Gas and Keyrings – an Unlikely Pairing

I was sitting in the living room talking to my sister, and Julia was cutting up vegetables for tea, when we heard a click-clicking noise. My first thought was that Julia was having trouble lighting the gas hob. A quick call to check, revealed that it had just started on its own.

Queen Mary Keyring

Dismantling the burner in question revealed that it was arcing in a regular yet unprovoked manner. I also gave myself an electric shock. It wasn’t bad, but was enough to make me jump, which, in turn, was enough to make Julia and my sister tell me to be careful, and to go to the breakers in the garage and shut the power off. I then cleaned all the burners and switched it back on – same result, so we switched it off again. The gas still works without power and we lit the rings we needed using matches.

We cancelled the plans for tomorrow, ate, and then tried again. Whatever was causing the problem had gone, and we are no longer in fear of being charged an arm and a leg for calling out a highly skilled and expensive gas man. Of course, that is preferable to the more likely scenario – calling out a useless but expensive gas man.

Queen Mary key ring (reverse)

Checking on the internet, I find that this fault is caused by either damp or food debris. It would seem that either the damp has dried or the food debris has been removed with my skilled prodding.

Cutty Sark Keyring and Certificate of Authenticity

Yesterday I sent off an article on bronze keyrings made as souvenirs of the Queen Mary. This led into interesting byways regarding the Queen Mary, the great days of Atlantic crossings and the origin of the bronze that was used. Scanning eBay, I also find that they did coasters, medallions, badges and cufflinks. The company that eventually ended up producing the key rings also made some key rings using metal from a fitment on the mast of the Cutty Sark. So I ordered one. Well, two actually, as they were being offered as a pair and were actually cheaper than some being offered as singles.

Cutty Sark keyring (reverse)

Cowboys, Computers and Cash

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Gold £2 coin

Some days stay with you forever. This is one of them. I’ve just been on the blog of Charlie Robinson, the internationally famed author, Tik-Tok phenomenon and veteran marathon runner.

It was little disconcerting to find him depicted as a cowboy. This is, I must add, in no way a comment on his building skill, just his newly discovered love of AI.

That’s Artificial Intelligence. Having worked on several farms, he probably has views on Artificial Insemination too, so I thought it was just as well to be clear about the parameters of the conversation. I’ve seen where he puts his hand when presented with a glove puppet and it’s just as well to be clear about these things.

Je’s about the same age as me, runs marathons, has had two novels published and is using AI and social media. I have trouble walking to the car, keep meaning to write a book and am terrified of technology. I used to be merely confused by it but as it slowly takes over my life this is becoming fear. Everyone wants me to use apps, talk to useless robots and do everything without human contact. I don’t mind that, but I do mind having to use a computer do the work formerly done by a human.

The reverse of the £2 coin

This gets even worse when you use a phone to pay things. I still haven’t recovered from the shock of seeing someone wave a phone at a card terminal and make a payment. I still think debit cards are magic, so this is a step too far. The Government, of course, loves it, because it can pin down so many transactions relating to crime, tax and benefits when it’s all on computer. Of course, apart from the Big Brother element of this, there is a worry that one day a hacker will be able to bring the economy to its knees and we will all have forgotten how to use cash.

I’m also a bit worried by the fact that, not having a passport, it is increasingly difficult for me to access and move my own money because there are so many identity checks. Yet, as we see in politics, these rules seem not to be enforced on politicians. Recently, there has also been some back-pedalling by the Labour Party who are now not going to perform all the bank account checks they were going to do on benefit claimants. That decision, even by their own figures, opens us up to millions in fraudulent claims.

It is, once again, a case of the soft targets in the centre being squeezed. If I’d been able to see ahead more clearly I would have shifted a lot of money into gold or dodgy offshore investment schemes (though I’m not actually sure what they are). I’d now be sitting back on a pile of highly priced gold that the taxman couldn’t prove I had, paying no tax and enjoying the chaos of world politics, which always drives the price of gold up. I might even, with no detectable savings, be making a false claim for Universal Credit.

Goldfinch at Screveton

In the end I caved – pictures of gold coins are always dull, but a picture of a goldfinch is always a pleasure to see. Well, it is for me.

And so it comes around again

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Oliver Cromwell – Leader of Men. Well, Leader of Some Men. For the sake of historical accuracy, I should point out that other opinions on Cromwell are available.

I don’t really have much to say that I (a) haven’t already sad or (b) want to share. Life is much the same as it was last week, last month and even last year. I’m in a writing slump, not because I’m blocked, but because I can’t really be bothered to write anything. It’s just taken me three days to finish off an article that I should have done in less than a day. I just get bored and start doing something else. Then I go and watch TV, eat, nap, wake up, and repeat.

It’s a new month so I have to start submitting more poetry. I have plenty to submit, so it isn’t a problem, but as all editors have different requirements it can be time consuming to get everything set out correctly. As one journal has just changed its requirements for the third time in six months, this is getting quite tedious and irritating. I can see why different editors like to have things presented in particular ways, I can even see that they want to change them (even if it is more difficult for me), but changing regularly is a pain. Even worse, several editors have changed things and in doing so have caused me to miss submission windows.

Captain James Cook – Whitby. He discovered lots of places, much to the surprise of the people already living there, who hadn’t realised they had been lost.

It’s been quite a flat year and I haven’t really advanced. I’m still plodding away writing average poems. Every time I think I have written something a bit better than usual I am quickly informed otherwise by editors.

Sadly, this is a thought I often have at this time of year, so I refer you back to my opening paragraph and will leave you. I’m hoping, as so many times, that a good night’s sleep will solve the problem, but I rarely have a good night’s sleep, so it’s unlikely.

One night I hope I will have sufficiently disordered sleep to inspire me into writing a poem of beguiling strangeness. Until that happens I will just keep writing about insomnia, worry and the inadequacy of an ageing bladder.

If I can’t get a good night’s sleep, I can at least eat a nourishing, high-fibre breakfast

Spiders, Prizes and Reindeer

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Julia has been busy. To be fair, she is always busy. She is not a relaxing person to be married to in this respect as she sometimes resembles a small whirlwind of activity. I, on the other hand, am content to sit and wait for things to happen. That’s why I used to like fishing. It’s a relaxing way to spend time watching nature, spoiled only by the occasional fish that bothers the bait. There is enough of a hunter within me to actually bait the hook, but I did sometimes wonder if it would be better to omit the bait.

Anyway, philosophy apart, we have, as you may be able to tell, a herd of undead reindeer haunting our Christmas. Well, they look like that to me – a swaying mass of reindeer with clattering antlers, bright red noses and chocolates concealed in their midriffs. She delivered them to the wood turning group last week as part of the fund-raising effort for next month. Her brother makes her the figures and she assembles them.

The other picture is the spider she made for the competition at the group – 2nd in the Novice category. It’s actually a skittle on its side with googly eyes and wire legs with beads on them. With that and the painting prizes I’m beginning to think she may be getting a little too competitive in retirement.

As a further example of this, she has laid waste to the garden today and now needs rehydrating. I no longer work hard enough to make myself feel tired, though I do sometimes have to break off to operate a kettle.

Some photos are from the Halloween drone lightshow Julia and my sister went to – a little blurred due to light levels. Others are the reindeer and the spider. I can see a time when drones take over from fireworks, which will be a bit of a relief as we won’t have so much noise or so many injuries each autumn. I’m afraid that as an adult I am becoming a bit of a fireworks killjoy. My only worry about it is that we will replace Bonfire night with Halloween as one more step to losing our culture, as firs and gunpowder give way to plastic and “candy”.

The Legion of Zombie Reindeer – where Halloween meets Christmas . . .

Jays – An Autumn Treat

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I’ve had a wonderful event this week, a deeply depressing one and a bit of a bounce back from the latter, if that makes sense.

The good one was spotting four jays at the end of the road. They are probably our brightest coloured bird, but very shy. In the past they have been hunted because they are crows (and therefore seen as vermin). They have also been hunted because they were used to decorate the hats of Victorian ladies. That would make me shy.

However, in autumn, as the leaves fall they become more active, seeking food, particularly acorns. These, they hide for later. The lack of cover and the activity means they are more visible. Their habit of hiding, and forgetting, acorns, accounts for some of the random oak trees you see dotted round the countryside.

I have seen them described as intelligent, but I’m not sure how you measure it. Hiding food and forgetting it does not feature highly in many IQ tests.

Later, whilst chewing ginger bread, I became aware that all was not well in my mouth. One of my crowns has become detached. At the time it felt like a disaster as I it seemed like I was so old my teeth were falling out. Then it occurred to me it was a crown, which is slightly better.

Now, I have not had a dentist for a while. Mine packed up after lockdown. Like quite a few dentists, they took the government money then pulled out of the system. The replacement stopped calling me and wouldn’t get back to me, as they too went private. In Peterborough there are, famously, no NHS dentists.

However, if you trained in sales and spend a lot of time researching, you tend not to take things at face value. I found one that was taking on NHS patients but they aren’t going to be taking any on, they told me, until the end of November. I thanked them and asked politely what I could do in November to have the best chance of getting on their list.

My pathetic, downtrodden query must have struck a note in the heart of either the Universe or the Receptionist, who found me a cancellation on Tuesday and assured me I would be able, when I visited, to turn this into enrollment as an NHS pension. Result!

Other things have happened this week, which will be revealed in later posts.

Sorry – I should have mentioned that the jay pictures aren’t mine – I am neither lucky enough, or skilled enough, to get shots like this. Credit should go to Wikipedia and the Woodland Trust.

Soup and a Blustery Day

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It’s been a reasonable morning. Despite a night of broken sleep I still managed to get up at seven and get Julia in the car for 9.00. I was aghast at that, where did all the time go? Well, it seems an hour of it went when we turned the clocks back at the weekend. I always forget to change the car clocks. We got to wood turning in good time because it’s half-term and the roads were clear. Then I got home in good time too, for the same reason. Sometimes it takes an hour from starting off to getting back home. Today it took under half that.

Photo by Kirsten Bu00fchne on Pexels.com

There was a cat on the wall. A big one I hadn’t seen before. He jumped down as I opened the car door, after having a good look at me as I sat in the car looking at him. He stalked across the sliver of grass I refer to as the front lawn and stood looking at two dogs on the other side of the road. They were both on leads because their owners had stopped for a chat. One of them, a cockapoo, was frantic. The other, a Labrador, just stood and watched. He was a dog after my own heart. “What’s the point?” he seemed to say. “There will still be cats tomorrow and somebody will still be holding onto my lead.”

I read emails. I read comments. I answered some. I went on eBay to give feedback. Then I went into the kitchen. There was another cat in the back garden, watching the bird feeders swing in the breeze.. It wouldn’t go so I shone my green laser pointer at the wall and it spent a couple of minutes trying to catch the dot before stalking off in a huff.

I saw a red kite in the distance. The light is clear and I could distinctly see the red and grey of the plumage.

Red Kite

Then I prepared tomato soup (tin of tomato, tin of water, onion, celery) and the tuna sandwich filling for lunch. With tuna, black pepper, spring onions, lemon juice and mayonnaise the sandwich filling was more complicated than the soup.

As I washed up, two kites appeared, flying in formation, though with more wing flapping than usual. I expect this is due to the brisk wind.

Now I will publish this post and make a cup of tea. When Julia returns she will probably find me asleep in front of the TV.

Red Kite

Who’s Got the Biscuits – Book Review

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I turned on today with a mission in mind. I have just read Charlie Robinson’s latest novel and thought I’d do a review. I don’t do many book reviews because I find it hard to strike the right note. I don’t read that many novels, and lack points of reference, for one thing. For another, if a book’s rubbish, I hesitate to say so because the worst book in the world is still a better book than any of the books I have thought of but never written.

The first book, The Siege of Mr Khan’s Curry Shop took a while for me to read and review as Covid intervened and gave me an excuse for procrastinating. It then took me a while to buy and start the next one – Who’s Got The Biscuits. I can’t help thinking there’s a question mark missing there, and speaking as a poet, it would scan better as Who’s Got All the Biscuits?

Anyway, I finished it. Then I reviewed it on Goodreads, then I turned WP on. There I found that in 2023 I had written News of an Old Blogger, which turned out to be quite appropriate.

I suppose I’d better write the review now.

The first book, as I may have noted at the time, was a bit rough around the edges and showed signs of being a first novel. The plot, whilst it was well-constructed, felt a bit too tidy as it ended.

However, it did have a good cast and a good old-fashioned story where bad things happen to bad people.

The new novel opens four years after the events of the first one. Good intentions go awry, proving that favours often go wrong. The past returns. New problems arise and a lot of sorting out has to be done. It’s well plotted, moves along nicely and features an engaging group of characters.

It’s a bit difficult to place it in a genre. It’s not crime, my normal reading habitat. It’s placed in historical, action/adventure and romance by Amazon, but the 1970s are well within living memory and the romance is there, but not as a major driving force. It is, I would say, action/adventure in the tradition of Bulldog Drummond, Richard Hannay and the Saint (the TV one – the few Saint books I have read were not pleasant things).

f you like your books to feature serial killers with cellars and power tools this is not to book for you. And if you prefer books where willowy heroines find love in New England whilst running their Grandmother’s old bakery, you will be equally disappointed.

All in all, a good read and highly recommended. Don’t be put off by the quality of the review – I’m struggling to sound academic and not give any of the best bits away. It genuinely is a good read.

My UTM Parameters

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I note from WP that there is no data available on my UTM parameters. At that point I immediately wanted to know why. It wasn’t, of course, the most immediate question in my mind at the time – that was “What are UTM parameters?” Well, near enough. I edited the question to remove a couple of words as we international bloggers realise that it is always pre-watershed somewhere in the world.

UTM parameters are “Urchin Tracking Module (UTM) parameters” and they “are used to track the effectiveness of online marketing campaigns. You can assign a specific UTM to a campaign and track how much traffic the campaign generates.”

I thought Marx would be a good picture to use in a discussion about marketing . . .

Obviously, my follow up questions were “Urchin?” “What are you talking about?” “What marketing?” and “Why are you doing all this when all I want is a reliable system for publishing my thoughts to a small number of delightful readers who I capture using the tumbleweed principle rather tha marketing?”

OK, I confess that my actual question was shorter and a good deal less publishable.

And the tumbleweed principle? It’s the opposite of marketing. I target nobody, I don’t advertise, I don’t tailor my content to particular readers, and I just burble on, tossing whatever words I have in my head onto a small screen. People drift in, they drift out . . .

Some drift back.

That’s it – the blueprint for a blog that has achieved a certain longevity and gathered a few friends. It’s not about travel or cutting edge conversations or handbags. It’s the digital equivalent to saying hello to the person sitting alone in their room in the care home as you pass by on the way to see someone else.

If you make the mistake of stopping to talk I will show you my eye, discuss my health and talk to you about my latest passion – the length of the handles on toilet plungers. After certain circumstances that have occurred twice in the last month, it is a subject of major concern. Why can’t they just make them a foot longer?

I won’t go on. It has the potential to become a modern version of the Rime of the Ancient Mariner, apart from being written by the
“grey- beard loon” and being based on modern plumbing instead of maritime superstition. Readers may also wonder why I would be wrestling with an albatross stuck in a U-bend.

Maybe two feet longer would be better. That way you could unblock the albatross and keep your hands dry.

After Writing About My Dull Life, I Forgot a Title

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I have spoken before about the way my blog posts often fail to reflect the realities of life. It’s just one of those things. Just as the characters in novels only go to the bathroom in order to overhear a conversation or escape through a window I rarely cover aspects of plumbing (either mine or that of the house) and similar things. I am now going to prove my point by burbling along with a pointless anecdote, some dull stats and a story of little importance. For some reason I am motivated to give an accurate picture of my life. Not that it’s 100% accurate, as I realise it misses out two kinds of cake and falling asleep in front of the TV when I should have been getting ready for my trip to hospital. (not because I’m ill, just because I needed some injector pens after the latest problem).

Grape vines in October

A few months ago I wrote a haibun which covered the events of an evening in Preston 45 years ago. The main aspect was a pain in the eye which I suffered whilst walking through a darkened park towards the bright lights of a riverside pub. When I entered the pub with three friends they recoiled in horror at the sight of me. My eye, they told me, was full of blood. I had to go to the toilets to use a mirror and found that the entire white portion of my eye was indeed bright red, and quite off-putting. It was, according to the doctor, a spontaneous subconjunctival haemorrhage. It was common, he said, in people of my age, and was nothing to worry about as it would clear up on its own, though he did say it was a fine example of one as they were usually not that impressive.

I’ve had a few since then, but nothing anywhere like that size.

Anyway, looking for subjects to write about, I put the story together, trimmed, edited, polished and, eventually submitted it. It has been out three times and it has been returned three times. I think, rather than pruning and polishing, I may expand it this time. Modern haibun are, in my opinion, getting too short and I am making an effort to write some longer ones.

Medlars

On two of the outings, I had one of the accompanying poems accepted, so it isn’t wasted effort. This time I sent two. One was accepted. It was the second time that one had been submitted. It’s often the way – a lot of my poems are submitted two or three times before acceptance. A significant number are let to fester after three or four unsuccessful attempts. Some, I break up to use the good lines elsewhere, others I allow to wait a year or so and rewrite them. There are some, probably about 20% where I lose confidence in them and allow them to fade away.

However, that’s not why I’m writing. I’m writing to say that I had another spontaneous subconjunctival haemorrhage. This one was less spontaneous. My eyes felt sore a couple of mornings ago, so I gave them a good rub. Yes, I know you shouldn’t. There was a small stabbing pain and when Julia walked into the room about ten minutes later she immediately started fussing. On checking with my phone camera, I was able to establish that although the coverage is not quite 100% the dark red is much more menacing than the bright red I had last time.

Cape Gooseberries, Inca Berries, Physalis, Ground Cherries, Golden Berries – a plant of many names

My sister, when she saw it, suggested an eye patch and admitted that she was very close to making several jokes about pirates. I don’t blame her, I would have done the same. It’s clearly a matter of heredity. She gave me a lift to the hospital this afternoon where I was able to pick up my new medication in a matter of minutes – impressively efficient.

When she returned to pick me up a mini-bus taxi with tail ramp was taking up a lot of the room in the parking bay and the driver was struggling to wind the ramp up manually as it had malfunctioned. Meanwhile some silliness and double parking caused a traffic jam and she was actually stuck in the queue trying to pick me up longer than it had taken me to walk through the hospital, pick up the pills and walk back. You couldn’t make this up.

And so, what I’m getting round to saying is that the actual banality of my life, which is represented here, rarely makes it to the page. I tend to dwell on my successes and fulminate on the annoying failures, which isn’t truly representative of my life,

A truly representative picture of my life would involve reviewing a succession of lightweight crime novels, historical non-fiction texts and quiz and antique shows. The TV reviews would be punctuated by gaps where I nodded off.

Cat – Day of the Dead style – dome by one of Julia’s past groups. I believe I should add a note on the technique – felt tip pen on reclaimed plywood. It’s not exactly John Constable, but I have always liked it.

Meanwhile, if anyone wants to see a picture of a really red eye, let me know. Julia says I can’t post it without warning people.

Not sure what pictures I will use, but they won’t be as good as the eye. On the other hand, they will be more socially acceptable.

After all that, I forgot to add a title. I hate it when I do that.

Which Book’s World Would Be The Absolute Worst To Live In?

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That’s today’s writing prompt. I’m not sure if they have used the word “absolute” because they mean it, or just because they like using lots of words.

Green Woodpecker feeding on ants

The obvious answer is that I don’t know. I haven’t immersed myself in many worlds. Two favourites with other people are 1984 and The Hunger Games. Yes, 1984 is depressing, but is it any worse than the worlds of Down and Out in Paris and London or The Road to Wigan Pier or Burmese Days. Orwell didn’t particularly like any of those worlds. Nor did the millions of real people trapped in them.

As for the Hunger Games, I’ve only seen one film so I’m not qualified to comment. I’ve seen even less of Game of Thrones, which also cropped up, but I tend to agree, from what I’ve heard of it, that the weather and sudden death don’t make it an ideal holiday destination.

Nobody seems to have mentioned Brave New World or Moby Dick. The former seems every bit as bad as 1984, possibly worse when you think your place in society is ordained from birth. And Moby Dick is set on a ship which, no doubt, has poor sanitary provision and heating and there are constant interjections about the natural history of whales. Cold, smelly, uncomfortable, wet and alternating between dull and terrifying.

Gingerbread Men

The world of Jane Austen, or the Bronte sisters wouldn’t be much better. It may have given us classic literature but Jane Austen would have lived to write more if she’d had better medical care and the Brontes, from all I read, would have done better if they had proper supply of clean drinking water.

That would probably be my answer – the worst world to live in would probably be any world that existed before 1945. Having said that, a world without nuclear weapons would probably be good too. – decisions, decisions . . .

Poppies made from plastic bottles

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Life after the Care Farm