Monthly Archives: June 2024

Pruning Emails and Eating Salmon

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Sorry, I have been neglecting my readers. If it helps, I have also been neglecting myself and all sorts of things I should have been doing. Two days ago I deleted 31 emails. and left another six to be looked at later. I have just done 33 more and this evening I will no doubt get a few more. How many do you get?

Over the years I’ve whittled things down so I don’t get many, and I will be looking at them critically in the next few weeks to cut more out. Same goes for my postal deliveries – there are things that need to be stopped, and now that we are moving this seems like a good time to do it.

I’ve intermittently sent money to disasters and such, and bought via mail order, and some people just never seem to give up. I don’t mind helping people who are in trouble, in the short term, but it isn’t my responsibility to finance refugee camps in the long term. If governments can afford the bombs to create refugees they should be made to finance the care of the refugees they create. I have supported two charities for children for the last 20 or 25 years. I pay by direct debit and I pay whether I am in work or out of it. It’s not a great deal, but it has seemed quite a lot at times when business has been bad. Once I went to the shop and was paid a reliable wage, I was able to manage it quite comfortably. Even things I am interested in often go unread. I’m interested in nature but, to be frank, I’m less enthralled by details of the AGM or the latest request for extra money.

Fortunately spam filters have got better over the years, because things seemed to be a lot worse when you look back. I had a bad patch a few years ago when I went on a South African genealogy site. I had months of spam emails and pop-ups, presumably because my filters had to educate themselves about South African spam sites. The email box on the farm used to have frequent requests for help from the widows of African politicians. I presume, as with all things, there is a science behind spam and it is probably big business.

This isn’t the worst of the job. I have emails in my inbox which date back to 2011. I’m currently going through them at the rate of a couple of hundred a day to get rid of them. They relate to junior rugby and various similar things and most were kept as an archive in case I needed to refer back. Of course, you rarely do, and at the end of the season you can’t be bothered. Suddenly you have a few thousand surplus emails and you lose the will to do anything about them . . .

The sifting process is a mixed blessing. Some good times to remember, some low points to forget and a lot of things and people I have forgotten, or never thought about, in the last 13 years.

Modern life, eh?

The pictures are baked salmon with broccoli and asparagus. And mangetout peas and red peppers, soy sauce and sesame seed oil. Healthy oily fish with veg and a lack of carbs. It’s sort of a recipe from the internet. The salmon, broccoli and asparagus were bought specially but the rest was adjusted based on what was already in the fridge. It worked and it was easy, so I will probably do it again next week, or something similar.

By my standards, I find this quite impressive. It would, of course, be better with chips , or when battered into a chunky soup, but sometimes you have to make concessions to elegance.

Covid, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and not much else

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This morning I had a Covid booster.  I went to the same pharmacist I went to last time, as I find the parking convenient. The service was not as slick as last time, but it was more cheerful, and I spent my waiting time reading the packets on the shelves. It seems that patrons of the shop suffer extensively from skin problems,, indigestion, constipation and, mainly, allergies. This is a whole new world that is waiting for me. I’ve had skin problems for years, and in Mediaeval times would have , literally been treated like  leper, as it seems that in those days they would lump all skin condition into one, just to be on the safe side. However, I am rarely troubled by any of the other problems. A high fibre diet seems to work for me most of the time, and my one recent deviation from bowel health, when I was ill over Christmas, felt like a betrayal. Fortunately, my bowels have returned to the regular habits of a town hall clock and allergies are something suffered by southerners and people who read health advice on the internet.

Puffins at Bempton

The local village of Burton Lazars had a leper hospital, so at least I wouldn’t have far to go. It’s also the burial place of the famous racing driver, Count Eliot Zborowski and his son Count Louis Zborowski. They were both killed in car accidents, and I have read a story that I cannot, at the moment, trace, that Louis was killed whilst wearing tha same cufflinks that his father wore in his fatal crash. The younger man was responsible for the building of four noted race cars – two were known as Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and one was the Higham Special, which broke the world land speed record when driven by Parry-Thomas in 1926. Parry-Thomas would later be killed in the Higham Special (by that time known as Babs) in 1927 – the first man to die in pursuit of the Land Speed record.

Jackdaw

I can’t help but feel, when set next to the lives of the Zborowskis and Parry-Thomas, that I haven’t really left much of a mark on the world.

Traffic, Tests and That Soup Again

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Last week it was unpleasantly cold. In the space of two nights it changed to uncomfortably warm. This may be a sign about my lack of adaptability rather than global warming, but this a diary and I can only write what fate flings my way.

This morning I was wrenched from sleep by my alarm as it’s one of the days when I take Julia to work. The news was tedious. Traffic was dense. I suspect this might be because they are starting work on replacing part of a bridge over the Ring Road. It is going to take a year. This sort of thing always seems to have a knock-on effect as people look for different routes, even though it doesn’t seem that close to us. If I were still working it would be a nuisance as it was on my route between Julia’s work and the shop. I was actually in the queue that formed when the original damage occurred. An excavator on a low loader (which clearly wasn’t low enough) hit the bridge and then fell into the road. I hope the company responsible is paying for the work. I also hope that the contractors display the phone number and email address of the offending company next to the queues of traffic as they carry out the work.

That meant I arrived home with too much time to go straight for my blood test and too little time to do anything useful.

The blood test went OK and I came home. I used the scales while I was there, and though I haven’t lost more, I haven’t put any on. This is good.

Currently I’m typing and drinking tea as I decide what sort of soup to make. I can do broccoli because, guess what, I have broccoli that needs using up. Or I could make some variation of tomato and red peppers because I’m now building up a lot of peppers. I think the broccoli wins, because I have stalks too, and it always seems more virtuous to use them rather than compost them.

And finally, Princess Anne, who sustained head injuries from a horse a couple of days ago could have a  “serious” problem according to one internet headline. However, in keeping with the low standards of journalism you expect from the internet the diagnosis of “serious” comes from a “royal biographer” rather than a doctor. Enough said. She’s never done me any harm, so I wish her well.

Traffic

 

Monday Morning Blues

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Boy Scout Gallantry Medal – Gilt Cross – Details of recipient.

Got up, moped around, made a cup of tea. It really wasn’t a great start to the day. I can’t shake off a feeling of generally feeling under the weather. That’s in addition to the similar feeling that my life is becoming uncontrollably chaotic, and that I am doomed. Do you remember that cartoon where Winnie the pooh is followed round by a raincloud? It’s like that, and even that charming picture is somewhat marred by the fact that I have, over the years, ceased to resemble the heroic figure of a Greek god and have come, more and more, to resemble a lumpy child’s toy with questionable stuffing. Life can be cruel.

Then, I seemed to wake up. Well, to be accurate, I did actually wake up, as I’d fallen asleep whilst watching Extreme Fishing with Robson Green and eating cheese on toast. After brushing off the crumbs, I felt seized by the desire to take control of my life. I made a blood test appointment, a vaccination appointment, renewed a membership and claimed a gift voucher that I’d won. Yes, I agree that the words “hive of industry” may not be required in this paragraph, but compared to the last week or two this is an impressive amount of things ticked off my list. I then did a couple more things i’d been meaning to do. That vague description covers something medical, involving discomfort. I’m currently typing with blurred vision as my eyes are still watering.

I’ve just had another article published on the coin society Facebook page. It’s not much of an achievement, as there are only two of us doing stuff for it, but it’s keeping my writing going. Here is the link. It helps keep numbers up if people click on the link, and encourages the editor, so if you can visit, it would be appreciated.  It’s the one about the Boy Scout Gallantry Cross, which is also pictured here.

Boy Scout Gallantry Medal – Gilt Cross

Returning to Writing

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Sorry, I’ve become a bit hit and miss recently. Yesterday it occurred to me that it’s a good thing I’m not still at work,  because I’d have been off for most of the last month. It’s a lot more relaxing being retired than it was when i was simply off work. One day I may examine the difference, but for now I will just say that as a pensioner, the pay is better than when you are merely ill, and for some reason the time passes more easily.

The sun is going down as I type, though there is plenty of time to go before the sky takes on any colour. At the moment it is merely sinking and the light is shining off the various leaves in the garden. Holly, privet, roses, bamboo, conifers are all reacting differently to the light – some reflecting it, others allowing it to shine through, and it is quite an interesting garden view, considering that it is mainly green.

It feels like I’m returning to writing again, after a lay off of several months. I have not submitted anything since March and missed a couple of significant submission chances last month. Time to get back in the game before I lose the habit. In coaching they used to say it only takes a fortnight to lose a habit, which is awkward, considering that most people take a two week holiday, almost ensuring they they lose all their good habits. This has always given me pause for thought.

Twenty years ago, as I think I told you in a previous post, I did actually stop writing and it took me years to get back into the swing of things, It took me something like two years of constant practice to start producing usable pieces, even though I wrote thousands of words a week. This blog is a result of some of those early practice attempts.

I’m hoping it will be easier this time. I had better give it a serious go tonight, as there’s only a week left until submissions windows close at the end of the month and both the journals in question are ones I would like to be in.

Stone on the Floor

The Meaning of Life in 42 Words

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Derrick challenged me to write a post on the meaning of life in 42 words. In accepting his challenge I have added a new level of difficulty and done it in the style of the well-known poet Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings, reputedly the worst poet in the Universe. I have to say, in her defence, that I’m not sure this fair, but the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy was written before internet poetry blogs caught on. Anyway, read my homage before judging who is worse.

A big introduction and . . .
nothing.

A bit like retirement
or clicking the link to see
what the man found in his back garden

At the end,
the bucket list, a dolphin and a dead swan.

On the list
Item number forty two . . . 

Yes, that does it.  Could be better, could be worse.  Anyone else fancy a go?

Sunset, Notts

An Internal Struggle

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Really, I should have something like scrambled egg whites for lunch – carb free. nutritious and healthy. In addition, they aren’t the sort of thing that would have you queuing up for more.

In reality, I find myself thinking of bacon sandwiches, beans on toast, scrambled eggs on toast, and Welsh Rarebit. I really need to limit my bread consumption, but quick snacks always seem to feature it. Apart from the carbs, it’s also got quite  lot of salt in it, which is not good for blood pressure.

I’m seriously considering one of those weight loss systems where you just eat two meals a day. It would save time in the middle of the day and reduce my reliance on bread-based snacks.

Perhaps soup is the answer, as long as I can break the habit of eating bread with it. I have a variety of vegetables that are in the final stage of their life cycle (the one that hovers between usable and compostable) and that is natural soup territory.

There is still time to think about that.

Smoked Mackerel Pate on Toast

Meanwhile, I have just remembered that I need to  inject myself with the anti-arthritis drug with the long name. Even medical professionals have trouble with it. It would be much easier to have drugs with simpler names, as they would be easier to remember. When I go to hospital I always have to make a list as I can’t remember my medication properly. Sometimes I resort to taking the fronts of pill packets because the words are so long.

Now I have to go. I’d better give myself the injection before I drift off and do something else, as I should have done it yesterday, but forgot.

Then, after a challenge by Derrick Knight, I have a 42 word post to write on the meaning of life. I’m going to do it as a poem.

Toast and jam. Or salt and sugar, depending on your point of view.

The Meaning of Life

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I just wrote 380 words on the subject of new technology and the NHS appointment system. Then I looked at them, thought “I’ve written them before.” and decided not to bother.

So I didn’t.

That leaves me with a hole in my morning as I now have nothing to write about apart from my unsuccessful attempts to list things and then do them. I made a list two days ago and did little that was on the list. I did another list last night and item one – “Write a Blog post” – has just come to nothing.

Ghostly figures in the fog at Screveton

The most notable part of the morning apart from the phone call to sort out the NHS has been something concerning part of my life I don’t blog about. This isn’t meant to be as mysterious as it sounds, and it certainly isn’t as interesting. In fact, it’s very dull. And when you consider that a lot of the stuff I write is extremely uninteresting (though a potential goldmine of tedious trivia of 21st Century existence to a future scholar) you can imagine how banal the really dull stuff is. You could bottle it and sell it to insomniacs as  cure for all their sleep problems.

Anyway, it’s nearly lunchtime now. So far I have risen, dressed (which was reasonably easy this morning), eaten breakfast, treated myself to extra toast and marmalade, blogged, self-edited, received a parcel, spoken to NHS on the phone, sidestepped Julia’s several attempts to make me do stuff and blogged again. When listed, it looks like a full morning. However, virtually nothing useful has been done. Dressing and eating are simply part of life and even trousers are optional if I don’t leave the house.

Whitby Church

Even the NHS phone call was to correct an error they made and served no useful purpose.

That, in a nutshell, is modern life. We do stuff, but most of it doesn’t  need doing and some of it is to correct stuff that was done in error.

Some mornings it is hard not to question the meaning of life and sit, staring into the depths of a cup of tea wonder where it all went.

Today’s pictures? I just tried to capture my mood.

Whitby skyline

Cods Scallops II – This Time it’s Haddock

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Ys, it’s a paper bag – I’m easily impressed

We had to go to the gardens last night to run an errand which should, and could, have been done by someone else but, as usual, Julia got landed with it.

She offered to buy me fish and chips in return for the lift and I was happy to accept. We decided that another visit to The Cod’s Scallops was in order, but this time decided to try the takeaway in Carrington, which is our local branch.  This is all part of our “try something new” initiative for the summer. We have been getting into a rut.

I parked while Julia went to order the food. They cook to order and they also have a click and collect system, which basically allows people to push in. It took a bit longer than I would have liked, but it was nice and fresh and still hot when we got home.

The fish was nice and fresh, and a nicely shaped portion. I recently had a piece of fish from another shop which started off life as a thin fillet and after it had been battered, fried and generally over-cooked began to resemble a cross between a sword and a shoe sole. It’s all about attention to detail and they seem to be getting it right. A good piece of fish, cooked by well trained staff and the result is good. Poor quality ingredients and uninterested staff, on the other hand, lead to bad results and lost custom.

Inside the bag, it’s a lot of packaging – what position do you thinks they occupy on the list of UK chip shops?

There’s not much else to say.  The fish and chips were good, the peas were also good. However, it was undeniably expensive. For a few pounds more we could have gone to Harvester and eaten free salad with our meal. Or, if we’d used Julia’s discount card, we could probably have eaten cheaper. I don’t want to deny anyone a fair profit on their labours, or to ignore the fact that the cost of raw materials is rising, but there is a level at which yo have to do the sensible thing and eat at home. It’s nice to eat out, or have food delivered, but we have other things to do with our money at the moment and  although it’s giving me something to blog about, we need to economise.

Fish stocks, meanwhile are still declining, so we might not even have fish and chips in future, regardless of price. For those of you who don’t know what nephrops are, here is a link. I didn’t know either. It turns out they are scampi.

Haddock, chips, mushy peas. Does food get better than this?

Telephone Calls and Other Stories

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The river Wye at Bakewell

Sorry, I took my eye off the ball again. Not only have I missed a couple of days posting but I have realised I have stopped writing poetry again.

About 20 years ago, after having a dozen poems published, I went into hospital, came out of hospital, tried continuing my poetry writing and found I couldn’t do it. I seem to have done it again. After struggling through Covid, a urinary infection and whooping cough, I go into hospital again and when I emerge, I find my urge to write poetry and be creative has gone. I didn’t notice at first but this morning it suddenly dawned on me.

The river Wye at Bakewell

I wonder if there is a causal link between having surgical instruments inserted through an inconvenient orifice and the poetic bits of my brain shutting down. There is certainly a correlation between the insertions and the bits of brain that deal with embarrassment shutting down.  If they didn’t, I’d be a gibbering wreck by now.

Last time, I had the kids to replace my writing, as they needed a lot of driving to rugby matches and I ended up managing teams and writing match reports. This time, I am sure I could substitute blogging and Facebook posts for the Numismatic Society  of Nottinghamshire, but I intend trying to get my enthusiasm back.

First I need to sort my health out. To that end I spent nearly two hours on the phone this afternoon trying to sort things out. One of the phone calls took me just over half an hour – 25 minutes being told I was in “Queue position Number Two”, two minutes in position Number One and five minutes establishing that what should have been done two weeks ago had not been done. It will, they assure me, now be done as a matter of urgency.

River Nene, Fotheringhay

If you ever have to deal with what is now known as the Bowel and Bladder Service in Nottingham, you have my sympathy.

They used to be known as the Continence Service.

I’m sure that there ae other words that could be used, which carry neither the stigma of incontinence or the suggestion that you are now entering the final, downhill, stage of your life.

However, the name isn’t the worst thing about the service. In an unfortunate double use of the same word, it’s the service that is the worst thing about the service.

Two weeks ago I rang them about obtaining extra night bags. Their phone system cut me off automatically, as reported, and then wouldn’t let me back in the queue. I eventually obtained the bags from the urology ward.

Sandsend – river and bridge

Today I needed to find out what was happening to what I will euphemistically refer to as “my supplies”. I rang several places in search of sense before being advised to ring the continence service. With a heavy heart, I did.

They answered on the third ring and I was, frankly, amazed. It didn’t last. It seems that the Continence Service based at Sherwood Rise Medical Centre isn’t the Continence Service at Sherwood etc isn’t the same Continence Service that I used to be registered with, and who supplied me for years.

The Continence Service (etc) is only for patients registered with the county of Nottinghamshire. I’m with the City of Nottingham, it seems, and have to ring another number.

So I did.

See the comments above on the half hour phone call.

All it needed two weeks ago was for one nurse to fill out one form. I’m not sure that it even needed a nurse – I could probably have done it myself if they had pointed me to the form.

More pictures of water. Enough said.

Ducks on the River Alde, Snape