Trivial Conversation with Myself

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A whole day stretched out in front of me this morning . . .

I had pretty much the same thing yesterday too, and that didn’t really work out that well. I seem to have done a few things, but nothing that makes me feel good.

Today I go up, read WP, did comments etc, had breakfast, read and wrote some trivia before making lunch (Julia is at the tearoom this afternoon so we eat early), watched TV, drifted into a nap, dreamed about a gang of monkeys taking over the world, woke in the middle of a nature programme and decided to use the small hoover. It is currently charging as it was flat. Washed up and now, waiting for a charge in the hoover, I am typing trivia and thinking “I really must get a keyboard where the “t” works.”. It’s irritating going back to insert all the missing letters.

The original blog post was slightly more bitter than the one you see here but I decided to lighten the mood. It’s alarming how short a factual account of my day can be, and how simple it seems in hindsight.

I’m currently trying to access my comments, but I can’t. This is just another example of how WP are perpetually tinkering and perpetually making life harder. I’m seriously thinking of going back to a free blog rather than paying for irritatingly fault filled services. I would miss the photo storage but I don’t take many photos these days so probably wouldn’t miss it. People often worry about losing all their words, but to be honest, I probably wouldn’t. To a large extent, my blog is just disposable words. Any pride I have in the blog is in my ability to keep it going for so long and the fact I have attracted a dozen other bloggers of distinction to become regular readers.

I pressed the blue bell and nothing happened. I tried again. I refreshed the page and a shadowy version came down, then disappeared. Repeat. And again. Eventually I got them. Why does it take three attempts to access something that used to be there reliably for the first ten years I used it. Why do I have to press more buttons to read other blogs than I used to? Why do they now blank out the side panels when I am writing, I can write with things down the side. Probably “an improvement” I didn’t need in the first place.

Then I had trouble with the photos . . .

Why, why, why, why, why?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hard Tack and Historical Accuracy

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1862 American Civil War Hard Tack

I’ve just been researching hard tack, the famous ship’s biscuit of the British Navy, though it was used by many nations in history. There was a claim on the internet that army hard tack from the American Civil War was the oldest preserved biscuit known. This isn’t a great age for a product that is claimed to be indestructible (and is well known to have been resistant to being eaten), so I had a further look. WW1 and Boer War biscuits are e common and there is a sample dating back to an Arctic expedition of 1875. It’s all a bit short of the 1860s, so could the American claims be correct?

No. Of course they aren’t. A more detailed search of the internet revealed a biscuit on display in Kronberg castle, Elsinore, Denmark (famous, I believe, for being the setting for Hamlet) is claimed to date from 1851.

1851 – Elsinore hard tack

And that answers my question, as long as my question is “What is the second oldest known hard tack biscuit in the world?” But it wasn’t. The normally reliable Danes have let us down on this one.

1784 Hard Tack

The oldest piece of hard tack I have been able to find dates from 1784. It has an inscription written on it,  “This biscuit was given – Miss Blacket at Berwick on Tuesday 13 April 1784,” and is signed “Bewick”. The signature is thought to be from the famous wood engraver Thomas Bewick (1753-1828) and the biscuit has passed down the family by descent. Nine years older and it would not just be older than the oldest American example, but older than the USA itself. I’m still searching . . .


British Army Hard Tack 1914-18 – made by the famous biscuit  manufacturers Huntley and Palmers.

 

A Well-Oiled Machine

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Today, like a part in a well-oiled machine, I attended hospital, was processed and am now home.

The taxi, ordered for 8.45, arrived early. The traffic, where I had anticipated queues, proved to be free-flowing and by 8.55 I was standing outside the main entrance wondering what to do with the time until 9.30.

In the end I sat and waited, talked with one of the wonderful volunteers who stand inside the doors to help people, wasted the time until 8.15 then allowed one of the volunteers to push me through the corridor until I reached Rheumatology. There I was weighed, measured and tested for blood pressure. I have weight, height and blood pressure so was allowed to sit and wait again.

At 8.30, or perhaps a minute after, a doctor called me through and discussed my arthritis, my history of arthritis and which joints hurt. She did this by pressing them all, which was not my favourite bit of the day. I’m pretty sure you could make a musical instrument by linking arthritic finger joints to form a keyboard as a variety of old people went “ooh!” and “aah!”.

Then I taken to the door and pointed to the back of the hospital. Here they X-rayed my hands. They did my hands so they can keep a record as they deteriorate. They did my feet, even though I don’t have arthritis in my feet, because they like to use them for reference too. This involved being told to turn my knees and similar things. I resisted the temptation to point out that if my knees were capable of doing some of the things they wanted I wouldn’t need the X-rays.

I asked the receptionist if she could ring for a volunteer to help me, and one duly arrived, pushed by a man older than me. He was very good at his job and avoided crippling anyone as he manoeuvred through the crowd of idlers and assorted pedestrians that was, by this time, filling the corridor.

I rang for a taxi, it arrived five minutes later and shortly after, I was home.

All in all a very positive experience with very little of the aimless and unexplained waiting that used to characterise a visit to hospital.

The only fault was that, with it being a Bank Holiday tomorrow, one of the battery of blood tests they require can’t be done, so I have to spend another £20 on taxi fares and waste a morning to have the blood tests done next week.

The farming industry works 365 days a year and doesn’t pause for artificially applied holidays because animals still need feeding and eggs still need collecting. But medical staff cannot, it appears, do the same.

Finally, I wrote about it and pressed some mystical combination of keys on my keyboard that wiped out all my words. It seems to happen quite a lot these days and it is very annoying. Fortunately I managed to get them back.

Photographs will probably be from April in a previous year. I like April. I wish it could be longer.

I Dream of Writing Thunderbolts

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I had an answer to the last of February’s submissions yesterday – two poems accepted.  Today, I had the first reply for my March submissions – two poems accepted. That makes 15 so far this year. As a percentage my acceptances are about 50%, but I’m submitting to magazines that have resisted me for years in some cases, so I expect it. It’s all part of the hardening process.

Even the presence of growing queues at filling stations couldn’t bring me down, though it did stop me becoming 100% happy. The world appears to be at war and I can’t do a thing to stop it. I could write a poem, but that probably wouldn’t make the lunatic warlords stop the war, even if I could write a veritable thunderbolt of a poem.

My Orange Parker Pen

And that’s it. I sat up late two nights ago, grappling with last minute submissions. I then got up early to drop Julia at wood turning. Last night I also sat up writing. Then  I got up early(ish) this morning to take Julia to the railway station. I gazed at my screen for a few hours and did some basic tasks, went to the doctor, came back and more or less closed down. Couldn’t concentrate and eventually fell asleep a couple of times. It’s not been one of my finest days.

I have to be off early tomorrow morning too, as I have an appointment with rheumatology a 9.30. OK, not terribly early, but early enough. One of the qualities I had in youth was the ability to bounce back after limited sleep. I seem to have lost that.

The good news is that I only have one submission planned for April. Sometimes it falls like that. I can polish something that has been returned this month and try it again. I already have a piece in mind from the batch that was returned this morning.

In that quiet month I can catch up, regroup and, I hope, write some quality stuff. Maybe that veritable thunderbolt of a poem is waiting to be written next month . . .

Deep down, I want to be Dylan Thomas and write this poem.

 

 

 

 

New Plans

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10.38.

Last night I decompressed by sneaking in a late night post.

Today I rose unwillingly, took Julia to wood turning, wrestled with my car clock (I always forget how to reset it when the clocks alter)  and sat down at the computer.

A tour of bloggers, a few comments, check my emails and i am about to write a post so it isn’t hanging over my head. I will then make final adjustments to two submission emails and, after sending them off, I will, as I said last night, re-evaluate my life.

I am, once again, doing too many things for other people and not enough for myself. I like writing about coins, for instance, but I don’t want to write something new every week. The idea was that I would assist in filling the Facebook page with content and encourage other people to contribute. I managed the first bit, but the second has not happened.  We have people in the society who could contribute, but they want to pursue their own projects and won’t even do a few hundred words for the society. Well, I have my own projects too.

My first priority is family. My second is my writing. I like writing. I have had ambitions to be a writer since I was about 8 years old.  Sadly, the ambition never came to much, but in retirement I have a small window of opportunity and really don’t want to waste it.

It’s like the rugby club. I have just been reading a piece about a junior rugby tour and it has brought back all sorts of memories, some good, but some not. People tell you that you’re doing good work, but when you ask other parents for help you find they all have other things to do.

This is, I think, a good place to stop.

 

 

 

A Hamster Analogy

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In the car park at Carsington Water – storm clouds

Today I have blogged. I have been to the doctor. I have lunched on homemade soup (the last of the butternut and sage soup) and I have watched quizzes. I have also, to be fair, watched a bit of TV, snoozed, eaten tea and stared at a screen hoping for a miracle after wiping out 300 words in one of those glitches that sometimes occurs. It can’t be my fault entirely. I clearly delete my work with some random selection of key strokes, but WP really should have a better way to stop me doing it. Even Open Office, which is free, stops me destroying my own work.

In between all this I have also got to grips with sorting out submissions for the end of the month. That is tomorrow. Even as I group the poems for final transmission, I find I am still tinkering with them. I am now down to changing the odd word – the finest of fine tuning.

 

On Wednesday, when all the dust has settled I am going to rethink my life. There must be a beter way to work.

The poetry is going quite well, if I am honest, and I am happy to continue with hat.

The society web pages and newsletter, I am less happy with. It seems a lot of effort for little result and the bulk of the work seems to rest on just two people. As nobody is helping it seems fair to deduce that the bulk of the members aren’t bothered and won’t notice if I stop.

And, of course, I really do need to get myself better organised. However, saving a day a week by cutting out some of the work is a quicker fix than saving twenty minutes here and there by sorting myself out and not looking at Wikipedia.

Daffodils in Nottingham

After all, I’m retired, and I don’t want to replace one lot of work with another lot of work.

First reorganisation – buy a new keyboard, it’s taking me ages every day just checking all the t’s are where they are supposed to be.

And it just took me ten minutes to check that t’s is correct in that context – more time wasted, but it looked wrong when I did it.

Photos will just be random. I have run out of ideas. I selected April 2018.

Robin

Rats

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Squirrel in a bin – Clitheroe Castle

We had quite a lot of interesting bird and animal behaviour in the garden in the last few weeks – the regular appearance of greenfinches and goldfinches in the garden after a winter absence, the long-tailed tit that stared in at me, the squirrel eating samphire and, most notably, a rat chasing a squirrel. It was a small rat and the squirrel was quite a bit bigger, but it sill ran off. The rat tried to follow it into a shrub but the squirrel was up and away well before the rat could make a start.

I don’t like rats. I particularly don’t like rats when they come into our garden under the fence from other garden. We keep our garden as clear as we can from excess bird food and it annoys me that other people clearly don’t. Unfortunately we can’t  keep it clean 100% of the time, even though we only feed modest amounts on the ground. If rats come out in daylight, they will find food before the birds have finished it. I say rats, there are two of them as far as we can see. We aren’t exactly overrun with them, , but we don’t want more so we have to act.

Squirrel at Rufford

The trap I bought, and baited with delicious peanut butter has failed to tempt them. Spreading chopped chillies on the ground failed to stop them, mainly because the pigeons ate the chillies before they could do any good.

Today, I have netting arriving and we will be attempting to block the route under the fence.

Other choices include ultrasonic devices, and strongly scented oils.  I’m trying to avoid poisons (including baking soda variations), and the obvious cure – stopping feeding the birds.

I could also learn to live with rats, but years of keeping poultry has conditioned me to get rid of them. Same goes for the years of being warned of rat-borne disease.

No pictures of rats, so I went with squirrels.

Lord Woolton Pie

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Although it has come down in the world since 1940, being just plain Woolton Pie today, it is an icon of WW2, having been mentioned in Dad’s Army, and by many elderly relatives, though not with any great affection.

Originally, having being developed by Francois Latry ((1889-1966), the head chef of the Savoy Hotel in London from 1919-42, it was on the menu as Lord Woolton Pie, named after the Minister of Food, whom was responsible for rationing. He is chiefly remembered for his Lord Woolton Pie, though he did assist Woolton in developing a range of dishes.

He is pictured on a website preparing a bear for roasting in 1921 when Bear Ham was on the menu, garnished with chestnuts. it was on the menu for Christmas Dinner at the Savoy and had not been eaten since the days of Henry VIII. I’m surprised he isn’t better known for this but he papers seem to have taken it in their stride and expressed neither horror nor surprise. . In answer to your first question, I haven’t a clue where he sourced his bears. To answer you second question, yes, bear meat is generally considered quite palatable, though can be a bit of a lottery depending on what it has been eating. This website gives you further details and has links to cooking mountain lions and 12 foot alligators.

It first came to public notice in April 1941, when The Times published the recipe and described it as “good”, “economical” and “wholesome”.

However, they later said:  “When Woolton pie was being forced on somewhat reluctant tables, Lord Woolton performed a valuable service by submitting to the flashlight camera at public luncheons while eating, with every sign of enjoyment, the dish named after him.”

I imagine it would be tricky to tell people to eat Woolton Pie whilst eating something else.

O

Personally, I don’t have a problem with it as it’s more or less the vegetable stew I make every week, and the vegetable base for the corned beef hash recipe I developed. I just cover it with a crust.

My sister gave it the seal of approval, though she is vegetarian and is used to this sort of thing. Julia was less enthusiastic as she can’t see why it needs a crust when we normally have it with dumplings.

The “original” recipe is available on The 1940’s Experiment, which has many other interesting recipes and leaflets. I used a stock cube and Henderson’s relish instead of Marmite and a mix of parsnip and swede (rutabaga) to prevent excessive sweetness. I also missed out the parley because I forgot to order it, and used ready rolled pastry because I am lazy.

I probably won’t make it again as it’s easier to make vegetable stew with dumplings, but it was perfectly acceptable and I’d be happy to eat it again if someone cooked it for me.

It is served with gravy. We had spiced red cabbage (frozen and forgotten at Christmas) and roasted brussels with the left over chestnuts from the Mushroom & Chestnut Pie, though the original seems to have been served on its own.

 

 

 

 

 

Influencers, Doom and Renewable Energy

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Just a quick note to anyone expecting a post on a serious note about Renewable Energy, – sorry, you have been misled by a flippant title.

Sorry, too, about yesterday’s post, it got a bit close to midnight and I decided to take a shortcut and use a poem to fill the gap. However, do not fear, the lapse into culture is only temporary and I am now back to carping about the modern world.

I’ve just been reading about influencers. There are millions of them, they are an important marketing resource for big brands, they sometimes lack credibility (sometimes?) and although the article was written using English words, it made no sense. I am left with a feeling of doom after looking at the future of he human race.

I used to worry, when I started blogging, that I had nothing to say and was being very arrogant in thinking that people would be interested in reading about my life. This has been a consistent thought as I am still amazed that anyone stops by regularly to read.

I’m even more amazed that people have millions of followers based on content that I don’t remember. Some do comedy sketches, one gave a way a million dollars, and I can’t actually remember what the rest of them wrote about. I’m fairly sure that it is, like my trivia, easily forgettable, and in the absence of paper copies won’t even do for tomorrow’s chip wrappings or budgie cages.

The other thing I was thinking about was renewable energy.  There is surprisingly little work being done on generating power by forking influencers into a furnace. In fact, since the Middle Ages, there has been little work done at all on sinners, forks and furnaces.

Clare Pooley did a good post on the Wenhaston Doom. Anyone who can write a blog about flowers growing out of a wall, manacles and Church architecture should be encouraged. Why not visit her blog and tell her you’d like to see more of her writing? No pressure Clare . . .

Pictures are of various Dooms from around the country – we really are very lucky to have so much history all around us.

 

 

 

More Poetry

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My Orange Parker Pen

This is a tanka prose that was first published in Blithe Spirit 36.1, the journal of the British Haiku Society, in February this year. It is different from the original version, which was about eggs and lockdown and parents. This is about writing a poem and cooking eggs. It deviates slightly from reality as I mention coffee, where we always have tea for breakfast. Tea doesn’t really smell so I took the lazy way out and said we had coffee so I could add an extra sense to the poem.

But first, a tanka, from the same issue. It is based on the annual culling of the Christmas card list as my circle of cousins decreases.

old Christmas card
displayed again
fading slightly
sent by a man
who will not send another

I thought that’s what it was about, anyway. Julia reads it as a story about the Christmas card I have been sending her since 1988. It’s a good one and the message is still relevant. Why waste money, I ask, on another?

 

Life, seen in a Frying Pan

In lockdown, I decided to make better scrambled eggs and wrote a poem in my head as I stirred and learned. It spilled onto paper, took shape and, like the eggs, looked good. On the first rejection I checked all the words and moved them into better order. On the second I added an anecdote, on the third an allegory. At the fourth attempt I slimmed it down.

After five attempts I wondered if it might be bad, or if editors might dislike poems about scrambled eggs. When you think about it, it isn’t a subject you ever see. Eventually it faded from my mind, as poems like it often do. Recently, stirring eggs and making breakfast for my wife, I breathed in the toast and coffee smells and remembered the first line.

five eggs
two broken yolks
a speck of shell
things which are not perfect
still turn out well

The pen that Julia made at the wood turning group