A Few Sobering Thoughts

 

I knew it was the end of the month because of the increasing sense of urgency that always comes on at this time. What I hadn’t realised until today was that this also means I have doner nothing about decluttering for over a month. One twelfth of the year has slipped by . It’s not as if I have that many months to waste. Assuming I live into my mid-80s, which is about the family norm, I only have about 200 months to go. I will pause for a moment and think about that.

I paused. I thought. And then a little voice came into my head. Looks like I will be going on a diet tomorrow. And exercising. And taking more notice of the doctor. I might even start taking notice of Julia, though it’s unlikely. The trouble is that if I were a betting man, I wouldn’t be confident about the “mid-80s” part of the prediction.

When we were moving house I found some paperwork I had done when I was working for someone else and  before we had children, detailing what I had to do to retire at 60. Of course, the accuracy of that prediction melted like snow in June as soon as I went into business for myself and we had kids.

Once, though, I was organised and reasonably successful. I wasn’t, however, as happy as I would have liked. I am, despite the unsuccessful life that followed, quite happy and although my lack of material success and career achievement come back to haunt me now and again, I’m reasonably happy with what I’ve done.

And so, with 200 months to go, I’m going to start making the most of it. More plans, more things to do and around 6,000 more blog posts to write. It’s going to be an interesting time.

Photos are some that Julia took at Ferry Meadows. The one of the heron shading the water is particularly interesting – I didn’t know they did that in the UK. I thought it was something they did in sunny places. he second picture shows it with a fish in its beak. Unfortunately, the light ws poor.

The Price of Silver, the Price of History

 

 

 

 

This is what is known as a 1914 Trio with clasp, or sometimes (inaccurately) as a Mons Star Trio, because Mons was the most famous British battle of 1914. The Star was issued to British troops who landed in France and Belgium between 5 August  and 22 November 1914. This included men of the Indian Army and the Canadian forces, men and women of the medical services and the poet Rupert Brooke who fought as part of the Royal Naval Division. Approximately 378,000 medals were issued. 145,000 of them had the clasp, as seen in this photograph. This indicated that the wearer had been within range of the enemy and was part of what the Kaiser supposedly referred to as  “Britain’s contemptible little Army”

The recipient was Pte Edward Broomhead of the Army Service Corps, who landed in France on 26 August 1914. He was a foreman bricklayer from Nottingham, who joined up a the age of 39, was rushed out to France within days, contracted rheumatic fever from working in the cold and wet, was invalided out, re-enlisted for Home Service, was invalided out again, and died of influenza in 1918, leaving a wife and five children.

In truth, the Kaiser probably didn’t say that. It is more likely to have been the invention of British propagandists who desperately needed to enthuse Britain to fight a German Army ten times its size. In 1925 these men banded together to form an organisation known as the Old Contemptible Association.

The price of silver is currently £87.19 per ounce. It will be different in ten minutes, but that will do for now. That means that the silver medal in the middle of this group is worth more now than the entire group was worth a couple of months ago.

The British War Medal (BWM) awarded for service in 1914-18 weighs one ounce and is struck from Sterling Silver, which is 92.5% pure. The 7.5% copper is to make it harder wearing. Sterling silver was the silver used in British coins until 1919, when the costs of WW1 compelled us to reduce our coinage to 50% silver. That was reduced to zero in 1946, after another expensive war, when we converted to cupro-nickel.

British War Medal 1914-18 (Obverse)

That means that one ounce of Sterling Silver is worth 92.5% of £87.19. That’s £80.65 for the amount of silver in a BWM.

When I was at school they used to cost £1 or £1.50 each  and there were plenty about – 6.5 million being issued.  When I was living in Preston in 1980 the Hunt Brothers of Texas tried to corner the market in silver but failed and lost a lot of money. However, the price of BWMs went up sharply and as collectors are interested in history rather than bullion, many were melted for bullion. It wasn’t just the common WW1 medals going into the pot, many older and rarer medals were scrapped too, as were a number of gallantry decorations, rare coins and sports awards. People were just buying for bullion without any appreciation of the history behind the articles they were scrapping.  The same thing happened again in 2011 when prices shot up. They were round £15-£20 retail for many years, which seems fair compared to inflation. At a silver value of £80.65 I fear that more will be melted.

Silver is needed for many industrial processes and currently supply is lagging behind the demand for solar power, batteries, electronics and computer chips It will be interesting to see what happens to Mexico once the USA realises that its southern neighbour is the largest producer of silver in the world. What are the chances of another late night raid on a Presidential Palace?

Of course, it’s not rarity or gallantry that concerns me here, most British campaign medals are named, so any medal that is destroyed is a loss of history because each one has the potential for a story to be found. Private Broomhead never did anything famous, he didn’t lead any charges or have any gallantry medals pinned on him by a grateful King, he just went to France, became ill and, weakened by his war service, died. It’s still a history that deserves preserving.

British War Medal 1914-18 (Reverse). Note that the horse, symbolising man’s control of technology, is treading on a shield with a German eagle whilst a skull reminds if death. Symbolism in 1918 was a lot more in your face than it is now.

The single medal pictured, was issued to the next of kin of Pioneer Harry Gow of the Royal Engineers. It is his sole entitlement. The BWM was awarded by the Army to personnel who left the UK. To get the Victory Medal (the gilt one with the Angel and the rainbow ribbon) you had to serve in a war zone. For soldiers, the sea was not considered a war zone so when the troopship Transylvania was torpedoed by the German submarine U-69 on May 4 1917 this became his only medal, and probably, apart from his grave marker, the only proof he ever lived. He was 19 years old and had not had much time to leave anything behind, apart from his grieving parents who had the inscription Gone from us but not Forgotten Never Shall His Memory Fade carved on his memorial stone.

Over the years I have traced stories of domestic violence, babies born out of wedlock, amputations, ill health, criminal careers and, quite often, normal family lives. I recently researched a man who, after being wounded in 1914, transferred to the Royal Flying Corps, served in he Army between the wars, retired in the late 30s, and spent WW2 as a Colonel in the Home Guard. I was a life of service and adventure which ended abruptly in the 1950s when he and his wife were charged by a rhino whilst walking on their farm in Kenya. He was gored and died in hospital, having succeeded in diverting the animal from his wife by hitting it with his walking stick.

 

 

Here I Am Again

Soda Bread

I have a head full of nothing worth blogging about and that’s where this post should really end.  However, even by my standards a blog post of eighteen words that says I have nothing to say is quite minimalistic. It would be a good thing for politicians to do though, so maybe I should do it and hope it catches on.

I have a maelstrom of poetry in my head that needs sorting out, a list of titles for numismatic subjects and that’s all. At the back of my mind, having listened to Johnny Cash last night on TV, I obviously have a few scrapings of country music, because the title just popped up. And that’s it. Nothing else.

Unless the thought of breakfast counts. That’s in there too.

Cheese and Onion Soda Bread

Do I dare to get an idea by checking the news?

Or do I stay happy but clueless, and uninspired?

Well, I looked at the news, and I’m still clueless and uninspired. This is probably a good thing as it means little is happening.

It is now three days until the end of the month and I have done very little about sending submissions. Despite an early flurry (two) I have done little about finishing most of my submissions and am starting to worry. That’s what I will be doing in a minute.

At this point yesterday I added my tags and posted without either a title or photos. It was  a senior moment, but even my senior moments are growing more mundane. It’s probably a sign that I’m getting older and they have lost their novelty.

Soda Bread with a poor attempt at a Cross.

 

Recycled Poetry

Thomas Paine, Thetford. I wonder what he would think of the modern USA.

Yesterday I generally poked and prodded and did a few lists. I have enough poetry written to meet my planned submissions, the quality is good and it is nearly all finished. It’s a lot easier to finish something that it is to come up with an idea from scrstch. This is particularly true in areas like poetry where editors like subjects that haven’t already been flogged to death. Of course, you have to be careful, like the time I was told I was “difficult” because I referred to the poem  Adlestrop. However, I’ve mentioned that before so I won’t carry on with that.

I once wrote a poem about scrambled eggs. It was 2020 and I taught myself to make better scrambled eggs during lockdown. I tried it on four or five editors and nobody took it so it ended up at the back of my mind. A few months ago I decided to give it another go. However, I rewrote it instead of just tinkering. Same, subject, same story, but written differently, including an observation that I’d never seen a poem about scrambled eggs. It was accepted by the first editor who saw it.  Might have been flawed in its first version, might just have been the right person at the right time. Who can tell?

Gates at a redundant church – Thetford

Next month I will be going through my back catalogue of failures and rewriting a lot of them. It saves coming up with new ideas. On the other hand, if I spot any with familiar and well-worn subjects I will pull the plug on them. Life is too short to continue with old ideas, unless they work, and computer space is limited. I did once think I should store all my notes in case an American University wanted to buy them, or a biographer wanted to study me, but it’s unlikely and I need the space. It was moving house that brought that on. I had a box of notebooks, most of the writing was my normal illegible scribble and the stuff I could read was not inspiring. It is probably recycled by now. Julia’s Uncle has 9.2 linear feet of space in the Harry Ransom Centre at the University of Texas. He, of course, did everything on paper. I do most of my writing on a computer, which would, in any case, be harder to collect. Same with letters – he has letters from artists, writers and editors. I have emails.

House Sparrow

24 Posts 26 Days

I suppose the title gives things away. Despite all my good intentions this will be post 24, but it is 26th January. Two days have been swallowed up by that mad whirl of naps, TV and procrastination. I can pull two days back quite easily, so it isn’t a problem for now. Be prepared for two supplementary posts over the coming days.

I had an email from an editor yesterday, two more acceptances, bringing the total for 2025 to 55. I know numbers mean nothing, because it’s about quality. But at the same time it does mean I’ve been applying myself to writing and I carried the plan through.

It’s the same with a blog a day – it doesn’t mean I’m writing better blog posts but it does, I hope, mean that I will improve because of the constant practice.

The same goes for ideas. In the past I have hoarded ideas, ready for the day when I feel that stars have aligned and the day is propitious for one of my great ideas. However, theory, and reality, seem to indicate that the more ideas you use, the more you will generate. It does seem to work.

In other contexts, I don’t consider this a good thing. Every time I think about it I remember being in a meeting once where one aspiring volunteer (or aspiring chair, if the truth is told) said “My strength is having ideas. If anyone needs an idea, just ask.”

What still makes me grit my teeth at this, is that everyone can have ideas, but what you need on a committee is people who will work.

That’s the secret with most things. I can have all the ideas I like, but if I don’t work, nothing happens. That’s why quantity is important, it means you are doing the work which will lead to quality. And if you are doing the work and achieving the quality, you may, with luck, become good.

Sunset at Sherwood

 

More Soup and Mutterings

Woke early and alert. leaned teeth, checked emails, read blogs, checked comments. The whole day stretched out ahead of me, a totally blank canvas. Had breakfast, watched birds (it’s the Big Garden Birdwatch this weekend), swore at squirrel as it (for the second time in two weeks) unlatched the peanut feeder and dumped them on the ground. Julia went out for a walk. While she was out I read a bit, typed a bit and then decided it must be time for soup. So I got up, made butternut squash and chilli soup with tuna mayonnaise sandwiches and finely sliced cucumber, just as Julia arrived back home. Thirty seven years and we are in faultless synchronicity. Or she has mastered the art of mind control.

She has bought a new peanut feeder. I was going to make a new anti-squirrel fastener with bent wire but she has gone out and bought a caged feeder that will keep squirrels out. The moral of this is that if you content yourself with regular small amounts you can take a lot over the years. But if you get greedy and try to take too much, people will take counter-measures and you may find you are locked out. for good. They had been annoying her this week by chasing birds away and this was the final straw. It looks like they will have to confine themselves to bread and fruit from now on, and we don’t put much fruit out. In nutritional terms they have done themselves no good at all.

Now, at 6pm, I have the last vestiges of my blank canvas ahead, virtually nothing useful done, and no ideas in my head. Tomorrow I will not be making that mistake. tomorrow I will hit the keyboard knowing what I want to do in great detail. It’s that or waste another day. There’s a lot more to not procrastinating than I thought.

Looks cute but is actually the antichrist with a fluffy tail.

Vote for Hugh Grant

 I love that word “relationship”. Covers all manner of sins, doesn’t it? I fear that this has become a bad relationship. A relationship based on the President taking exactly what he wants and casually ignoring all those things that really matter . . . And a friend who bullies us is no longer a friend. And since bullies only respond to strength, from now onward, I will be prepared to be much stronger. And the President should be prepared for that.

Recognise it? It could be a speech from Sir Keir Starmer in response to things that have recently been said about the UK. In an ideal world it would be, but it’s actually a quote from a speech by Prime Minister Hugh Grant in Love Actually. I think we should all start quoting it in the UK, as a reminder that there are a lot of good things about the UK. We should also quote it as a reminder that the “special relationship” has generally consisted of the USA saying Jump! and the UK asking “How high, sir?”

Poppy

It’s tempting to get all political again, and start talking history, but there’s no point in arguing. It’s simple. We elect Hugh Grant as PM and we set to work alongside people with a healthier attitude to partnership.

For anyone who wants to look at some facts I suggest this link. For anyone who wants to see the war in Afghanistan in terms of people rather than statistics, I suggest this site. It’s a hard site to read because it contains details of  people who should have been able to do things we take for granted like watching our children grow up or blogging about how bad our knees are.

Meanwhile, if you want details about people avoiding fighting in a war I suggest you contact the White House Press Office.

Finally, just to lift the mood a little – try this.

Mencap Garden April 2019

 

 

 

Just a Fragment of Thought

Photo by Anna Shvets on Pexels.com

I took painkillers last night. Nothing particularly interesting, just a couple of paracetamol and and a then a couple more because I wasn’t concentrating, then a couple of ibuprofen, which is what I’d meant to take when I accidentally took the extra paracetamol. No need to warn me about the dangers of overdosing on paracetamol, I know I’m not supposed to take so many, but it isn’t the first time, and my liver, as shown by frequent testing, is fine. It’s actually the others that are more of a problem as “Using warfarin together with ibuprofen may increase the risk of serious bleeding complications.” Note the word “may”. It means they aren’t really sure.

It also means that when I was originally looking a different treatment options I spent months in serious pain smearing ibuprofen gel on my knuckles. It didn’t work. I had sticky fingers, often with a sheen that looked unhealthily clammy on the twisted fingers of a middle-aged man. Julia had to help me dress. I could do major things like driving and lifting, but not things like doing up buttons.

With only one set of pills a week and a useless gel, it was not a good time. A little later, with two injections (one of which replaces the weekly se of tablets) I am generally good. Typing still causes problems, but other than that I can cope. Sometimes I still have to top up the treatment, particularly if I have a busy day planned. The paracetamol are OK for getting rid of pain, but I really need the ibuprofen for dealing with the inflammation and allowing me to get a good start to the day. I have no medical training, but I suspect the osteoarthritis, which I have alongside the psoriatic arthritis, is the one that causes the lingering pain, and that is what the anti-inflammatories deal with.

So there I was in bed. I remember waking in the night and rolling over. And I remember dreaming, though I don’t remember what it was about. Next thing I knew, my eyes sprang open, the bedroom was light and it was time to get up. My phone showed it was 8.30am. A full night’s sleep. It’s something that happens once in a while when I take painkillers. I have been tempted to see if I could sleep better by taking them every night, but so far I have resisted temptation.

And that is how I woke, sprang into action, had my tests and faded away. The story of my day – ignored medical advice, slept well, felt great, flopped. I now have to find some way of working harder thorough the day. Julia has suggested exercise and healthy eating.

The thought has not improved my mood.

Photo by Anna Shvets on Pexels.com

Baking and Bits and Pieces.

Cheese and Onion Soda Bread

Pale, non-Cheese and Onion Soda Bread

We had cheese and onion soda bread earlier in the week. Did I mention that. I have been distracted. It may have been in one of the deleted drafts.

It was a bit simpler making the bread as I ordered buttermilk from the supermarket. The only complicated bit was the chopping of the spring onions as I wanted to use small, neat, consistent pieces. The cheese was already grated, as I am getting lazier with my cooking. Having spread some cheese on top, as recommended, I was slightly non-plussed towards the end of baking when the bread turned dark brown – it was the cheese but I had to look twice o check it wasn’t the crust burning. The addition of cheese to the top adds nothing to the appearance or the taste. One again, the dough was soft and the cross closed up.

We had it with vegetable stew on Monday night and with leek and potato soup on Tuesday. It’s quite a lot of work for a loaf of bread that disappears so fast.

Last night we watched a programme about ultra-processed food. It seems the secret is to eat the rainbow rather than beige food. So they showed us a recipe with chickpeas. We both asked the same thing – if beige food is bad for you why show a recipe using the beigest of beige food? It might be good advice, but when it’s delivered in a condescending and gimmicky fashion by two people clearly intent on carving out a career in pseudo-science TV it gets a little irritating.

It was, however, a good reminder that I need to start examining our diet a bit more. In general, we do have a good diet, but there are things we can do to tune it up and lose a bit of weight. We have five a day, 30 a month and we eat the rainbow. The trouble is that we also eat pies, cake and biscuits. It seems that icing and coloured sprinkles are not acceptable ways to “eat the rainbow”.

Mmmm . . .

 

If a Clod be Washed Away . . .

I have written three first paragraphs and two almost complete posts, plus made a vegetable hash and cheese and onion soda bread. I then had a breakdown where I really didn’t know if I ever wanted to blog again. It seems so inconsequential as the world falls apart and I don’t feel up to the task of either changing the course of history or amusing people as the end of the world heaves into sight.

For once, I wish I was younger. Much younger that is – about 20 – this is about my future career as a historian rather than the belief that I could cure my knees by going back in time by 15 years. I wan to be young enough to get a history degree and go to conferences about how Donald Trump brought the USA to its knees.

No man, as Donne said, is an island.

No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thine own
Or of thine friend’s were.
Each man’s death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.

There’s a reason Trump is seen as a breath of fresh air.  It’s easy to break the rules when you are new to something.  It’s a lot harder to build something up. It may be a good idea to listen to Churchill on that one.

‘Many forms of Government have been tried, and will be tried in this world of sin and woe. No one pretends that democracy is perfect or all-wise. Indeed it has been said that democracy is the worst form of Government except for all those other forms that have been tried from time to time.…’

Winston S Churchill, 11 November 1947

Now, Churchill had his faults. Ego, poor grasp of strategy at times. racist by modern standards, alcoholic, self-publicist, and a mother from the USA. Nobody is perfect. He did, however, turn down two titles.

However, he saw active service on the North West Frontier, the Sudan, South Africa and the Western Front. After his capture by the Boers after the armoured train attack he was referred to by the train driver in glowing terms, saying there was “not a braver gentleman in the army.” Although he frequently made false steps he was not afraid to try again. He didn’t get the nomination for the 1947 Nobel Peace prize although he was listed, and he didn’t get the Peace Prize on his second nomination either. He was disappointed. I can understand that. he didn’t, however, use it as an excuse for stealing land off an ally. In 1953 he received the Nobel Prize for Literature. He wrote 43 books (in 72 volumes) including a novel, a book on painting and  several volumes of speeches. Trump’s name appears on 22 books, though fourteen of them seem to be written by other people. Yes, I was surprised too. Who’d have thought after all his socialising, golf and litigation (it’s because of the litigation that I decided on “socialising”) he would still find time to write eight books and undermine the constitution of the USA.

So – one of the exam questions I would be setting in the future if I had a chance.

Churchill and Trump – compare and contrast.

Or for those light-hearted moments – Churchill, Trump, Enver HoxneSnog, Marry, Avoid?

Anyway, time for a laugh now. Buy your MAGA hat here.

No pictures today. Look at like one of those times something bad happens and they don’t do theme music on TV.