The Throwback Button

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This was quite political in its day, until we realised we haven’t moved on as far as we would like to think

It’s tempting, here, to make a joke about it being a new voting system where you can vote for one of our new parties that wants to return to better times. There are currently  393 parties registered with the Electoral Commission in Great Britain and Northern Ireland. These include 15 parties with MPs in Parliament. Twelve of them have eight members or less, with five of them having only one MP. As you go down through the levels we eventually arrive at the parties that are registered but have no members in any elected position.

These include Alliance for Workers’ Liberty (Opposing Capitalism and Stalinism), British First Party (against non-white immigration, abortion, communism, foreign aid and homosexuality) and the Cornish Nationalist Party, which wants Cornish devolution and pan-Celtism.

These are just three of our many choices. It surprises me that there are actually 79 such parties, the final two being the Yorkshire Party and the Yoruba Party.

It’s quite a range of lunacy and lost causes.

However, that wasn’t the road I meant to take. I was going to point out that I just had a tour through some other posts I published on this day in different years – ones about Julia’s neck injury and me being in hospital. Neither were things I really wanted to revisit, so I stopped reading.

There is a reblog button, which tempted me, but pressing it doesn’t seem to reblog anything, so it’s not the easy way of catching up I though it might be. I will try it again later and see if it saves me writing another post, as I am close to missing deadlines now.

 

The Poetry Plan

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Nasturtiums Wilford Mencap Gardens

I looked for a copy of a poetry anthology this morning. I am in it. It represents “the best haibun . . .  published each year in English around the world”.  There are 88 haibun in it, so I feel good about being in it. I couldn’t find one on Amazon, so I looked it up on the publisher’s website. The cost of the book is $30 (£22). Sadly, this is now the standard cost for a thin volume of poetry, which is becoming less accessible as time goes by. Even worse, the postage from the US is $35 (£26). This has been a growing trend. It affected the shop business when I was working there and has continued. I won’t be getting the book. I’m sure others have taken this decision too  It’s a shame for the publisher and a shame for poetry.

I’m no stranger to paying big money for books, and often spend £35-£50 on reference books. However, I recently decided that this must stop as most of them are worth next to nothing on the secondhand market. Anything I buy now needs to pay its way. A poetry book at £48 (inc P&P) isn’t going to do this.

Spring in the Mencap Garden

I can buy three or four new books in the UK for this, even more if I buy them used. I don’t mind sup[porting poetry but I do mind supporting the USPS.

Meanwhile, having needed a calendar this morning and a currency converter this afternoon, I note that it’s getting more and more difficult just to press a few buttons and find one. You now need to download an app. Personally, I’m not a fan of filling my phone with bits and pieces of with an unknown provenance and security rating.

I have, so far, made 35 submissions this year, and intend making 16 more next month, bringing the total to 50. I’m planning 39 in the second half of the year, which will leave me slightly short of the 100. I can find a few more, I’m sure, even if it means submitting to people who don’t deserve it, but this year, I have decided, is the last of the big years. I will hit 100 and then slow down next year, when I will concentrate on quality and enjoyment and only write for editors I like.

Nasturtiums Wilford Mencap Gardens

Groundhog Day

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I just got one of those WP achievement stickers “Groundhog Day” for having two posts with the same title.

After writing a post and spending ages finding photos, adding tags and worrying over a category I have, over the years, developed a system where I add random photos, random words and post it in “Uncategorized” {sic}.

This, by the way, is the first time I have ever been able to use “[sic]“. If I had, as I wanted, followed a more academic career path I would doubtless have used it many times.

I have also never used pers. comm.. For some reason this makes me feel a little downcast, as if a whole part of my life is missing. It’s the part that includes dim corridors, offices piled with books, the scent of pipe tobacco and the wearing of tweed jackets with leat5her arm patches.

Ah well . . .

Anyway, I do all that, and someone at WP develops yet another condescending sticker and points out I have used the title before. It’s not the first time, as searches have revealed previous examples. In previous centuries it wasn’t considered fine to duplicate names between siblings and to reuse the names of dead children. Am I really going to worry about having an individual title for each of my 3,821 posts. For one thing, I don’t have time and for another – I’m not bothered. I have better things to do. Frankly, the bar is set low on that one, as sitting and staring into space is better than wasting time of individual titles. If I need to cite one I can do it by title and date. But, being realistic, how likely is it that anyone will ever cite on of my blog posts?

As far as I am concerned, WP can take their sticker and apply it to their duodenum. (Other internal organs are available, but I can’t spell most of them, or I might try a joke, referring to academia and internal geography, with a pun on appendix).

A Lost Day

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I went to the hospital this morning. I had to get up at 6 am to be ready in time (it was a 7.40 appointment). I got to bed late because I forgot to book a taxi until it was time for bed and it took me 35 minutes to make the booking as they have messed about with the site since I last used it. I then slept badly.

Sumac blooming, or whatever it does

In the end, having allowed time for being held up on the way, I wasn’t held up, so arrived early.  There were no volunteers with wheelchairs, so I had to walk. I was nearly knocked over several times by people walking on the wrong side of the corridor and/or staring at phone screens. (Plus a few other near misses due to overtaking and wheelchairs).

I arrived before the reception in Diagnostic Imaging. Reception opens at 9.00. Why, I wonder, do they start booking people in for appointments before then?

Not that it mattered for me. Arrived at 7.30. Instructed to arrive for 7.40. Reception opened at 7.45 in the end, though she did complain she wasn’t paid for working before 8..00, Appointment time 7.50. Eventually seen at 8.10. So, seen 30 minutes after I was instructed to arrive. Considering that the letter they had sent told me not to be late (in capital letters) as they may not see me, and said that missed appointments lengthened waiting lists, I was a little put out, particularly as this was the appointment they had set up after cancelling my previous one at 24 hours notice.

When I did get seen there was further delay as there was no gel. How do you run out of gel in a department that specialises in ultrasound scans. I have now had ultrasound scans on six parts of my body (some of them several times) and they have never failed to have copious supplies of gel. It’s like garage running out of oil or a pizzeria running out of cheese.

However, it was a warm spring day, the sky was blue, the birds were singing and we all had a good laugh about it. To conclude, the scan showed “nothing sinister”, so I was even happier. I hate it when they say “nothing sinister”, as it immediately makes me think of sinister things.

I then went home and slept for most of the day in front of a fan as temperatures rose. It has net been a productive day.

Garden Flowers

Some Meandering Thoughts on Poetry

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The 27th already! What appeared to be “plenty of time” last week has slimmed itself down considerably. I will be Ok, but an extra week would be handy. The three rejected haibun are, I have decided, going out again with a couple of words tweaked. I’m happy they were good enough for an acceptance last time out. It is just, as I have found before, that some editors don’t like my style. If I was a bad writer, everybody would return my work. If I were a patchy writer of variable quality, all editors would reject me at some point. Generally that doesn’t happen. Some editors accept me. others reject. Once in a while something will be rejected unexpectedly, but that can usually be put down to (a) it being a bit too obscure or (b) rushed and not good enough.

In an ideal world I would, I suppose, be able to write to a quality that it was impossible to reject, or would be skilful enough to appeal to all readers. So far that hasn’t happened, though I continue to practice writing with the aim of global domination.

Allysum with ladybird

However, I have just looked through the index of a recent magazine. and looked for the names of the three editors who have recently rejected me. They aren’t in. It could be that they didn’t submit anything, or it could be that they were unsuccessful. It’s difficult to tell, but I do know that one of them has written on the subject of how many times they have submitted some poetry before it was accepted. That article was why I always give poems a second and third chance.

It’s a bit like writing long pieces of text – much of the work and skill is in the rewriting. With poetry, much of the time is used in post mortems of returned submissions. To be a good writer of haibun, it’s not enough to write well (which is hard enough) but you have the suit an editor, follow fashion (without being hackneyed) and do a number of other things I haven’t grasped yet. I know that sounds strange, but it’s all part of the constant learning process – the known unknowns and the unknown unknowns of poetry

Photo by Stas Knop on Pexels.com

More on Weddings etc

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Since posting early this morning, I have been to sleep, slept badly (my head hurt every time I lowered it to the pillow), watched the Adventures of Zog the Dragon, had breakfast, waved off Number two Son and family on the next part of their journey and sat down to catch up on blogging. I have four day to catch up on, but it i better than carting a laptop around and trying to cope with writing a post on my knee as various things happen around me.

Number Two Son made the Best Man’s speech. He was constrained by instructions from his brother – keep it short, keep it clean, don’t try to be funny, don’t tell embarrassing stories . . . He was also unlucky in being third up – the bride’s father did a decent speech, the groom did too. So, with all the good jokes having been used (including the one about the bride’s father looking like Stanley Tucci), and a list of subjects he couldn’t cover, Number two Son rose. He was impressive – succinct. amusing and holding the audience in the palm of his hand.  Considering that he normally communicates in grunts, it was actually more than impressive – it was surprising. I’d like to say that he takes after his father, but he doesn’t, I’m hopeless at public speaking – always have been.

One of the strange things about the weekend was the number of people who stopped me and told me how proud I should be of my sons. I don’t see why. They have turned out to be hard working and responsible but that’s what I would expect. Should I be proud of that? I can’t help thinking that when you become proud of your kids for growing up to be decent human beings there’s something wrong with the world.

Back!

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Puffins at Bempton

I’m back from Norfolk. Sorry about the various delays in comments and reading (I have not even started to catch up on reading yet).

The car started playing up on the way there and got worse on the way back. With No 2 Son, partner and Grandson on board, this was not a great scenario. I did get back and am now bracing myself for a costly quote. They typically wear out by 120,000 miles (which is what I have done) so I shouldn’t be disappointed, but as my other Passat did 247,000 miles without needing anew clutch and I have driven a host of Fords and Citroens over 120,000 on the same clutch, I do feel disappointed, whatever the website may say.

With last year’s cam belt replacement I should be able to go another ten years without major work. Famous last words . . .

Springfields

I am very sunburnt on the head and ears. This is partly because I forgot to pack a hat, partly because I tried to tough it out (Note a positive mental attitude does not defend against sunburn) and partly because our side of the family was allocated seats in the sun at the outdoor ceremony. The bride’s family had all the shade.

It is painful, made worse by it being partly self-induced, and I am feeling sorry for myself. I have also had a rejection from someone who always rejects me. This adds to the misery, but not much and not for long.

We got home last night. It is nice to be back. This morning at around 10.45 all the electrics went out. They came back on a couple of minutes later and we had to reset all sorts of stuff. This was annoying, though not as annoying as having your infrastructure demolished by the Israeli or US Air Forces, so falls into the realm of First World problems. Of course, with the way the US makes enemies these days, and the Russians nibbling away at the edges of Europe, it’s probably only a matter of time before we get bombed.

At times like this, I wonder if it was a responsible thing to do to have a family.

Poppies growing from cracks in concrete

WP seems to be making changes. My media files are being presented differently and they are giving us stickers. They are trying to involve us more, stop us leaving as they mess us about and will, I suspect, eventually be linked to a money-making scheme. I have studied this sort of thing because it fascinates me. It’s also what Number One Son used to do whe he worked in internet gambling.

A Title Suggests Itself Then I Forget it

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I really should make notes when I think of these things . . .

Julia completed the stitching on my trousers in quick time – about four times as fast as I had doner my bit, and far neater. She said it’s not perfect but it should do. I pointed out that anyone who was prepared to examine the black stitching in my black trousers from a close enough distance to see it, was unlikely to be worried about the quality of stitching. And if they were that fixated on neatly hemmed trousers, they weren’t the sort of person I wanted to engage in conversation anyway. Life is too short to worry about a bit of stitching. It would be nice, however, if all leg measurements on trousers were accurate. I can alter the waist with a belt but braces, excellent though they are, can’t really make up for an extra couple of inches in the leg.

It’s Thursday already and the visitors have only just caught up on their sleep. Ideally we should now be embarking on a list ot touristy things, but we have to get everything ready for Wedding II, the sequel. I enjoyed Wedding I but I’m not so sure about the festivities and all the jollity and young people that will be at the next one. There are going to be five babies, I’m told, which sounds like the basis of a diabolical musical instrument rather than a fun afternoon.

I envisage a line of children in highchairs, each with a favourite toy. When you want noise, you take the toy away from them. The resulting noise won’t be pretty, but avant-garde music seldom is. I  could be an innovator. Or I could be moments away from being pelted with cheesy pasta by irate parents.

Anyway, got to go now. Grandson calling for company to watch cartoons. I feel it is my duty to help out.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

2nd of the Day

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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 . . .

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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