Tag Archives: Nottingham

A Thing of Beauty

No, it’s not another picture of Julia, though if she’s reading this I would like to point out that the title would fit.

This is an item I saw in a collectors’ shop in Nottingham last week. It’s the badge of an ex-Lady Mayoress of Nottingham from 1951-2. The workmanship, including the enamelling, is top quality, and it really is a thing of beauty. It is also a piece of Nottingham history.

Ruth Wigman, the recipient, would probably to be the wife of Alderman George H. Wigman who was Lord Mayor at that time. I’ve tried various searches but the internet seems to be empty of information on the Wigmans. I had hoped that Wigman Road might be something to do with them, but it just seems to complicate the search.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

It is made from 9 carat gold and manufactured by Vaughtons of Birmingham. It appears that it was assembled after the engraving was done, as one of the fixings has obscured part of the inscription.

One of the more notable Vaughton family members was Oliver Howard Vaughton. He played football for England and Aston Villa, won the All England Skating Championship, cycled, swam, played county cricket for Warwickshire and was a County hockey player. He’s a bit more famous than the Wigmans, though, to be fair, neither of them scored five goals in an international football match or won the FA Cup.

History in a Junk Box

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There was a time when dealers used to have junk boxes full of clapped out coins, broken bits and base metal medallions. I certainly did. When I bought mixed boxes at auction the detritus from the bottom, after being carefully checked, would end up tipped in the junk box.

When buying, the junk boxes of other dealers were my natural habitat. I’ve bought some good stuff out of junk boxes. It seemed like they would never end. Then ebay came along and it all ended up on line.

The contents of the box could cover anything from ancient coins to petrol station giveaways, via Georgian medals, Victorian adverts and pre-decimal coins. One of the staple items was the mass produced commemorative medal. They really started in a big way with Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee in 1887 and ended in the 1930s with a flurry of royal events – George V’s Jubilee, the abdication (though this is shown only by the items of Edward VIII (which aen’t really rare, whatever dealers may say) and, finally, the coronation of George VI.

Nottingham 1897 Jubilee Medal

This is the medallion Nottingham produced for the 1897 Jubilee of Queen Victoria

Nottingham 1902 coronation medal

This is the Edward V!! medal from Nottingham – note the foresters supporting the coat of arms.

1911 coronation – Nottingham

The colour changes for 1911, as do the supporters on the coat of arms, but the general idea remains the same. There is a second version of the medal, often known locally as the unofficial version (see below).

Nottingham 1911 unofficial version

There is a medal very similar to the 1911 coronation medal – made for the 1914 Royal visit. It isn’t just in recent years that the Royal Family has been unpopular, there were seven attempts to assassinate Queen Victoria and one on Edward VII. In 1914, to encourage public approval George V embarked on a programme of visits. I’ve seen the itinerary for his visit to Nottingham – he visited Arnold and Mansfield too, though I think he just waved at Arnold in passing.

Royal visit to Nottingham 1914

Royal visit to Nottingham (above( and Dundee (below).

Royal visit to Dundee 1914

Things seemed to tail off after that, with a much smaller selection being produced for 1953. To set it in perspective, rationing was still in force in 1953, and the fledgling Matchbox company struggled to produce model cars when metal supplies were diverted to fighting the Korean War.

This is one of the later medals, from Mansfield Woodhouse.

1952 Coronation medal from Mansfield Woodhouse

I have plenty more to show you yet, so don’t worry about me running out for the next few weeks,

Desert Island Blogs (3)

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The moment of truth. The acid test. The place where cliches come to die…

Part 1 was easy as the three bloggers have all become part of my daily life over the last few years and with eight slots that still left five. Part 2 was harder. The blogs are also part of my blogging life, but the choices had to be made against a background of declining availability. I’m happy that all the choices are good, I’m just concerned that I only have two slots left to go and more than two blogs to fit in.

From Lancashire we moved to Lincolnshire. In phonetic terms it wasn’t a great change, but in terms of weather it was a revelation. In Lincolnshire they have weeks where there is no rain.

They also had a village school that looked like it had been undisturbed since the old Queen’s jubilee. It had two rooms, dip pens, inkwells, a pot-bellied stove and a map where the Empire was still coloured red. There’s one very much like it in Retford Museum.

My penultimate choice is Beating the Bounds – a blog about walking and nature and family and the area around Lancater. I’ve just been reading one of his posts and it’s like entering a different world – lizards, damsel flies, beetles, birds, butterflies limestone pavements, bilberries, Are You Being Served? and the Song of Soloman have all featured recently.

A blog that can weave cheesy seventies comedy and the King James Bible into one story has to be one to watch. Add trips to the Lake District and Silverdale, deer in the garden and digressions into books, science, art and history…

After Lincolnshire we moved to Peterborough, which is where the family stayed. My Dad and sister are still there. There are far too many memories to even start. One of the most significant features is that the place is cluttered with Magpies now, but when we lived there we only saw Magpies when we visited Lancashire. Same with Buzzards. There are Red Kites round Peterborough now often to be seen circling over the A1 and the city tip. We had Lapwings, Yellow Wagtails, nesting Long-tailed Tits in the rough grazing around the house with newts in the back garden. As the area has been developed over the last 50 years these have all disappeared.

Final choice is difficult.

It goes, after a ecrtain amount of heart-searching, to Helen. She’s currently experimenting with bokashi (or fermented Japanese compost if you prefer it in English). She’s a couple of weeks ahead of me, which is good because I can learn from her experiences.

The blog captures the true up and down moments of growing back garden veg, making compost, learning about permaculture, earthworms and volunteering. And much, much more, as they say in the adverts. Her broccoli is currently looking skeletal after a butterfly attack, She’s taking it well, as I try to do, because let’s face it, butterflies need to eat too.

It was touch and go here, and it was hard to exclude The Snail of Happiness. So hard in fact, that she seems to have managed to get in despite my decision. When you grow veg, cook ethically, raise chickens and crochet blankets for refugees it’s always going to be tough to keep her out. So I sneaked her in.

That’s about it for now. All that remains are the bits and pieces.

I can have Shakespeare and an “appropriate cultural or philosophical work”. I don’t want The Bible because I know how it ends, so I’m going to opt for The Stripping of the Altars by Eamon Duffy. It’s the story of the Reformation, and though I’ve read and enjoyed The Voices of Morebath I’ve never tried the bigger book. It’s been on my shelves for a while but I haven’t actually opened it. When I have plenty of time to sit and wait I’ll have a good crack at it.

I intend building a tidal fish trap and digging a pit to see what meat drops into it, hopefully a pig. I’m certainly not going to run round chasing things. I’d better learn how to make a salt pan and smoke fish too. By the time I’m rescued I’m intending to be fit, well fed, brainier and, probably, sick of fish.

The book to read for pleasure is the collected version of the Chronicles of Narnia. I could probably make do with the first six, as I’ve often thought The Last Battle is a miserable piece of writing.

Finally, the luxury item.

What else could it be but another blog – I’ll go for the Nottingham Food Blog by Marcus from the Bread Group. We have baked much bread together, and managed to eat most of it, though I never did get the hang of rye bread.

It will be nice to read about the junk food of Nottingham while I’m away. He also writes about his devotion to the fast food of Chicago, so it’s never a boring blog, even though I do wonder what a blood test would reveal. I’d like to see him start testing porridge and salad to make sure he hangs around a bit longer.

And that, is that.

I’m off to look for a desert island now.

Closing music.

Pollinator Pictures

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Here are some pollinators I pictured last weeek. I really need to do some work on learning the species.

I don’t even know the names of all the flowers, and they don’t fly away when you try to take a picture, so they should be easy.

Wilford, Nottingham

Career choices

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It sometimes seems like I live at the hospital. I was back at the anti-coagulant clinic again this morning, being stabbed in the fingertips (twice, because the first test didn’t work). They are pleased with the way my blood no longer clots, though I’m not quite so happy with it, as I’ve been bleeding when injecting myself. One morning at the end of last week Julia pointed at my stomach and, horrified,struggled to get some words out. It appeared that the puncture wound from that night’s injection had bled in the night. I had a stain the size of my hand on my pyjamas and one about half the size on the bedding.

I like to think she was worried about me rather than the laundry…

Fortunately I’ve been told to stop injecting. I’ve still got to go back on Friday, but I’m hoping we can do less testing from now on, and do it at the GP. It’s hard even thinking about finding a job when you’re in and out of hospital.

Unfortunately, with the various problems, it’s not likely that I’ll be setting up as a jobbing gardener again and I’ve lost my enthusiasm for antiques. That only leaves taxi driving and pole dancing, the jobs of last resort. Taxi driving requires a clean car and being nice to people, so it clearly isn’t playing to my strengths. As for pole dancing, I fear there may, like hospital beds, be a weight limit.

I suppose I could always apply to be an NHS “mystery customer”, though there’s a limit to the number of catheters I’m prepared to have fitted in the interests of improving customer service.

If anyone can think of a suitable job for a lugubrious, larger than average, middle-aged man please let me know.

The pictures are from the bed curtains at City Hospital. I thought you would prefer them to the alternatives.

Part 2 – The Pain Continues

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Quick note – the antibiotics are working and I’m near enough free of pain, but as I’m writing about Wednesday night and Thursday I thought I’d go for sympathy via a heart-rending title.

My reward for demonstrating fortitude was a letter to Harvey 2 ward at the City Hospital. That was where, a month previously, my tale had started. It was also, give or take, quarter of a mile away from where I had started my journey that morning.

I got there before my notes did, and was shunted off to the Day Room of Despond. That’s not its official title, it’s just my description. I’ve been thinking of John Bunyan since reading Mr Standfast, and this seemed as good a time as any to get a reference in.

It’s also a chance to roll out my new literary project. I’m thinking of an historical crime series set in late 17th century England and written in a hard-boiled American style under the pen name Damon Bunyan. Yes, first the temperature comes down, then the puns return…

By the time I was finally called through to the ward I was quite comfortable in my recliner in the day room. The chair in the ward was quite painful to sit as the…er…swelling got in the way. It was also bad for my swollen and infected foot because I couldn’t put it up. Still, no matter, as I would be lying down soon. Apart from one thing…

Either a rule has changed in the last month, or I have put weight on, as I am now officially too fat to lie on an ordinary hospital bed.

It did, at least, allow me to hear this classic gem of English recalcitrance when I asked if I could just lie on the bed for a while.

“It’s more than my job’s worth to let you lie on that bed.”

I’ve never actually heard that in real life before, just in comedy scripts.

Fortunately an enterprising junior doctor, anxious for some hands on experience , found that the bed in the triage room was strong enough for me. He and his senior colleague explained that the abscesses needed draining and that it was probably better to avoid anaesthetic (as in general or spinal), the subtext being that it’s not good for fat people. Local anaesthetic, it appears, does not work well on abscesses. This left one choice, involving just a stiff upper lip and a large measure of macho insouciance.

“The procedure,” said the senior doctor, “is not without discomfort.”

He was correct. It was, I can confirm, an experience that had moments of discomfort.

Part 3 will cover the rest of the stay, the arrival of the bed and the unfortunate occurrence with the cannula.

Old Men Doing Laundry, and other Sunday stories

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There live not three good men unhanged in England; and one of them is fat and grows old:

Henry IV Part 1

We had quite a collection of elderly gents at the Sunday Morning Laundry Club. Vikram, Flat Cap, The Farmer and the Fat Man were all there. I know they call me that because they always call the other fat man”The Other Fat Man”. I call him The Goth, though he isn’t really a Goth. He is quite tubby though. The Scrap Man and Tablecloths were absent, but it was a bit late for them. They normally come in first thing, to ensure they get a drier.

That was one of the things we discussed, people who use the driers without using the washers, thus clogging up the system. We also discussed Vikram’s health and that of his wife (she’s in hospital), the rising price of food, the iniquity of supermarkets, Buddhism, funerals, recent price rises on the driers and wives. Vikram is retired whilst The Farmer and I both have wives who work on Sunday. We’re not sure about Flat Cap. He’s clearly been trained (he brings his own hangers to put his dry shirts on) but he doesn’t wash any female clothes and never reveals details of any former marital status. The general view is that he has been married but, through carelessness or death, has lost his wife.

After that it was time for a bacon cob and a read of yesterday’s paper at the cafe down the road. Fluffy white cobs and nice thick bacon with a garnish of black pudding. Just add pepper and brown sauce for an excellent breakfast.

After a few minutes in the car I decided to give the Waxwings nother go. Result – no Waxwings but plenty of Redwings. There are still a few berries about, so there is still a chance of seeing some.

Interesting Mallard hybrid

Red Crested Pochard looks down its beak at an ordinary Pochard

Redwing in Carrington

Moorhen on thin ice

The pond at Arnot Hill Park

I thought I’d have a look in the park on my way to the shops, even if this did involve me in shopping at Sainsbury’s. They are only 200 yards from the park so it seemed silly to go to TESCOs after the park.

I saw some ducks, gathered more material for a polemic on the way people abuse open space/nature and took some poor photographs.

After that I shopped, cooked and picked Julia up from work. You can tell the days are getting longer because it’s light when she comes out now, where it was dark a month ago.

From the fact that I’m still writing Sunday’s post on Monday you can probably deduce that the rest of the day was taken up with my normal regime of chatting, snoozing, TV and reading.

We said we were going to have an easy January and that is one resolution I’m managing to keep.

Retired teachers wanted – Nottingham Area

This knife of Sheffield steel (3)

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According to an article I read last week, instead of puns and quotes I should be using a set of simple formulae for titles. If I’d read that before starting this three-parter it would be entitled 5 uses for a Stanley Knife and people would be beating down the doors of the internet to read it.

However, as it only features two uses for a Stanley Knife (cutting paper and amateur surgery) I’m going to stick with the original title.

So, back to the hospital.

I could tell that it was getting late from the rising howls of injured drunks sounding down the corridors, but there wasn’t a lot of action in our corridor.

Eventually I was allowed into the next room and told to lie on a couch. Lie on a couch? For a finger injury? What would they have done if I’d been, for instance, pregnant or knocked down by a car? I was soon to find out as they helped a little old lady into the room and told me to get off the couch.

“We need it because she’s been hit by a car.” They said. “It’s an emergency.”

Well, she didn’t seem to be too bad; she was built like a prop forward and sheathed in one of those old lady checked coats. I’m fairly sure that somewhere a car driver was having to explain that though it looked like he’d hit a buffalo the truth was far less interesting.

FInally, about seven hours after arrival, I was called through and a doctor yawned his way into the room, muttering in the manner of a man that has just been wakened and isn’t very happy about it.

I received more evidence of this when, after injecting the local anaesthetic, he grabbed my finger in one hand and a pair of tweezers in the other.

“Just checking there are no foreign bodies in the wound.”

I could have told him there weren’t as the only possible foreign bodies were Stanley knives and sheets of A4 paper – both of which would have been obvious to the trained eye. However, he needed to run his tweezers over the surface of the wound to be sure, which made me jump a bit. The good news is that it only took three stitches and the anaesthetic was almost working by the time he tied off the third stitch.

I couldn’t help but think that the nurse at reception could have put three stitches in without anaesthetic, which would have saved me something like 7 hours waiting and a massive parking bill. It would probably have been less painful too.

After that, the ignominy just kept coming.

Next day I had to go to a conference. Competitors, customer, workmates, ex-college friends, strangers – all united in pointing and laughing at The Man with the Comedy Finger. I, of course, retained my normal cheery attitude but couldn’t resist using the comedy finger to make my feelings known amongst the general outbreak of mirth.

Then, at the end of the week, I went to see a customer.in Leicestershire. Imagine my surprise, when he opened his door, to find that he had two comedy fingers raised in a massive V-sign.

Seems one of his poultry feeders had jammed and as he cleared the obstruction he suddenly remembered that he hadn’t switched off. The chain took the ends off two fingers. One, when washed, was stitched back on. The second was last seen clutched in the beak of a chicken heading into a dark corner.and was never seen again.

So, bad as my week had been, someone had been having a worse one.

Over the years I recovered the feeling in the finger tip and it gradually turned pink again, then one night I slipped with a kitchen knife and sliced myself so close to the original scar that it actually formed one boundary of the new cut…

Repeat.

(Don’t worry, there is no Part 4.)

(In fairness I ought to point out that my recent experiences in Casualty have been a lot better than the one described here, which is now 25 years ago.).

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Life after the Care Farm