pressed down on them as hard as possible: not even a twinge.
Conclusion
I am no closer to knowing who God is, or who I am, but I think I'm getting there ...

Tuesday 11 September 2018

Who Am I?

"Who do you say I am?" Jesus the Rabbi asks Peter the Fisherman, and Peter replies, " You are the Christ, the Son of the living God."

I have been ruminating on this exchange for a while. Peter had witnessed some mind-blowing encounters between Christ and humanity, up to and including the raising of the dead: he had also experienced Christ's transformation into a being of pure light, and his total control over the elements in the calming of the sea and stilling of a storm. Many who read this will dismiss this as myth, and that's perfectly reasonable, but ... What if

I don't know where I'm going with this, but there, that's nothing new.

Oddly enough today's wonderings, were not prompted by the Bible, but by the New Scientist, which features an article entitled 'The You Delusion." Here's a taste of it:

" Self-awareness may be an apparently complex phenomenon that emerges from the brain. However ... a mind cannot observe it's individual components. It can only glean the echo of billions of neurons responding to each other with electrical signals. The flow of signals is dynamic, rushing along a different set of connections every moment. But some paths are more well- trodden than others. In humans the predominant connections seem to be those used to contemplate the minds of others - the same connections used to contemplate ourselves... . To you that is your sense of self confined inside the Petri-dish of your brain."

The article then turns, with scholarly attention, to the behaviour of molluscs and am octopus, and loses me, so I set my neutrons off a-firing on the contemplation of my-self.

"Who do I say I am."

Wow! I can say ANYTHING. I can list what I do, pontificate on what I believe, relate my stories (again!) and reorder my timeline, safe in the knowledge that I am absolutely free to invent and reinvent what emerges from all of this, because, basically it's all smoke and mirrors, a rational and entirely reasonable attempt to make sense of the fact that I am a being that comprises over 99% that is empty space - to all intents and purposes a transfigured being of pure energy, despite being a biological entity, with the illusion of solidity, and the delusion of self.

I was working on this illusory self yesterday morning whilst serving tea with Joan at the Monday morning lunch for the down-on-their-luck at the Salvation Army. I was being nice (an important element in my manufactured self) whilst actually thinking how easy it would be to be impatient, unpleasant, derogatory, insulting and unkind. There are so many opportunities with Joan, who is a wonderful person, but with fixed opinions that are not necessarily mine. In fact I had no intention of being any of those unpleasant things. I was playing mind-games with myself, because I'm curious, and it's interesting, if somewhat unsettling from your point of view, to do so.

This is getting crazy. I have to stop.

My friend Carol once said, to my utter astonishment, that I tell lies, and she knows this because I said so. Looks like I may well have let that cat out of the bag: I freely admit that I am guilty of looking at life and making it up as I go along. Maybe we all do.

I shall end with a biblical quote, because I started there, and it seems fitting:

From (cosmic) dust have I been formed and to (cosmic) dust will I return.

I rather like that, it gives me a sense of purpose.

That's pretty much who I am.

Monday 3 September 2018

Endings

I'm getting rusty. Writer's Damp? It's a while since I've sat in front of my keyboard and watched my fingers fly easily over it. Might be something to do with engaging so wholeheartedly with Twitter, my muse has gone on strike for shorter hours and 240 characters.

As the best way to finish a post, is to get started, here goes. Forgive me, it's all over the place.

There's a chill in the air this morning, the leaves are reddening on the dogwood, Autumn is steaming in.

Nearly two weeks since I returned from Canada. I have come to understand how important it is to make memories, now that Autimn is more than a change in the weather, it's a stage in my life. . Three weeks in North America with Darlene and and Steve provided a wonderful opportunity to make a few.

Eating a performance meal at a Japanese Steakhouse in Woodinville, Wa. Imagine a banqueting table for eight, that is also a sophisticated hotplate. Steak, seafood and slivers of veg tossed and spun for entertainment, before landing an eager plates. Unforgettable and quite delicious.

Winding through the Rockies on a train, subjected to first-class service, regaled on every side by stunning views of mountains, rivers, and lakes, listening to travellers takes of the old days when miners and fur-trappers came and went. Just like me.

Walking on a glacier.

A Tech Convention where art and AI came face to face, and where we met up with Jeremy, Our friends' son.

Lake Louise

Port Algeles, Redmond, Forks, Banff, Vancouver, Jasper, Calgary ... I need to write these places down before I forget them.

There is a poignancy to this trip. I have a sense of an ending, but that, I believe has more to do with the passing of summer, than any premonition of parting, besides impermanence is as much a gift as a cause for sorrow, how would a poet survive without inconstancy?

I have to say it ,or I will burst. It isn't my own passing that is on my mind, but that of my world. The planet, as I frequently remind people, is in no danger at all, it will whirl unheeding around the sun until it crashes into it, entirely unmindful of the insignificant lives lived out on it, but my WORLD is dying.

Canada is on fire. The mountains and lakes were shrouded in smoke, the glacier melting under my feet, the animals in the lakes and forests suffering from the effects of climate change, the trees In the forests stressed, millions dead.

It was possible to look away from the devastation wreaked by the pine bark beetle, and to ignore the stories of the Orca starving in the Sound, but it wasn' possible to stop breathing the smoke-polluted air and to wonder: am I here at the ending of it all?

 

https://youtu.be/MrqqD_Tsy4Q

Saturday 11 August 2018

On Vacation

He makes me lie down beside still waters, he restoreth my soul







Monday 11 June 2018

The Canon and The Saxon Queen ...

These are random mumblings. I’m thinking that I’m getting too precious about this blog, and in waiting for something  meaningful to say, have said nothing!

So, on Saturday I witnessed one of those weird moments when the Universe conspired to do me a favour. There were two things on my mind, an enjoyable time in Gloucester with my friend Carol at a Saxon Funeral Re-enactment, and buying a printer. 

Well, on the way back from the Queen’s Demise Event, we happened past W H Smiths. They are doing a deal on printers: all you could want for a penny under £20! Irresistible.

So, thank you Queen Aethelflaed! 

Crazy thought: it is now cheaper to buy a new printer than it is to buy cartridges. Bearing in mind new printers comes with cartridges ... 

I am now getting out of this bath and leaving to dispense tea at the Salvation Army Citadel in Gloucester. Worry not, I intend to get dressed first.




Monday 9 April 2018

Rebooting Mondays

Flat-As-A-Pancake Day, bereft
Of froth and babble full of dread Mundane work-a-day
SOMETHING must be done!
Let's do it!
Smile. At everyone, some will stick ... And come flashing back.
Run up the stairs
Make coffee and
Hand round a crisp, white paper bag
Full of very sticky toffees.
Tip a beggar
Listen to a concerto
Or a rock band and
At the beginning of every email
Say something ...
Different. Kind, perhaps.
Remember, when you
Actually finish something,
How it felt when you were in the Juniors and your teacher
Pressed a gold star on your
Careful scrawl.
Good eh?
Pick a moment when everything
Would otherwise be too tedious to bear
Take yourself off to tthe Caribbean
Lie on on a beach with your lover
Let the surf nibble your toes ...
Or, if this is too much,
Be ten again and play
Hide and seek in a bright Spring wood
With your sister ...
See! It's working isn't it?
Already you're looking forward to Monday,
And have change jingling in your pocket
To buy toffees
And tip a beggar

Thursday 5 April 2018

#Glopowrimo Day Five

A stranger to all Germanic languages, I typed "Bloom" into search, and here we are:

Footpath From Taynton and Beyond

 

 

 

Thursday 22 March 2018

What The Hell's Going On?

Pope Francis is in hot water again. There is even some suggestion that his alleged comment - that hell doesn't exist, and I use the word 'alleged' very loudly - makes him an heretic.

I am tickled pink by this. An heretical Pope! Probably not even possible, given Papal Infallibility ( Which, yes, I know only applies to matters of faith and morals, but I think 'Hell' is a faith thing, so I'm definitely invoking Infallibility here.)

I used to muse, amused, on the various titles I'd like to have, were such available to me. "Black Rod" "Lady of the Bedchamber" "Grand Duke" "Miss Universe" "Mistress of Ceremonies" ... The list was long, and marked by the fact that I was totally ineligible, on grounds of gender, age and/or suitability, for any of them. I didn't care, I'd let the title roll round my tongue, fantasising on the grand dinners, unlikely costumes, and number of lackeys I might accrue from any fame/status/wealth that attached to the title. It was fun. It made me laugh.

The shortest consideration I gave to any title was, Pope. Now that's a really tough gig. Palaces, castles, adulation, and the rest, offer no compensation for the burden of being Christ's Vicar on Earth. Bearing any kind of responsibility for the foibles of my fellow-men doesn't look like any fun to me, especially if you can't have a coffee and a chat with an old friend without ending up being burned at the stake. (Metaphorically. Allegedly.)

I suspect Pope Francis (See how close I got? I didn't get his title, but he pinched my name!) will brush off the current furore with his usual aplomb, and fairly soon he'll have come up with some new staggering piece of unconventional wisdom, to keep the wolves in sheep's clothing in the Vatican in an even higher state of dudgeon. Keep it up, Francis, those of us who are heartened by a bit of heresy (alleged) are praying for you.

 

PS: 'State of High Dudgeon'! Does it need a Prime Minister, by any chance?

 


 

Monday 19 March 2018

Just For Fun

Love popped his head round the door.
"Hi!" He said, and,
"May I?" Pointing to the bed.

"YOU!" I laughed, can take a hike - 
I'm not at home to you today."

Love, unabashed, closed the door behind him.

"We need to talk." (Ever the drama queen.)

I touched his cheek, tenderly, as a mother does,
And whispered.

I shall not  tell you what I said, but I WILL reveal:

Love laughed out loud,

And, before leaving via the fire escape, 

Bowed.

Saturday 17 March 2018

Looking Ahead

Stephen Hawking: theoretical physicist and thoroughly decent human being, died this week.

 I am ambivalent about death, not particularly pro-it, but knowing that it's the price we pay for life, I'm OK with it. I am not terribly fussed about what happens afterwards. Were it the end, I'm inclined to say, "So what? I have enjoyed the incredible privilege of awareness and sentience in a largely insentient cosmos*, and it all has to end someday, and today'll do!" " If it doesn't end? There is a possibility that awareness continues, and  that would be nice. Incomprehensible, right now, but nice. 

Many  descriptions of the hereafter are a little scary, a reckoning, followed by consignment to a destination of eternal pleasure or eternal suffering. I kind of like the thought that really nasty people don't get away with it, until I remember my really nasty side, and am more inclined to vote for mercy over judgement. My ultimate take is to say that God is more loving than I can imagine, certainly more loving than I am, and I wouldn't throw even my worst enemy into a lake of fire, so I have my doubts about God's willingness to do so, but that's his bag, not mine. 

I'm not afraid of death. This is going to sound weird, but it's the truth:I am more taken up by curiosity than fear. I remember the other-wordly sense of awe as I sat with my dying father. He and I were in a different place, together, a sacred space that can't be described or explained, We were experiencing together the ultimate rite of passage, it was very, very special. Recalling it,  I imagine myself dying, thinking, "My this is interesting, I wish I could tell (onlookers) how oddly normal this feels ..." 

I could go on, but I'd rather get back to Stephen Hawking. He was an atheist, and I tell you, I don't blame him. The limited, petty, vindictive, so very awful Persona that is a popular version of "God" really isn't worth believing in. The followers of this "God" have nothing to offer mankind. Belief in This  offers no hope to the world, That, isn't good news. 

I'm prompted to put my own eternal destination at risk today, because the death of Stephen Hawking brought out the absolute worst in the triumphalist Christians who happily consign everyone who doesn't believe in their horrible God,  to hell. I have read their poison, and am sickened by it. 

I am confident Stephen Hawking, who could comprehend the deepest secrets of the cosmos in ways that I can't begin to understand, or imagine, knew more about the workings of  the God-mystery than the peddlers of  hell-fire and damnation. 

I don't believe in their God either,. 

* Unless, Sentience FILLS the cosmos and IS God! I hear this, and wonder. "Christ is IN ALL and is ALL," is a foundational Christian belief. 

Friday 9 March 2018

Playing Catch-Up Or: "What Granny Did This Week"

Quite a lot.

On Monday, I drove in my Dacia Sandero ( Black 2014) into Gloucester to prepare lunch with my fellow Christians at the Salvation Army Citadel at the top of Eastgate Street. The drive was uneventful: I noticed the winter woods were greening up a little at floor level, and the water-meadows bordering the Severn were flooded with snow-melt.

I spent the previous day with the adorable Finley, my grandson, who is one year-old, and was sick. Today, he is better.

The snows of the previous Thursday and Friday had rendered Ray and I housebound. But as we'd heeded the warnings and shopped, we were warm and comfortable.

Children, and Carol checked up on us. We are fine. Thank you.

There were errands to run. Letter for a church friend left on the front table in the narthex. Reminder of the Cell meeting on Thursday. A letter to deliver to the Principal of the local Secondary School ( 'Principal': horrible American affectation. I was proud to be a Head Teacher, I guess now the school is planning to become an Academy, he feels the need to disassociate from teaching. In the word of Trump, Sad. )This letter is from the Labour Party, Newent Branch which I chair. We are advising him to think again. Somebody needs too. I ended up delegating this task to Ray, to save time.

Consequently, I was early to the Army and chopped carrots. Cottage pie today. Usually, frozen carrots are employed, but the supermarket was out of them. And other things too, due to the snow - but we managed. I progressed to potatoes, then slicing and wrapping cake.

Others were working on mince, onions, and sandwiches for the evening soup run.

Before the opening of the Drop-in Lunch at 12:00pm, I check that "my" tea table is fully supplied and then I join the other helpers for a sandwich lunch.

This is a highlight of the week. I get to know the homeless, the jobless and that not-coping. Hearing their stories means I can tell them, and I do, when comfortable people, innocent (or not) in their ignorance, defame them. Some people are shocked, and many hearts open with compassion. Those that don't, have trouble coming, on the day when THEIR story turns to tragedy. How can those without love, receive it in turn?

 

After Army duty, I head north to Droitwich to spend a few hours with another beautiful boy, Frankie. He's fit and well, I'm here to allow his mum and dad to grab a break.

Home by six. I have a meeting later which I am not going to. My apologies were made in advance and my contribution emailed in.

Tuesday

A quiet morning and afternoon. My remaining three grandchildren are arriving after school for supper and a sleepover. Rosie is ten now, and excited about moving on to High School. Abigail, aged six, informs me that she loves everyone in the world more than she loves my iPad, but might she have it now please? All questions about her day are stonewalled, but that's nothing new. Sam and Ray play "marbles on the stairs" an activity three year-old needs and loves. This, I suspect is one of the games reserved for grandparents' homes!

Wednesday

The sleepover and breakfast is enjoyably routine. The young ones go to sleep without fuss, breakfast and dressing go off without incident, and I am off again, this time to Gloucester City Mission, to serve a meal to the same friends I saw on Monday.

There are some new faces. One guy was made redundant from Carillion on 24 January, and evicted on 27th. Another, elderly, vulnerable, was evicted the day after his partner died. I wonder: what sort of country have we become?

Fortunately, both were homeless for a very short time, not brilliant accommodation, but rooves over their heads in life-threateningly cold weather.

Thursday

Ever tried too hard at something? Lesson for the day. Stay chilled. I lead a Parish Evangelisation Cell Group. I spent days preparing the worship, and presented the group with a song I loved, and which totally bombed. I am asking serious questions about why the group has dwindled from 15 to 5. Even the co-leader was a no-show this time!

I felt completely humbled. Then I listened what the group were saying. They picked the song for next time and I am delegating the co-leader to introduce it. Two birds killed with one stone. :)

Ray has headed off to Leipzig for the EUEFA Cup qualifier. I suspect Leipzig are playing, but I regret to say, I forgot to ask! He's a courier for ISG, and will return the tapes of the game to Frankie's father in Coventry, who will edit them.

So a cosy evening in. Steak and potatoes for supper and an early night. I watch an awful film about an alien invasion, and end up asking myself why. I loathe battle scenes. Has anyone else noticed how many more of them there are in films these days?

Friday

I got up early to go pray with a friend who is unwell. I think she was comforted. Now the important bit begins, walking with her through whatever comes next.

I parked in town, and set about buying flowers for Mother's Day. My mother, Trudy Pitt, much loved, much missed, died in 2002. I will place them at the statue of Our Lady of Lourdes, for ALL mothers, everywhere, every time.

I wandered through the Newent Charity Shops in search of a spending fix. I am tempted by an old fashioned meat mincer, a Style dress pattern, an oval pie dish and a photo frame. I bought nothing.

I did give in to a bottle of white wine and a tub of Ben and Jerry's ice cream.

Ray returns from Leipzig. We watch two episodes of Portello's Railway Journeys, then I take a bath and go to bed.

Caught up!

God Bless You All, Every One!

 

Sunday 18 February 2018

Still Raining

I have an Idle Moment, before a very busy week, which I am spending  riffling through my anthology of poems, seeking one I might post. I fell upon “Still Raining” with delight, having completely forgotten it. 

In this poem I reflect on a childhood game I used to play with my younger brother, Adrian, who died before the Millenium, which was too soon. Too soon. 

So here we are, a rainy day, indoors, tracing the rivulets of raindrops as they meander down the window pane. 

Friday 2 February 2018

Boy Meets Girl

I did a rather creepy thing the other day - I read my daughter's blog ('Days Of Grace') account of her first date with her husband, Martin. 

I am not a particularly interventionist parent, though I did slip up once, rather spectacularly, and I could recount the tale of  the kick-boxing instructor and the garden hedge, but I am resolved not to, because it doesn't  make me look good. My watchful maternal eye occasionally looked the other way, and there was a certain curiosity at points in my daughters' lives that went unsatisfied... . On the whole, I was respectful, though I did make it clear that if they were on the 'phone in my hearing, I WOULD be listening. (To be fair, who,wouldn't be?) By such a means did I learn that by the age of thirteen my children were making a pretty good job of running their own lives, and meting out some pretty good advice to their contemporaries in the process. 

So, I read my eldest daughter's blog. In the interests of transparency and reciprocation, I left a comment, "I'll blog the story of the first time your father and I met." So, for my children and descendants, here's "The Tale Of The Fish Slice and The Pair of Socks"

Five young women shared the upper room in Wingfield House, a dormitory facility for Bingley College of Education, where we were starting out on our journey into Teaching. 

My bed was far left, away from the door and close to the huge window.  Tina's bed, under the window, was to the left of me, Claire's to the right, Carolyn's on the far side of the room, and Viv's  next to the door. 

Wingfield  was a huge pile, a kind of second-division mansion, built in the ne 19th  century for a local mill-owner. It had featured in the 1960's movie, 'Room at the Top", staring Laurence Harvey, which I may have watched long ago, I forget,  and will certainly Google when I'm finished here. 

On with the tale. To ensure your continued reading, the rest of the story incorporates the only student party I ever went to, a blind date, a flight of stairs, a fish-slice (spatula) and a pair of socks. 

I was late returning to College that January, and did not know that following evening, everyone else was off to a party in Bradford. My arrival was greeted with delight, and an invitation issued to join the merry throng. 

I absolutely hate parties, there's no point in trying to hide the fact, but I am also curious, and in the interests of student experimentation, after all, I was here to grow up and learn things, I consented to go. 

At some point, I hear  that Viv's fiancé Brian is over for the gig, and he is bringing a date for Tina-in-the-next-bed, named, Raymond Francis. 

Every good story needs some jeopardy, and here it is. See girls? Without fate performing some sleight of hand, you're not going to be here! Quick resolution, or we'll be here all day: Tina sidles over to me at some point and says, "I have a boyfriend in London, you may have Raymond" To spare your father's blushes, this was BEFORE she'd met him. 

Diffident, good-looking (long-hair, big brown eyes, tall ... ) Raymond Francis makes a good impression. My whirlwind romance with a Canadian called Jim, had ended before Christmas on his return to Canada, so, you know, I was open to possibilities... .

The party leaves no impression, but Ray and I hit it off. He had tales to tell of his excursions on the Greyhound buses through practically every state in the USA which I listened to with some fascination. Back in 1969, a trip to America was very exotic, it could only be undertaken (affordably) by the hoi-polloi through membership of a club which chartered a plane. You also had to stop at least twice to refuel, probably Dublin and Gan. To think! If I hadn't met Ray, I would not know this! 

I also learned that he lived in the largest social housing project in the country, 'Harold Hill' (named after our last English King) in the London Borough of Havering. He was, and remains an Essex man. 

To be frank, he really didn't seem all that bothered about taking our relationship to the next level ... This rather piqued my curiosity, and made him seem even more interesting. To gain his attention and win his affection became a bit  of a game ... 

Just to be clear, and to ensure I don't freak out any of my offspring, there is nothing remotely intimate in the remainder of the story, just the: flight of stairs, the fish slice and the pair of socks. 

The boys bedded down elsewhere with other boys, but we meet up the following morning for breakfast and the parting. I am getting desperate to make some headway with my 'new boyfriend' project, so having discovered that Ray has only two pairs of socks, I offer to wash his spare. At this juncture, they are drying over the radiator. 

He says something amusing and slightly derogatory, I laughingly pick up the spatula, he runs out of the room heads for the stairs, I follow him, it's a three flighter of a staircase he's heading down the third flight I am on the second, his head bobs beneath my right arm and, "Wham!". There is no excuse, it was pure instinct, a kind of autonomous reaction, I was barely aware I was doing it, it was too good a chance to miss ... I knocked him out. He stumbles to the bottom of the stairs, I follow horrified. This, you might think, is the end of all hope! 

Everybody, even Ray, sees the funny side, and the story passes into College Legend, but isn't over yet. 

The socks. 

We are parting, amicably enough, there is a modicum of attraction, but Ray, who to this day is apt to miss the social nuances in any relationship, makes no attempt to suggest another meeting, he doesn't say, "This has been fun!" Or, "Let's do this again!" Nothing. You have to remember that though the 1960's are awash with Women's Lib, asking a man for a date is still at least two decades away! What's to be done? 

I surreptitiously knock the socks to the floor, and kick them under my bed. I now have a first-class, top-notch excuse to write to my intended. Oh! And how I write! You can tell. I'm irresistible aren't I?

We married in 1971 and here we still are. 

:) 



Sunday 14 January 2018

A Well-Loved Life

My friend Wendy and I, used to sit in The Jolly Brewmaster, a pub in Cheltenham, and chew the fat. We became Disaster Specialists.

 

Asteroids, Tsunamis, Nuclear Wipeout, Global Warming, we tutted over them all. We had climate change nailed before the deniers got a foot in the door. We knew which bit of Maderia was about to drop into the Atlantic and drown London, we could name the next nuclear facility that was most likely to go into meltdown, we knew the approximate location of the asteroid that would knock the planet off it's orbit. Oh yes, there was no misery-stone we left unturned. We had a ball!

 

You know what? Two decades on, we're still here.

 

Keep Smiling. It May Never Happen.

 

:)

 

Tuesday 9 January 2018

Happy New Year!

 Yes, I know it’s the ninth, but it takes me a while to get used to it. 

I am thinking about 2017, wondering that seventeen years have passed since the last time I actually stayed up till midnight.

Well, it was a good year. Yes. Good. 

I listened to a Dharma talk today, remembering Jack Kornfield recounting the occasion he was called by Cosmopolitan and asked if he had any tips on how to help their readers keep their resolutions. The disciple of impermanence laughingly replied, “We Buddhists aren’t into hanging on to things!”

Today’s talk was a valedictory to a remarkable woman named Frances Vaughn who gave, posthumously, today’s lesson:

Show Up
Pay Attention 
Don’t be attached to results
Have fun 

Happy New Year! 

Oh! As for my New Year’s Resolitions, I have kept the same one for four years: Not to make any. 

Sunday 7 January 2018

No Parking!

On Friday, I had the pleasure of doing the School Run. Confession time here: I did NOT do the school run when my daughters were requiring it, Ray, a misnamed 'househusband' in those far off, and unenlightened times, took it on as one of his duties, along with laundry, shopping, cleaning, and other tasks then assigned to a now mythical partner that, 'didn't work'.

Jen and the three scholars were ready when I was, and piled in. I drive  the three or so miles to the village school that they are fortunate enough to attend, and park the car at the roadside, whilst Jen takes her offspring to the point of exchange in the school playground. 

I know  there are "issues", so I carefully check that no part of my vehicle imposes on any part of anyone's drive, and set about to wait the six or seven  minutes it will  take for my eldest to return. I happen to notice a beautiful clump of snowdrops under a tree nearby, so I go to the boot of my car to retrieve my smart phone to capture them for posterity. . I am instantly accosted by a woman of about my age, who is in a grade-one snit. With no ado whatsoever, she begins a rant. I listen, bemused, and when she pauses for breath, I point out, not unreasonably, that 'her drive' legally ends at least two feet away from my car's furthest extremity, and this being the case, I have no intention of moving on. This does not improve the lady's frame of mind. Round Two begins, and I have to wait another minute or so  for her kettle to run out of steam. Having gathered early on what was stoking her fire, I am no longer listening. I am composing myself. 

At the next pause, I, with icy calm, reiterate that I was not moving, and if she continues harassing me, I will  call the police. I open my 'phone to lend weight to my words. Another tirade ensues that I endure with a tinge of annoyance. My response at this point is to indicate, quite strongly, that if she'd asked politely and said please in the first place,  I'd be long gone. 

The woman turns on her heel and storms off. She now leaves the tale, and I think about moving on. But before you can say, "Enraged of Tibberton" a small grey man wearing a cross enters left, already pumped and ready to go. So I get another dose of prime invective. 

My inner Zen emerges and I hold my hand up, and say, "I will tell you exactly what I told your wife. If you'd asked me nicely, I would no longer be here, but as you have behaved so badly. I'm staying. I don't submit to bullying."

He may, at this point,  have started swearing. Inner Zen retires, and inner schoolmarm sweeps in. She, I think, must be my True Self. 

"I advise you go inside now, sit down and think about what you've just said." I barely refrain from wagging my finger. I am mentally sitting him on the naughty step, and he knows it. Red rag to a bull. 

"Drop dead!" He yells, and I, having done winding him up, close with, "YOU are a very silly man!" Tiring of being a public spectacle, I get  in my car and drive  off. 

He probably sees it as a victory, but I don't know. Probably a dishonourable draw.