Monthly Archives: July 2021

An Email from WordPress

I’ve just had an email from WordPress telling me what a valuable member of the community I am and telling me that it’s almost my anniversary date. In other words, they want my money. For my money they will provide, amongst other meaningless claptrap, the “Ability to install plugins to give your site more functionality”.

If you remember the story, it was only the fact that I had the Business Plan that enabled me to install a plug-in and keep using WP after they made a number of alterations that made it virtually impossible for me to use the system. So, let’s get this straight, for £240 per annum I have access to plug-ins which, due to the “new and improved” editor system, allow me to carry on using an editor system that is worse than the one I used when I first joined in 2014. That’s progress . . .

However, it isn’t value for money and I have the feeling that I’m being taken to the cleaners.

I have been thinking that I should give the new editor a go now that I have anew computer and Operating System, but I’m still not sure that I like being shoved around by WP. All the old negativity is coming back. If I go over to the new editor I may as well take this site down and start again with a new plan – the Personal Plan at £3 a months seems good value and gives me all the features I currently use, apart from the lack of LIve Chat Support and the fact I’d have to get used to the new editor. For a saving of over £200 a year, I think I can do that.

I just need to think of a new name for the Blog and persuade about a dozen people to follow me across to it (the other 2,000 followers being a fictional way for WP to massage my ego, and keep my wallet open). It will, no doubt, play havoc with my photo storage, and I will have to drop back to posting a couple of times a week to reduce my need for photos, but it’s probably the way to go. It’s either that or start making money from blogging, but every time I look at doing that I realise I don’t know what they are talking about. This is a shame as, from what they say in their adverts, these top bloggers are making a fortune. Most of the fortune, of course, comes from gullible people like me who think there is money to be made from blogging.

I did get an e-book from Amazon about how to be a prolific, high-earning writer on the web, and it seems to involve writing lots of poor quality novellas (at the rate of one month). It doesn’t really get me any closer to earning money, but it does move me closer to understanding why their are so many pitifully poor quality cozy mysteries on Kindle.

Ten Minute Burst

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I’m going to try a Ten Minute Burst (TMB). I just read a few blogs on freshening up my writing, and this is what I came up with. I’ve noticed that I can do a post in a short time if I get my head down, so this is really nothing new, but the idea of actually using it as a writing tool is new. I could do two of them in an hour and I reckon that would produce more than many of the hours I spent looking at a blank screen and filling it word by hard-won word.

I think I may already have failed, as I forgot to note my start time. Plus I don’t actually have much of a plan. “Write” is not, it seems, good enough.

A big problem with this plan is, of course, that I have to prevent myself wandering off on the net. True to form, I have spent most of the last hour doing bits of research and rambling off. It’s been fun, but it’s not been much use from the point of view of working on my Ten Minute Burst technique. Clearly tomorrow will be a sterner test as I have a number of things to rewrite before I submit them. If all goes well I have three or four submissions to make in the next week.

It’s a funny thing – I meant to read up on more writing techniques, but then I started writing so much that I forgot to do it. Just one of life’s many ironies.

Victorian Values

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I was up a little later today, but am continuing my new system of getting up once I wake at an approximately suitable time. It may cut my sleep slightly short but I’m not convinced that the extra grudging 20-40 minutes of sleep is actually worth it. I never feel rested at the end of it.

It’s a funny day, Saturday. Lacking the discipline of the rest of the week, it is a slightly chaotic morning. I don’t have to get Julia to work, so there’s no rush to be out of the door before 8.00, but I do want to get to work in time to settle and find a parking spot. I’m old-fashioned like that. If I “start” at 10.00, I like to be there at least fifteen minutes early to get myself ready and relaxed. I’ve always done this, even in the days when a day in the office involved pens and paper rather than computers. Do you remember those days? We used to do our calculations using pen, paper and knowledge, instead of clattering away on a calculator or computer.

It’s always been one of those things that winds me up. If you start work at a certain time, that’s when you start. You son’t sidle into the office dead on time, hang your coat up, say hello to people, use the toilet,, shuffle the stuff on your desk and, ten to fifteen minutes after your start time, actually get down to work . . .

As I say, probably just me, as this sort of attitude is generally considered “Victorian” in today’s world. That’s Victorian in the context of an insult. These days it’s seen a s a bad thing to do a fair day’s work for your pay, and to keep your word. I fully support this boss. It would be even better if the Prime Minister would show this sort of backbone when dealing with his government. Of course, that would imply that he had some sort of values himself, and that, to be honest, doesn’t seem to be the case.

However, I do admit that it’s difficult for people to know how to respond when they see so many politicians and sports starts behaving like the rules don’t apply to them.

6.35

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I was downstairs for 6.35 this morning because I woke up before the alarm and didn’t thick it was worthwhile going back to bed for 20 minutes. It’s now 6.45 and I have spent ten minutes watching the blue circle revolve on my computer screen and checking emails. This is where my time goes.

The sky is bright, but lacks notable features, the air is coolish and the birds are quiet. I have missed the nice bit of early morning and just ended up with the dull bits. In a few minutes, having blogged about nothing other than the time, I will pop down to hospital, have my arm perforated and compose an imaginary letter to the Anti-coagulant Service explaining that I have better things to do than have a blood test every week. It is imaginary because it will have the same effect as writing one (ie none) but will save the effort of actually writing about it and enduring their response. There is something about the Anti-coagulant Service that drives me mad. It’s partly their assumption that I have nothing better to do than have blood tests and partly their view that Warfarin is the only Anti-Coagulant. I’ve actually had a conversation with a nurse where she used the word Warfarin in place of Anti-Coagulant.

At this point I will say no more, as I can get very cutting on the subject.

Time to go now, and see if I can get a parking space. If I do, all will be good. If I don’t, I will add to the parking problem by finding an awkward and unauthorised place to put my car.

That’s another subject Itry to avoid.

Has my life really become a series of gripes about small things? At one time I thought it would be about such interesting stuff, but this doesn’t seem to be the case. Even my blog is merely about the time I get up.

A Few Random Thoughts

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I forgot to tell you something a few weeks ago. When we went to the Yorkshire Coast on our day trip we saw a lot of valerian growing (Centranthus ruber). The red and white forms were happily growing next to each other. When I looked up the Latin name I found that the white one is also Centranthus ruber, despite being white, though they do sometimes call it C. alba and Red Valerian (White form). It’s all very confusing. I was surprised to see them growing next to each other and staying red and white, after my experience with alyssum I was half expecting that they would just cross- breed to become light pink. They don’t. When you have white and blue alyssum in the garden a lot of it comes up white with blue edges next year. Or it did with us. Then it dies. All our remaining alyssum is pure white again. I wonder if I am young enough to start learning more about plants?

Having spent most of the day listing gum cards of 1970s footballers, I have learned a lot more about 1970s footballers than I intended, including the splendidly named Len Badger. Those were the days when footballers had simple names – Len, Ron and Harry being among the favourites. One of the cards features a fresh-faced youth called Harry Redknapp. I know he’ll be completely unknown to anyone outside the UK, but I thought I’d mention it as I get to use the link to Eastenders.

It has been one of my most soul-destroying adys ever in the shop. No customers, a few phone calls and the grind of listing and photographing and editing the photos of around 100 gum cards. It’s not like proper work, and I’ve had much harder days, but I’ve rarely had a day which made me question my career choices so harshly. Still, you have to count your blessings. I sat down most of the day in reach of a kettle and there were no flies or manure involved. I’ve had worse days.

Web, Mesh or Net?

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After a week or so of opening on a different page WP has now gone back to opening on a page I can actually use. By the standards of modern doublespeak this is probably the “new and improved” version. Take something away at random, reinstate it, and, if asked, tell people it is an upgrade.

I had an email about a similar thing. I can, it seems, pay for Jetpack to give me a search function. I already pay enough for a product that is worse than it was when I started, and I thought I already had a search function. First we had lying, then we had marketing, now we have people on the internet who try to sell you stuff you used to get for free. It’s a gradual decline to moral bankruptcy that we already see in our politicians and TV stations (you know – the ones that now call it “Plus 1” when it used to be called “repeats”).

It’s 8.36 and I decided I would have ago at starting my day with some focus. It nearly worked. I have read my emails and a few blogs but mainly fixed my mind on writing this post. Later I will send a couple of submissions off and then do some housework. Yes, there is so much debris on my writing table that I can’t see the lower edge of the computer screen. I don’t need month old blood test results, used padded envelopes or notebooks from last year. The results will be recycled, the envelopes taken to work (for reuse as packaging) and the notebooks can go into a box until an American University puts in an offer for my papers. Or until Julia makes me throw them out.

That’s good, 8.53. The advantage of having no structure and no research is that blogging (by which I mean dumping the contents of my head on a page) can be quite quick.

This is in contrast to submitting poetry, where I am about to spend twenty minutes deciding whether to use “web” or “mesh” or “net” . . .

It’s not easy being a poet.

A Worse Thing than Being Accepted

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I didn’t realise there was anything worse than being accepted, until yesterday.

I’ve just had an acceptance and I am very annoyed. In fact at one point I was filled with rage. I sent in three haibun, each one elegantly and interestingly crafted and probably some of the best work I have ever done. I also sent in seven tanka to make the numbers up and see how the tanka are going. I’ve only just started writing them and have had one accepted, so they seem to be hitting the mark. However, they are just lightweight 5 line poems compared to the more serious business of writing haibun. They are also, let’s face it, a lot easier than haiku – two extra lines and fewer rules make for a more relaxed writing experience.

You can see where this is heading already, can’t you?

None of the haibun were required and one of the tanka was accepted. My first reaction was disbelief, then, as read the email again (because I’d clearly missed something first time) extreme annoyance. I’d just spent the best part of a year on the haibun, editing, cutting, polishing and letting them mature (all the stuff you are supposed to do), and they were tossed to one side in favour of something that took me five minutes.

However, after sleep and breakfast I’m looking on it as just one more manifestation of the mystery of interaction with editors. I will put it down to experience, use it for the basis of a blog post and, eventually use it in a magazine article about rejection. But most of all I will look at my work critically and try to work out why it took a year to produce a bad haibun. I used to be able to that in twenty minutes. I’m getting slower . . .

Every Day is Different . . .

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There goes an hour of my life. I’ve just written a couple of hundred words but they were going nowhere, and they are now in the bin. I started off with good intentions and it went well for the first 150 words, but it just petered out and after a couple of attempts to close it in a useful and interesting manner I decided that the best way to finish was by way of the delete button.

Instead I will tell you about the most stupid enquiry I have ever had on eBay, and will then progress to the funniest.

One relates to an expensive bullion set, from one of the companies that specialises in such sets. Ours is on eBay at around £2,500. It’s a limited edition with less than 100 sets made. My expectation with this sort of thing is that if you can afford to buy one you are (a) intelligent enough to earn the money to buy one and (b) know what you are doing.

I am, it seems, wrong on both counts. Someone wrote to us and asked how we knew ours was number 45 out of 99, and how he could tell what number his was. If he’d spent a few seconds flicking through the pictures in our listing he’d have discovered the answer. It’s written on the certificate from the manufacturer. It took me less than 30 seconds to find it and I’d never seen the set before.

It’s a stupid enquiry because he should have known that before buying an expensive set. And it’s possibly the stupidest one we’ve had because he was too lazy to look at our listing and find the answer. All I can say in his defence is that he may not have a certificate with his, but if he’s spent all that money on a set with no certificate, it doesn’t make him look particularly bright. And he then has the gall to take up my time by writing to ask something he could have established for himself by pressing a few buttons. Do I look, I wanted to write, like a public information point?

Two hours later we had the funniest enquiry. A lady rang and asked if we were Collectors World, which we are. We tend to wimp out of using an apostrophe as we aren’t quite sure where it should be.

Anyway, a lady rang, I answered, informed her that we were Collectors World, confirmed that it was Collectors World when asked, and then listened to her question. It seems she has a set of ceramic carol-singing pigs and she has successfully removed and replaced the AA batteries which make the piece revolve, she just can’t seem to get the smaller batteries out which power the music. Could I tell her how to do it?

I am, I confess, seldom speechless, but for a moment my mouth moved and nothing came out. Eventually we established that there are other places that trade as Collectors World (which is why our website address is includes the world Nottingham) and that we aren’t the one that sells revolving ceramic pigs which sing Christmas carols.

We parted on good terms despite my inability to help and I really hope she managed to get help from the Collectors World that does.

Even as I search for a title I can hear my Dad talking (he had been in retail in the 1950s after leaving the Navy) – “in retail,” he would say,”every day is different”.

Poppy

Dreams, Regrets and Memories

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It’s 8.15, it’s Sunday and I have just finished looking through my emails and the WP comments. It’s what passes for social interaction in what I refer to as “my life”. When summarised in a single sentence it isn’t much of a life. No editor has been in touch overnight, no Lottery win has been communicated and I have, as yet, not interacted with another human. (Julia is still in that Sunday morning phase where she is grunting from inside a cocoon of duvet, in case you were wondering. Not human. Not interaction).

I have had inspiration for some haibun prose since waking this morning, and I had a very peculiar dream about something. I can remember it was peculiar, but as time passes, I can’t remember anything other than that. Dreams are like that.

On the subject of teachers, however, I seem to have a set of superpowers I did not know existed. I can remember nearly every teacher who ever taught me, and I can remember something good about nearly every one of them. I won’t bore you with a list, but I was amazed how, once I started, I couldn’t stop remembering them. It would be better if I could remember everything they taught me, but that, unfortunately, is beyond me.

I’d have liked to have been a teacher, but it was not to be. My mother wanted to be a teacher too, but it didn’t happen. Same with my paternal grandmother. It’s a small enough ambition but my grandmother was told she had to work on the farm, my mother was told she had to get a job to help support the family. I was merely told by the careers teacher that people always said teaching when they couldn’t think of anything else and I should find something else.

When spoke to Julia about this she said she’d been told to consider a career as a waitress or hairdresser, because she would no doubt get married and stop work to raise a family. Fifteen years later she completed a part-time post-grad diploma whilst number one son, at the age of two weeks, slept on the seat next to her in the lecture hall.

We used to have a saying when I was in sales – “Nothing happens until somebody sells something.”

You could say the same about life – “Nothing happens until somebody teaches something.”

And with that, I will leave you. It’s 8.46 and I am hungry.

Ha! I just remembered the name of a history teacher that had been eluding me.

The Human Condition

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I woke this morning and, my first thought was how dark it looked. Rain is forecast and the whole day is looking gloomy.

Then I thought of the building collapse in Florida, which, to be honest, I had not thought about for days. That is the very definition of horror and tragedy to me – you are at home, where you expect everything to be safe, and suddenly it collapses. A week later, people like me have mainly forgotten.

The same, of course, applies to other, similar collapses. It’s only a couple of months ago that a building collapsed in Gaza, though that was caused by air attack rather than by accident. I’d forgotten about that too.

I’m not sure if it is just me, because I took a decision not to watch the news some years ago, or whether it’s a true for other people too. Am I so callous that this sort of thing passes me by, or are all humans made the same way? If I were to be honest I would say that I have enough to worry about without taking on the worries of other people too.

According to one report, 56 children were killed in Gaza by Israeli bombing. That’s the equivalent of roughly two classes of kids, or four junior rugby teams, who are now dead. If they were from Nottingham I would be very upset about it. If they were in America, I wouldn’t be surprised, or particularly upset, because school shootings happen and unless someone British is shot they don’t usually make our news. In the Middle East I’m never surprised what they do. I gave up trying to follow the politics years ago and as discussing it puts me in danger of appearing anti-Muslim or anti-Semitic I am going to leave it there.

Meanwhile, it’s likely that around 1,900 children will be killed or seriously injured in road accidents in the UK this year. I didn’t even think of that until I started to write this post. We all have cars, so 1,900 kids are clearly an acceptable loss compared to bus travel.

So, callousness, ignorance, insularity, selfishness or a defence mechanism? Why is it that we don’t bother about these things? Or is it just me?

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Life after the Care Farm