2nd of the Day

Honeysuckle

On our return home yesterday, we fell asleep. The night before had been a long one, getting everything ready, the drive hadn’t been particularly relaxing, and we are getting older. Julia went to bed for a while, I fell asleep in my chair. I woke up and went to bed around 11.00 and Julia woke up to make herself a drink. Then we slept again.

Having slept well, I rose at 6.00. At 6.48 Julia had a text from Number Two Son, who had landed at Heathrow. He will be here at around ten, with partner and The Grandson. It’s all happening.

Did you know it’s possible to have a wedding on a Tuesday and then another service and a reception on a Saturday? I didn’t. I do now.

Poppy

I just checked. In my early morning stupor I seem to have forgotten to mention that the wedding in question was that of Number One Son. Number Two is flying in to be best man at the second ceremony. These modern concepts are all a bit too new and hectic for me. It used to be so much simpler . . .

You used to get married in church. If you didn’t go to church you got married in a Registry Office. We got married in a Registry Office.  It was a simple ceremony for a simple man and it seems to have worked as we are still married.

There was a pause in my day here as we went down to pick the family up from the station and do thinsg like eat lunch, take the Grandson to see the ducks and generally chat about how tired everyone was. Flying overnight and changing time zones is nearly as tiring as being old and decrepit. It’s nice to see. For part of the afternoon Julia and I looked after the Grandson as the other went out shopping with my sister. They had things to buy you can’t get in Canada. With the soothing help of Zog (a cartoon dragon), stitching, and some crooning from Julia I soon fell asleep before she woke me to tell me I was supposed to stay awake and do grandfatherly things.

Poppy

I’m hemming a pair of trousers as the only ones I have that are deemed suitable for a smart wedding are too long for me. It comes to something when a man’s wardrobe decisions are discussed by the whole family. I can only wait with bated breath for the discussions which will surround their decision to put me in a home. The stitching is poor and erratic, and slow, and my needle threading antics are pitiful (involving a threader, cotton, needle and jeweller’s eyeglass) but I thought I should make the effort, both sartorially, and to save Julia a job as she is already racing round organising lots of other stuff.

You would never guess from my efforts that the Gregson side of my family were haberdashers and dressmakers.

I think it’s a cranesbill geranium

And Again . . .

I do have an excuse for missing yesterday’s post, I was at a wedding. This seemingly uncomplicated statement , when unravelled, turns into a more complicated tale. It involved leaving the house by 9.00, which should have been quite simple, but by the time I had persuaded my joints to move, got my trousers on etc, we were close to that. Then one of us, and I am not one to utter public criticism of anyone, had to sort the contents of her handbag, as she does. I mention no names . . .

Yellow flowers in need of identification

Then, I noticed the satnav was forecasting a journey time of nearly three hours, where my original estimate had been a little over two. Suddenly my plan of two hours plus an hour for all eventualities started to look a bit thin. This was particularly noticeable, as the estimated time of arrival showed a tendency to become a minute of two later every time I checked. I stopped checking, but that didn’t stop the advance of time.

Progress was impeded by a number of slow lorries and by intermittent rain. It was further made to seem slower  by the flat and not particularly pleasant countryside. Don’t get me wrong, I used to live in the Fens and can appreciate a piece of scenery that stays flat all the way to eternity, particularly when dotted with the occasional tree and derelict building, but there’s something about the Norfolk side of Peterborough that has always failed to thrill me.

Meadow flowers at East Leake

Then we got onto the network of small roads in Norfolk. Reasonably picturesque, but bereft of place where public toilets are to be found. That led to to a tricky few miles, particularly with the clock ticking on. Eventually we arrived with about ten minutes to spare, and parked in the staff car park, despite the notice about it not being for visitors. There was an “accessible” (the new term for disabled spaces) space and we decided that a man with two sticks (I had bought new sticks for the wedding) should be able to park there anyway. So we did. You could tell it was “accessible” because it had a sign saying so and so yellow lines. Apart from that, it was an odd shape, in a tricky corner and not particularly easy to use. It was, however,  conveniently situated by the back door of the Registry Office and we arrived in time.

The journey back was quicker, though the traffic was heavier and the weather took a turn for the worse towards the end of the journey. When we were about ten minutes from home someone decided to pull out in front of us. An emergency stop in the rain seems a good place to stop the account of the day.

More will follow.

Wild flowers

 

When Musing Turns to Rambling

I was startled to find, when publishing the last post, that I had missed a day again. Where do they go? In theory, it should be impossible for me to miss a day. They are 24 hours long and you would think that it would be almost impossible to miss a day by accident. At one time I used to feel uncomfortable if I hadn’t written the blog post for the day, and started to panic in the evening if it wasn’t done. Such is the power of habit. It’s very close to addiction.

Figs at Wilford Mencap Garden

The difference, I suppose , is that I have other things to write. And the problem with that is that some of that writing is about things I need to research. That can be time consuming. This is particularly true when I am using the internet for research and keep hopping from one subject to another via links in the articles.

It 12.36 now. I have breakfasted, taken Julia shopping, chased up my prescription, attempted to write poems and exchanged texts with my cousin, who tells me that her mother has died. As usual, this starts off a spiral of introspection about how I really should do better about keeping in touch. No doubt we will have a conversation later about how we really ought to meet some time without needing someone to die.

Mencap Garden, Wilford

When we were younger we all lived quite close and saw most of our cousins on a regular basis, apart from the two who lived in London. Then others, including us, moved to London, Belfast (which turned out to be a bad move), Johannesburg, Wales  and Lincolnshire and we ended up in the situation we are now where I don’t know where they all are, or how many kids they all have. I feel I should do better, but I expect I’m not the only one.

Photos from may 2020.

 

 

The Bungalow Diaries

I’ve been watching Canal Boat Diaries. They are very relaxing, though I’m glad it’s not me having to work the locks, unravel weed from the propellor, or live in cramped conditions. My last boating holiday was over 40 years ago, it was along the Thames, all the locks were done for us and I till mainly remember folding myself into the toilet cubicle. It was not comfortable and in those days I was (a) smaller and (b) more flexible.

Harlow Carr Gardens

It was one of those thing I always meant to do again, but never got round to it. I just took a quick look at boating holidays on the Norfolk Broads.  I could get used to it with these nice modern boats with heating and all sorts of modern conveniences, though I do wonder exactly how much cruising you could do in a week. Probably not a lot, as half of it would be retracing your steps to get back to where you left the car.

I’m feeling the urge to start getting out a bit more. Covid, as I said before, made me stop travelling so much and being ill at the start of the year means I have hardly been out so far this year. It’s about time I started.

I wonder if I could do the same for bungalows as he has done for canals. It is, I suppose, a possibility, though the travel aspects of a show based in a bungalow will be limited. On the other hand, it will be warmer and I won’t get weed tangled round my propellor.

I’m going to Stamford on Wednesday. It’s 15 miles away, which is a modest start. It used to be one of the largest towns in England.  OK, it was at its height in 1086, so it was a while ago. It’s currently 441 on the list by population, though it does have a lot of history crammed in compared to some of the others.

Beech Leaf Harlow Carr

Photos are from May 2019.

A Confused and Complicated Subject

In a departure form my usual bumbling digressions and the odd bit of poetry, I’m going historical. You may like it, you may not. However, it’s unlikely you will have to read too many serious posts like this, so bear with me. It’s a complex area, and I have only lightly scratched the surface, but you might find something of interest in here.

William Beckford – medallet from the Sentimental magazine

William Beckford – A Man of Contrasts
This is a medallet from the Sentimental Magazine series of famous personalities, issued between March 1773 and March 1774. Some are well known, George III and Oliver Cromwell, for instance, others less well known, such as David Garrick and John Wilkes. And some are, in modern times, totally forgotten. Beckford falls into that category.

He he is both an interesting man and a monster. A champion of political liberty in England, a supporter of the Radical John Wilkes, and at one point, a man who publicly called on George III to dismiss his councillors and return to “our happy constitution as it was established in the Glorious and Necessary Revolution”. The Common Council of London erected a statue as a tribute to him and had these words engraved on the plinth. He represented three seats in parliament and was Lord Mayor of London twice (1762 and 1769).

William Beckford – medallet from the Sentimental magazine (Reverse)

However, he was probably the richest commoner in England, inheriting a large fortune in cash, Jamaican sugar plantations and 3,000 slaves.

He neatly encapsulates the difficulty in writing history – a champion of liberty and an owner of people – and how to understand that the two things could exist in one person. We are not helped in this by the one-sided and one-dimensional view of slavery that portrays it as a racist European crime against Africans.

The triangular trade, as it was known, was a comparatively short-lived part of the slave trade. British ships took manufactured goods to Africa, traded for slaves, shipped the slaves to the Americas and brought back the goods that slave labour produced, such as sugar, tobacco and cotton.

William Beckford – medallet from the Sentimental magazine – size comparison

Slavery actually has a history dating back around 11,000 years. At the time of the triangular trade it was already well established in Africa, with up to 30% of the population in some areas being slaves owned by Africans. As recently as the 11th century there were slave markets operating in England. The slaves were white – Irish, Welsh and English prisoners of war being sold as a result of capture by Vikings and in domestic rebellions. In 1086, around 10% of the population of England were slaves. Slavery in England was ended by statue in 1102, though serfdom, which was a less repressive form of forced labour, persisted until the Black Death (1348-9) broke the feudal system. Arab slave raiders continued raiding the UK and Europe until 1830, sometimes kidnapping entire villages. The Crimean Slave Trade, which took people from as far west as Finland at times, took millions of slaves from Europe to the Ottoman Empire, where slavery was finally abolished in 1922 when the Empire was dissolved.

Labourers on British Caribbean sugar plantations included white people -10,000 prisoners of war from the Civil Wars, and around 500,000 indentured labourers. These included a number of kidnap victims, with one agent said to have kidnapped over 800 people in a year. The indentured labour system was used again after slavery ended, concentrated on Indian and Chinese labourers and lasted until the 1920s.

In more modern times, the treatment of the domestic workforce was very little better than slavery, and in the case of the children purchased from workhouses by mill owners, was almost indistinguishable. In the 1790s it is reported that a third of the workers in the cotton industry were “pauper apprentices” as the children were known. Sold as young as seven, they were condemned to 14 years within the system. A local mill that took children was Lowdham, which closed in 1803 and sold the child apprentices to a mill in Derbyshire. This story reputedly inspired Dickens to write Oliver Twist.

So, although nothing can ever make slavery acceptable, you can start to see how people of the time were able to accept it as a concept, and how complex the slave trade really was.

As a final though, here’s something I just found out today. William Beckford had one legitimate child, a novelist, rake and libertine. But he also had an illegitimate son called Richard. Richard was a man of mixed race, his mother having been a Jamaican slave. Details about Richard are scarce, but he grew up to be a merchant and landowner (probably even owning slaves). In 1780, he was elected to parliament, where he stayed for 16 years, voting several times for parliamentary reforms, amongst other things. He is probably the second British MP of mixed race to be elected to the House of Commons, the first being James Townsend, elected in 1767. Townsend had a grandmother who was half African (and who owned slaves). He was also the first man of mixed race to be Lord Mayor of London.

 

Books, Brutality and Blincoe

I have an interesting book on my desk. Well, not actually on my desk, hovering a foot or so above my desk, balanced on another book and a box of medallions and another book and a plastic basket which, in the way of plastic baskets, has very little in it to justify the space it takes up.

Figs at Wilford Mencap Garden

That is either the way a creative mind arranges his desk, or an example of why I don’t get more done.

It’s an interesting book I came across while I was researching slavery. It’s a subject that keeps intruding on various things I do and I decided to give it a bit of time recently, when the subject came up with some medallion research. It was going to be part of my talk about the various unpleasant stories behind medallions, but that had to be shelved when I was ill and I’m starting to use some of the material for other things.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

In addition to slavery I have recently finished a book on the Preston textile industry and another on miners in the Great War.

This all led me to one point – this book – The Real Oliver Twist.

It’s the story of a boy called Oliver Blincoe. He ended up in the Workhouse in what is described as “rural St Pancras” on the book jacket. Now it is better known for being in the middle of London. At the age of seven he was apprenticed to a Nottinghamshire Mill as a “parish apprentice” (also known as a “pauper apprentice), to serve until he was 21.  The Statute of Apprentices of 1563 gave Justices of the Peace the power to send out pauper children to masters in various ways, and the power to fine people who refused to take on apprentices.

Blue Iris

In 1799, Blincoe was one of a group of 80 children apprenticed to a mill at Lowdham near Nottingham. In 1803 the mill closed and the children were sent to a mill in Derbyshire. From what I have read so far they were often sold by the overseers, as the textile factories of the North needed a steady supply of child labour, but I’m not sure how common that was. Even if they went for nothing, it was good for the overseers of the poor to lift the burden from the ratepayers.

I will be making a start on that tomorrow.

Blue Iris

 

 

Failing to Fork Lightening, Again

I am feeling pleased with myself. I sent three poems off to a journal on Tuesday night and had one of them accepted this morning.

Cactus, Malta

Even better, the two that weren’t required can go elsewhere, which saves considerable effort.

I had to look at the punctuation again, as requested. I wasn’t sure whether the problem was an errant comma or something else so I checked it all, wondering if this was a test. I found two other possible errors – I hadn’t hyphenated the number thirty-one and I’d lazily put a hyphen where some editors prefer an em dash. A hyphen (-) requires hitting a key, an em dash (—) requires two hands – depressing the Alt key whilst typing 0151 on the numerical key pad. I should probably, in the name of precision, have used one where I stuck that hyphen in front of depressing.

CActus hedge Malta

And talking about depressing – I know that an en dash is the width of a capital N and an em dash is the width of a capital M. There is something very sad about a man who has spent 68 years getting to the point. I wanted to catch and sing the sun in flight, but I ended up knowing the difference between two sorts of dash and getting excited about taps (read on to find out about that, or fall into deep slumber as the tedium of my life washes over you).

Then I started looking at a comma with a view to making it into a full stop. At that point I decided that I was getting altogether too involved and thought about telling him I was an avant-garde surrealist poet in the mould of e. e. cummings.

Memento Mori

Then I started to wonder why cummings signed himself e. e. cummings instead of e e cummings, did he have a quibble with upper case letters but not punctuation?

He died when he was 67 which, since my last birthday, is something I have beaten him in. On the other hand, he wrote 2,900 poems. I’m not sure I’ll ever write 2,900 poems. Even if I do, it’s not a measure of quality.

We’ve had quite a lot of blustery rain today and a sharp hailstorm this morning. English hail isn’t generally too much of a problem as it’s quite small. However, it’s unusual in May.

Malta

We also had a handyman, which was a surprise. He had said he would fit us in for new kitchen taps as soon as he could, and he finished a job more quickly than he expected, so dropped in on us. It was a bit of a surprise as I was halfway through preparing lunch, but we now have a nice mixer tap with levers, which makes it a lot easier for me to work. The previous taps were a bit stiff and inconvenient for a man with arthritic fingers. It’s a tricky social situation as I was pleased to get the job done, but not pleased that lunch was interrupted.

Another day gone and a bright start ends with me quoting Thomas and talking of poetry and plumbing and punctuation when I should be writing.

Blue Lagoon

Pictures are from Julia’s May 2018 trip to Malta to visit No 1 son while he was working there. She went with No 2 Son while he was still living in UK. Now he is in Canada. Was it something I said?

Sinister Signs and Other Stories

I wrote this yesterday but watched TV and fell asleep instead of posting it. As it’s easier to add a note rather than rewrite it to keep the timeline consistent, that’s what I’m doing. The lazy ways are often the best.

In my first post today I said that the brain is a strange place. I’ve just been on the phone to the doctor – the phone system of the NHS is an even stranger place.

Bear with seed packet from Kew

I have just had a text from the doctor to tell me to make an appointment to talk to her about my recent MRI scan. So I did. It seems I can’t make an appointment to talk to the doctor now (4pm) I have to ring tomorrow morning at 8am. At that point I can join the queue, or, if it’s a long queue, I can be denied a place in it by a robotic voice and a theatrical click signifying they have cut me off.

As I said, it doesn’t really seem worth overloading the system and involving other people when all I need is a phone call telling me what I already know. How do I know, they asked? Because it’s already been entered on my records, which I have access to. It says “Abnormal but expected”. That’s exactly as I expected because I had an X-Ray months ago which told me that. The nurse also told me that. The receptionist checked. “It says ‘abnormal but expected'”, she said.

Bear in a tree

It means that I have arthritis in a number of joints. They were expecting that. They were actually looking for an infection in the bone. There isn’t one, but that was also expected as I had an X-Ray nearly three months ago.

It’s a good thing, when you look at the timescale, that there is no  infection. If there had been, it might have been quite serious by now. But probably not, as I’ve had the swollen toe for two years now without incident. Doctors worry. Sometimes they worry about patient welfare, at other times they worry about being sued or struck off. Either way, I’ve always had more treatment than I want from doctors. They live to find illness and give out pills, but I won’t go in that direction today.

Bear in the Garden

Doctors like to be certain about these things, which I appreciate, but the system creaks a bit in practice. It’s like the urgent X-Ray I once had. Twenty four hours to get the X-Ray, 28 days to get the results. That came back marked “No sinister signs” It felt like I’d been X-Rayed by Dracula.

You don’t even need a highly-trained doctor to read out the results anyway. I’m sure it’s a simple admin job once the report is done. If I can understand it, it can’t be hard.

Bear with pansies

Sometimes I think what the NHS needs is just a bit of common sense and someone who can spot bottlenecks. It doesn’t need doctors and highly paid management consultants getting involved, they could just ask me.

Maybe I should write and see if they need any help . . .

Photos are from May 2018

 

 

 

More Poor Time Management

I’ve just checked my count. This is the 132nd day of the year and this is the 132nd post. A few years ago, I swear I would have had no trouble keeping up. The problem lies in my relationship with time.

Julia is out reducing some poor, helpless piece of wood to shavings, so I thought I’d better do some tidying while she was out. It’s not a significant amount compared to her contribution, but it just means I can feel a little better about myself when she returns.

So I pulled the duvet flat and wished the breakfast pots. It took about ten minutes and I begrudged every minute of it, because I want to be writing.

St Joseph and the Angel c 1920 by Wilhelmina Geddes.

Once I sat down at the keyboard I checked the Facebook page for the Numismatic Society, read my emails (little had changed since 20 minutes ago) and checked if anything was new for sale on eBay, I realised I’d just wasted more time than doing a bit of washing up, and hadn’t worried about it at all.

Time management, like diet, is a  flexible concept in my world. They are also susceptible to the vagaries of memory. I don’t mean to waste time, or eat too much, but I do. It’s not because I want to fritter my life away, or be fat, it’s just that I forget I have time management and health constraints.

I actually used to have nightmares about that when I gave up smoking – after about a year, I’d start dreaming that I’d accepted a cigarette from someone because I’d forgotten I’d given up. I haven’t had one for a while now, but I kept having them for years, and would often wake up frightened that I’d really started and had wasted all the effort of breaking the habit.

I once had a job I hated, and for years after I left it I would wake in the middle of the night thinking I was still there and had to get back to it in the morning.

The brain is a strange place.

Octofoil window – Angel by John Hungerford Pollen 1863 Our Lady of the Assumption, Rhyl, Denbighshire

 

 

 

 

Absolutely My Last Word on Politics

OK, I know I said I was going to stop writing about politics, but what better way to start a blog post on politics than by breaking a promise? I was also going to blog every day and I have messed that up too.

Today I will talk about democracy. It is, as we have been told many times, the worst system of government available to us, apart from all the other models we have tried.

I won’t take much of your time as I am aware it’s a limited resource and I can’t hang about chatting if I’m going to solve the problems of the world and get some poetry written.

Democracy, to me, means that everybody has a vote and the people with the most votes get to make the decisions, though they do have to make sure that the minorities are treated fairly.

That’ the tricky thing to get right – the old two wolves and a sheep voting on what to have for lunch dilemma.

That’s why I get annoyed when I see politicians declaring that they won’t work with Reform. There are a number of things that I don’t like about Reform, I admit. But it’s undeniable that they did get a lot of votes – being  the equal second largest party in Scotland (alongside Labour) and the second largest party in Wales by a considerable margin.

Is it right that to just disregard that amount of voters because they are in a party you disagree with? Or is that the way to cause more bitterness and division in an increasingly fractured world?

Having said that, what do voters think of coalitions, I sometimes wonder. When the Tories were burning through Prime Ministers in their final years we had a lot of people saying they hadn’t voted for the new PM and should have a general election. That, unfortunately, betrays a general ignorance of the way our government works, and the creeping Americanisation of the UK, when people think they vote for a PM rather than a party.

And that is definitely all I have to say on politics.