Conservatory – the Final Fix

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Just after Christmas we had our new conservatory roof fitted. I nearly cried. It was the most I’d ever paid for something, and I hadn’t been expecting to pay that much so soon on maintaining the new place. But at least we had a waterproof conservatory. The temporary repair/bodge we had had done by our first builder (estimated to give us two or three years based on the last time he had done it), proved to be as good as the rest of his work.

Allium Flower

Unfortunately, one of the new panels, by March, had condensation in it. Julia immediately set to work on getting it replaced. It took around two months for them to come out and see it and another two months to actually get the part and fit it (which took about 20 minutes once they actually arrived). I am now worried that we have spent a large sum of money on something that is going to be a problem for the rest of our lives, though I’m hoping that I’m wrong.

They are nice people, and the standards of workmanship, when they actually turn up, seem to be good. Part of the delay is because it’s a family business and one of the parents is ill. I sympathise.  But having said that, I can’t bring myself to leave a review of their work.

Garden Flowers

I don’t want to be overly critical of the work, which is generally good, but I don’t want to be responsible for someone else spending a lot of money and getting similarly slow service (seven months and many missed appointments to get it properly finished). It is a modern dilemma.

In the old days, word of mouth, delivered face to face, was useful. But written words, constrained by a word limit, aren’t quite the same, and can come back to haunt you. Criticism on review sites always seems harsher, and good feedback often seems too good to be true.

Flower competition – Flintham Show

A Quiet Revolution

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We now have Andy Burnham as Prime Minister. He got off to a bad start with me when he promised a “circuit-breaker moment”. I’m guessing he’s not big on electrical work as the last time we had a circuit-breaker moment at home the freezer went off and the lights went out. Readers of a certain age may remember previous Labour governments where the lights (literally) went out and, in the Winter of Discontent, no bins were collected and people could not be buried.

As I’m not a great believer in party politics, I have to point out that the Conservative government also had trouble keeping the lights on.

I’m just saying that Burnham needs to look at getting a new speech writer. He needs all the help he can get as this is the man who came fourth in a leadership to Ed Milliband and lost his next one to Jeremy Corbyn. Ed Miliband, for those who don’t know, is to charisma what I am to the fitness industry. And Jeremy Corbyn makes me look positively modern in outlook. It’s a shame really, I like Corbyn because he has principles, despite it being an archaic and inconvenient concept.

He comes from a time when you could tell the difference between Conservatives and Labour. Now the only real difference is the cost of their suits, and as we saw when news about Starmer’s wardrobe surfaced, even that isn’t a sure-fire way to tell the difference these days.

I generally try to avoid politics, but sometimes I think I need to lay down a marker so a future student of politics can see what the man in the street really thinks of the clowns in power. Last time a man rose to power, wearing a big smile and promising a new style of politics it was Tony Blair. He’s a man who has, at times, been one of the most popular Prime Ministers we ever had, and also one of the least popular.  If you are bothered you can make your own mind up. I will merely say that in contrast to Jeremy Corbyn, I do not feel that Tony Blair is weighed down by principles.

No political pictures, as I don’t have any suitable ones and, to be honest, it’s a busy day. One look at Mallard and the world seems a better place.

Garibaldi – Biscuits, Brass Medals and Ballarat

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Garibaldi medallet – obverse

I’ve just been reading this post. Paol Soren is writing about place names around Ballarat, which he illustrates with photographs, including one showing a road sign saying Garibaldi. That was all I needed to reprint an article I wrote for the Numismatic Society of Nottinghamshire. I’m very lazy that way.

The first time I ever heard of Garibaldi was when I read Wind in the Willows around 60 years ago, and Mole, on revisiting his old home, was said to have a bust of him in his garden. In his lifetime, he was quite a famous personality. When he visited the UK in 1864, he was not allowed out of the capital, being regarded as a dangerous radical. The workers of Nottingham gave him an illuminated scroll, but they had to go to London to see him, as he was denied permission to visit Nottingham.

This is the smallest medallion in my collection, but one of the bigger figures from history. His home city was Nice At the time of his birth it was part of France, having been annexed by the French Republic in 1792 after 400 years as a possession of the Duchy of Savoy. It reverted to “Italy” in 1815, becoming part of the Kingdom of Piedmont-Sardinia, before being returned to France as payment for the help of Napoleon III in helping to unify Italy.

Garibaldi medallet – reverse

Garibaldi was a leading figure in Italian unification. He fled after being condemned to death for his part in an abortive revolt in 1834 and spent 14 years abroad, fighting two wars in South America, before his return to Italy with his famous Red Shirts.
Traditional stories say the red shirts were meant for Argentinian butchers, but there is no evidence of Argentinian butchers ever wearing red shirts. It is possible that they were modelled on the red flannel shirts Garibaldi saw New York firemen wearing. What is more certain is that Nottingham Forest adopted Garibaldi Red as their club colour in 1865, and still use the colour, (and Garibaldi name), to this day. One of their old nicknames was The Garibaldi and the fan organisation set up in 2016 to celebrate the 150th anniversary of the club is Forza Garibaldi. There was also an amateur football club called Nottingham Garibaldi and the name lives on today in Garibaldi School in Forest Town (named after a nearby plantation). For a time, red shirts became a popular fashion item in Europe and America.

Garibaldi medallet compared to a penny for size comparison

The medallion is 14mm in diameter and made of brass. They are sometimes found on watch chains, worn as fobs or charms, which is why most of them are pierced.

The Obverse design features a left-facing bust of Garibaldi with the words “Garibaldi ne a Nice le 4 Juillet 1807” (Garibaldi, born in Nice 3 July 1807) and the reverse has “Independence / Italienne/· + · ” within a wreath of laurels.
If you are wondering about the biscuits, yes Garibaldi Biscuits are named after him. They were launched in 1861 by Peek Frean’s, and although there were stories about them being based on the hard tack and wild berries eaten by the Red Shirts, it seems simply to have been a commercial decision to link the new biscuit to a commercially popular personality.
The famous Garibaldi biscuit

Summary of a Day Where Not Much Happened

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(Wrote this yesterday and forgot to post it).

It’s just coming up to 11.00 and I have been up for three hours or thereabouts. I’m retired, I don’t need to work things out to the minute.

In that time I have read blogs, commented, replied to comments and finished off a post which I then posted without tags or a title. I’ve also had breakfast (fruit and porridge), prepared by Julia, I just needed to eat it.

And that’s it. A pathetically small amount of activity for three hours. I’ve not sorted out a delivery that needs sorting, I’ve not replied to an NHS email (the crisp reply I wrote as a first attempt was judged to be in need of work by Julia). I am therefore going to waste twenty minutes being effusive and apologetic for something that isn’t my fault and ten minutes showing Julia how  I have done what she says. Then, of course, I am going to send my original version.

Actually, I just remembered. I have put in the TESCO order. I have established, with forensic precision, who is at fault for us running out of Weetabix. I have cleaned my teeth extensively. It seems to take longer these days. Fewer teeth but more hiding places for strawberry seeds. We are having raspberries next week – it will be worse. I have cleared out some  emails. I have wondered about the meaning of life. I have tided away a few things I left out last night. I have researched a new email system, as I am getting fed up with BT and their regular outages. And their unhelpful customer service “bot”. I’m sure they do it deliberately as they want to get rid of all their old email customers.

And so, I drift, in my unfocused manner, back to the things I haven’t done. I might have to write a list. Or I may drift on, do a bit, make lunch and snooze in front of the TV.

I am retired, and I don’t have to work all day.

Birds and Mice

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I have a new mouse. After several months of blaming my computer, Microsoft updates and a dirty screen (I  grasp at straws) it occurred to me that the problem might be my mouse. A look at the mouse, with its top worn smooth by my fingers as I performed thousands of scrolls and clicks,  revealed that I have had it quite a long time.

Green Woodpecker – this an adult on the farm some years ago

The final test, after months of problems with random menus, failures to cut and paste, and an increasing tendency to rearrange text, came when I realised I could use the panel on my laptop that serves as a mouse. Everything worked perfectly when I used that.  It’s also working perfectly with the replacement mouse. I assume something just wore out with constant use.

It’s one of those boiling frog moments, when you suddenly realise that a succession of tiny changes has crept up on you and combined into a serious fault without you noticing. Now I have a new mouse everything works better, and using the computer is so much easier.

I’m sure there is more to report than that. Something important happened earlier in the week but I forget what it is. I’m sure it’s important though.

We have had the sparrowhawk in the garden again, and an immature Green Woodpecker visited the front lawn in pursuit of ants. That’s now three sightings for the sparrowhawk (a female) and one for the Green Woodpecker. I did see an adult in the trees next to the house before, but this is the first time we’ve seen one in the garden.

Great Tit – or “lunch” as sparrowhawks think of them

Bad news for the garden Great Tit population is that their size and eating habits make them ideal prey for the sparrowhawk.

I’m sure there was something else I meant to write about, but I can’t bring it to mind. I’m sure it will come back to me. Or maybe not.

PS – forgot title and tags before publishing. Bah!

Devil Dog Goes Nuts

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It’s three days since my last post, give or take a few hours. This is handy because it is half the previous lapse and makes it look like I’m making progress.

England lost 2-1 tonight and Argentina paraded round the pitch afterwards with a political banner. It was against FIFA regulations on such things, it’s not a classy way to celebrate a win, but that’s football for you.

Anyway, given that Donald Trump seems to consider himself a personal friend of the King, and an expert on football, I’m tending to think of the result as 2-1 (subject to official confirmation by President Trump).

That is my nod to world events of historical note.

Now, how about this. If you think you had a bad day, see what Billy Mann has been up to today.

You will then understand my title. And Billy’s anguish.

(Warning: Not for the Faint-Hearted)

Meanwhile, my day progressed quite well. After a major breakdown of my email system, and needing to use it quite urgently as I had two submissions to make, I resorted to the BT help bot.

Pigs and flowers

This consisted of a circular system where the questions always came back to the same answer – “Many customers with this problem found that resetting their password solved the problem”. Well it didn’t solve mine, because to reset the password you have to be able to progress further than it was allowing me to go. Absolutely useless. Useless email, useless help system. I will be resetting my password, but I will be resetting it using a different provider. I’m not looking forward to changing, but I’m not sure how long I can carry on with the shoddy service either.

I did eventually get the two submissions sent off in time and then did a third one, which will surprise the editor, who is more used to me submitting with only hours to spare.

Finally, another acceptance for a tanka prose and a request via the Military History Group for use of another of my articles. Looks like I’m doing something right.

Meadow flowers at East Leake

The Days Pass

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It is now six days since my last post. They slip by so, easily in my days spent sitting by fans sipping cold water and eating ice cream. That’s not my entire day, of course, Julia is rationing me to one ice cream a day. It is for the best. I’ve been out a few times but returned to shade and fans as soon as possible. We have had a builder  in doing more jobs that should have been done years ago. We still have jobs that need doing too. It never ends . . .

Several notable people have died in this period, including a politician who seems to have been murdered and a TV presenter who was my age when he died. I could, I suppose, offer some commentary on the events but all I would be doing would be voicing an opinion based on what I have seen of them on TV. They both seemed OK and I’m sorry they died sooner than they, and their families would have wanted. These days I tend to think of people in relation to our ages – one was 11 years older than me, one was my age. Any sadness I may feel at their passing would be heavily intertwined with thoughts on my life expectancy.

I also try to avoid the modern curse of thinking I know people after reading Wikipedia, an obituary and a scattering of internet gossip.

I see one of our national football team has just referred to him and his team mates putting in a “hard shift”. Shifts tend to be eight hours long, depressing, tedious and poorly paid. It’s not how I would describe the life of a professional footballer.

I just checked up on my views to see if I was being fair and accurate. It seems they start their training  days “early” and “often around 7:30 or 8am”. I can’t help feeling that this says as much about the life of a journalist as it does about the life of a footballer, as most of the working world doesn’t see this as early. Nor do we start the day with a light breakfast of low fat and high protein ingredients. Employers generally expect you to have eaten before you arrive.

However, like members of the Royal Family, footballers are easy targets, as they are so divorced from the realities of life. I will, therefore, desist, though I will link to the doings of the Royals. Prince Harry, in his campaign against the press, seems to have come unstuck this week and he and his celebrity mates failed to carry any of their points in the recent court case. Yes, I admit that it must be irritating to have the press pursuing you, but you can’t have press coverage when it suits you and turn it off when it doesn’t. Anyway, none of the people that joined him in the case were particulalrly interesting, so either way, it’s no interest to me, apart from a variety of public figures being told to grow up.

I’m very conflicted with this case. Yes, I’m glad the celebrities lost, but I don’t really like the press winning, and I certainly don’t like the idea of the lawyers making money from it. In the world of cosmic balance it feels like we all lost a little bit this week.

In poetry terms I have had either one (or two) acceptances (I’m not quite sure when I last reported on this) and a rejection. I’m about to start submitting, as there are some things I need to get in before the 15th. I meant to do them last week but I just ignored them and sat in front of a fan. That, I think, is where I began, so it’s now time to go.

Football’s Shame

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Football has had many shameful moments. Enoch West, a local man (I say that as a resident of Nottingham for the last 37 years) was a great example of one of football’s villains. Born in Hucknall, he played professionally for Sheffield United before transferring to Nottingham Forest for a fee of £5. He was the first player ever sent off whilst playing for Nottingham Forest and in 1915, playing for Manchester United,  was convicted of match fixing. Four United Players and four Liverpool players were banned. West refused to admit his wrongdoing (possibly because he was wrongfully convicted) and his ban was not lifted until 1945 – a thirty year ban being the longest in Football League history.

For an American parallel, look to the Chicago Black Sox (not only a racist recasting of the White Sox name, but a crime against orthography) and “Shoeless Joe” Jackson. Of course, they have made films about that, but Enoch West has never, as far as I know, appeared on screen.

I love the history of sport, it’s just a shame that modern sport is so tawdry and diminished in comparison. The money is bigger but the characters are not the same.

Enoch West was banned for 30 years, Jackson was banned for 105. Balogun was reprieved before the ban was served.

Today, in contrast, Forest just announced they were selling Elliot Anderson to Manchester City for £115 million. Inflation of a high order indeed.

FIFA also announced the shortest ban in football history today too. Donald Trump got in touch with them to tell them that he didn’t think the offence that earned a red card, and a one match ban, for USA player Folarin Balogun was a foul.

Donald Trump is, of course, an oracle on all things, including the rules of football. And Gianni Infantini, after surviving many investigations for corruption, is an expert at being in the centre of controversy.  Trump has already had a meaningless “Peace Prize” awarded by FIFA, isn’t he just being greedy by demanding they re-write the rules to suit the USA national team?

The trouble isn’t whether it was a foul or not, or whether the ref was right or not, it’s that football has made it look as if it is open to corruption, that if does not back up its referees and that the USA, if it does pull off a fairytale ending and win the World Cup, will forever be remembered for controversy.

We might have to start using an asterisk again, like they did for Roger Maris and his batting record.

 

Out of Ideas

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Community Gardening – Sherwood – Nottingham

I didn’t realise until WP started posting a daily dose of retrospective posts, that I am writing about the same thing over and over again.

In 2025 I was writing about medical matters and the planning and scheduling behind my poetry writing.

In 2024 I wrote about elections and the moral shortcomings of politicians, including Peter Mandelson.

In 2023 I wrote two posts on the same day. One was about not having any ideas (note that I wrote the title for this post before starting the original post, which is now edited to nothing). The other was about the contents of my head and producing ideas from there.

In 2022 the subject was ideas. Can you see a pattern developing? That was the year that I gave up on titles – the post being Day 185.

In 2021 it was slightly better. That was the day that a lady rang the shop to confirm that we were Collectors World.  Having established that, she proceeded to ask me how she could change the batteries in her carol-singing ceramic rabbit figurine. It turns out there was a shop selling gi

In 2020 I wrote 10 Good Things About Breathing.

In 2019 it was a rant about old folk on mobility scooters. It was a sign of things to come, and slightly poignant as my own mobility scooter is sadly under-used.

Bumble Bee Mencap Garden Wilford

It seems to have been a good day for me, as there are more posts – 2018, two from 2017 and one from 2016.  I won’t link to them all as it’s a lot of reading, but I am pleased I managed to get 11 successive years. On some dates they only pick up half of that.

It seems that the further I get back the more interesting I become – some of the unlinked posts include baking pizza, and building benches from pallets. However, there is still some chuntering about sunburn, fish and chips and birdwatching.

The pattern is there on other days too and the conclusion is clear – I am gradually writing about a shrinking pool of subjects. I don’t just need new subjects for poems, I need new subjects for blogging.

The shopping has arrived, so after we have put that away I will start to look for new ideas.

Figs at Wilford Mencap Garden

 

 

 

What a Difference a “T” Makes

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Reflecting on immortality this morning, I couldn’t help wondering what the difference is between immortality and immorality. One letter and fifty years, I decided. Even if I were single I wouldn’t have the energy for chasing women these days and nights of beer and curry are restricted by my digestion and fear of hangovers. I am not the man I was.

A mixture of books

I would like to achieve immortality through my writing, though I doubt that this will happen. The best I can hope for is that I actually get round to producing a book of poetry and that I get myself organised enough to fulfill my legal requirements, someone may dust my book off in a couple of centuries and cite it in their thesis on whatever they are doing – average poetry, vanity publishing or analysis of paper types.

Legal requirements? That’s right,  books published in the UK should be sent to the following Legal Deposit libraries – the British Library, National Library of Scotland, National Library of Wales. the Libraries of the University of Oxford, Cambridge University and the Library of Trinity College Dublin. It’s a strange list and one I’m not particularly happy with as Scotland, Wales and Ireland are always critical of England and Oxford and Cambridge can afford to buy their own books.

However, it’s nice to know that it will be available, whether it’s for a future scholar, a survivor of WW3 looking for toilet paper or a monkey dressed in leather armour. Or anybody dressed in leather armour, for that matter. Why, in all these fantasy and post-apocalyptic films do they never invent the printing press or a system of proportional representation, but they always manage to rivet bits of leather together?

That’s my thought for the day.

The Gardening Section