Now What Year was That

I have been consistently writing on the period 1945-59 for some considerable time. I have also lived for over 25,000 days. I can recall in some detail events from as far back as 1945. Not bad, except that it has dawned on me that my memories are mainly concerned with events rather than specific years. There are huge gaps concerning years, inevitable I suppose but alarming.

I remember in some detail VE Day (8th May 1945), and a teacher in class announcing that a good man called Gandhi had been murdered. (Jan 30th 1948) Coronation Day made an impression (June 2nd 1953). The day I arrived from school to be told that my mother had died will inevitably stay forever in my mind. (Tuesday September 8th 1953) On a damp February day in 1958 the sensational news came in that the plane carrying Manchester United footballers had crashed. I was working for Woolworths at the time. And how could I ever forget finishing under a lorry on Tuesday March 10th 1959.

I started teaching in 1974 and officially retired in 1990. Dare I admit I have been known to forget the exact date of my Wedding Day (April 4th 1970) and on occasion the exact year the children were born. ( July 30th 1971 and June 8th 1973) The days, weeks, months, years roll by, of no consequence outside our immediate friends and family. Unsurprising so but in a way sad. Probably the reason why so many strive to leave something behind for which they will be remembered. (Not the main gist of this particular blog but what are YOU going to leave behind, besides memories of course.)

Whilst I have recall of many events over the years I seem to be unable to place many other such occurrences in the exact year they were experienced. And as more years pass the more difficult recall becomes. For instance, I cannot recall a single event that belongs specifically to 1952, 1954, 1955 or 1957. More surprising, virtually the whole of the 1980's is shrouded in the mist and the 1990's are no better.

The only exception to my inability to recall years is 1985. For the only time in my life I kept a comprehensive diary. Two brief entries go a long way to showing why we can recall so little of our lives.

Wednesday 20th November 1985

Another of those frequent days where nothing happens but life is by no means unpleasant, an observation that many in this troubled world would love to make.

Thursday 21st November 1985

Paulette goes out for the evening with Kay. Alison retires to bed. Sarah, who has no lessons first thing in the morning, watches television with me. We watch a programme concerned with the topless young ladies who adorn page three of some of our national newspapers. We watch without embarrassment. I am quietly pleased at Sarah's maturity. Going fast is the child, appearing as the young adult. Of the programme itself, I am saddened by a mere fifteen year old seeking stardom, adulthood and heaven knows what else. How foolish to seek adulthood when it comes all too soon without our searching.

Two entries which confirm life for many of us, though enjoyable, has little of real substance. Understandable, but again the question, how can a year, never mind a day have no lasting impact.

Have you blank years, or even blank decades. A little test. Pick a decade, ideally way back in time. Recall as many as ten events, that you specifically relate to. Anniversaries are out and no looking up information. Or am I alone in losing it, god forbid!

Heartiest Congratulations.

Monday was my birthday although we celebrated with a party on Saturday (7th Nov) Quiet day, Monday, after hectic Saturday, including a visit to the chiropodist. (What, on your birthday!)

Which is probably why I found myself wide awake, at three in the morning thinking about toes, or one toe in particular. My big toe, the left one if you're interested. No, oh please yourself! Evidently the joint is showing signs of wear. Now this is a nuisance but hardly terminal. And after all, it's rather an old toe when all is said and done.

Now I've reached seventy, that means my toe, my original and only left toe is around 25,567 days old. If my maths are right, that would come to well over half a million hours. And where else in my life am I going to achieve a figure of half a million plus of anything. (Answers on a postcard please.) So the old toe has not worn too badly by my reckoning. So I lay there and metaphorically contemplated my naval.

By now going back to sleep was out of the question. Then it got real deep and interesting. My knees are in a right state but they've done some work over the years. Plus they've had bits and pieces done to them to keep them going. My left hip joint has long since gone, replaced by modern ceramics. Gone too, my tonsils, no ceramic replacement necessary. (With it has gone some, go on then, most of my hair.) One eye never did work properly, the other is backed up by modern technology, £3oo spectacles for long distance from the opticians, reading glasses, £0.99 from Home Bargains. My joints in general are passable if arthritic, my lungs work within reason and my brain is almost completely intact in spite of the old TGA. Plus one or two other items have dwindling powers but we won't go into that! All this relying from day one, minute one on that wonder of science, the old ticker called the heart.

We seldom think of hearts until they go wrong; its bumping along as I write this. Unnoticed, no attention since that day in 1939 when first required to power this other wonder of science christened Kenneth Allan. Think about it. If we had been given a battery instead of a heart, what number battery would we be on by now?

A few 'heartfelt' observations. Your system of blood vessels concerned with the heart (arteries, veins and capillaries) is over 60,000 miles long. Long enough to go round the world more than twice. An adult heart pumps more than five quarts of blood each minute. That's around 2,000 gallons of blood each day. Plus it beats around 100,000 times each day. For a seventy year old that means it's done around 2.5 billion beats so far. And it weighs around ten ounces. A female adult heart only weighs around eight ounces but there again it doesn't have so much work to do. (Only kidding, ladies, honest, only kidding!) Every minute, every second, thump, thump, thump, amazing! Asleep, awake, its all the same to 'old faithful' 'cos if it doesn't, that's it, end, of story, end of Kenneth, 'Goodnight Vienna'.

So from now on, when you wake in the morning, and last thing at night, say 'thank you, heart, you unsung hero, you.' (But not too loud, eh, you don't want the neighbours talking.) I never did get back to sleep, instead I just got up and had a cup of tea. I'm sure old ticker approved.

One Heck of a Journey

On the 9th of November 1939 a child was born to Mary Elizabeth Hudston. Mary, unmarried, had concealed the fact that she was pregnant, the doctor was called to deal with suspected gallstones when she was in fact in labour. The birth was a surprise to most, probably not to Mary. She took the secret of the father of the child to her grave. The child, underweight partially due to lack of prenatal attention and wartime austerity was named Kenneth Allan. Kenneth was quickly christened as his future, already dubious was further complicated due to a life threatening condition, almost certainly pyloric stenosis. Operated on immediately the child, it is said, spent some of its early days snugly wrapped in a shoebox by the fire.

Kenneth survived, just, a spell of eighteen months in Bretby Hospital due to rickets unusual but not unknown in wartime Britain. Mary married Ernest Stevens, had a daughter Jean and time passed by. Ernest died in tragic circumstances in 1942 and life was never easy for Mary, Jean and Kenneth.

Kenneth, small of stature, continued to thrive despite frequent broken limbs, often through competing with 'the bigger boys'. Mary died in 1953, aged forty six. Jean was adopted by an aunt and Kenneth allowed his name to be changed by deed poll to Kenneth Allan Stevens. (to mask the stigma of illegitimacy) It was probably the last time in his life Kenneth allowed someone else to make a decision on his behalf.

Life never stands still. A serious motorcycle accident almost cost Kenneth his life. But broken bones and almost a year off work, though painful are seldom terminal. Near misses in canals and rivers are just that, merely near misses. And life is full of near misses. An internal hemorrhage, serious at the time but survivable. Skin cancer, worrying but surely sent to remind that we are mortal. TGA, eerie but again survivable and one hell of a talking point when the conversation flags at cocktail parties.

Tablets for this, tablets for that, no wonder our ancestors had a shorter life span, it's only the tablets that keep us going. But its been fun and its not over yet. And boy, does it seem strange to be seventy years of age!

It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World.

One of my public speaking 'spiels' is tongue in cheek entitled' Is the Whole World going Mad or is it Me.' And you don't have to go far for material. The worry is it may be getting worse. October for instance was brilliant, not counting my alternative news material. (2nd November)
A prisoner from a New York jail, in court, therefore dressed in a suit asked the way out; and a security guard showed him the exit.
Paul Bint, a confidence trickster was convicted at Southwark Crown Court for the 155th time.He has pretended to be, over a long career, A hotelier, aristocrat, banker, doctor, playboy and property magnate. He has also impersonated the Director of Public Prosecutions.
What wonderful imaginations people have. Like the woman who walked into the Ohio shop and said she would pay for customers purchases as she had won the lottery. Fifteen hundred people took advantage of her generosity. Which was unfortunate for the shop as she had done no such thing. Ah well, you can't win them all. Perhaps she was just trying to make new friends. Talking of friends, choose them carefully. A group of men from a martial arts club in Coventry were carrying a wheel-chair bound friend up Snowdon in a charity event. A pity they abandoned him halfway up. He was later rescued by a mountain rescue team.
Yes, I'm sure the world is going mad. In America a six year old is suspended from school for forty five days and ordered to attend an establishment for wayward children. His offence, taking to school his camping utensils, a folding knife, fork and spoon. Classed evidently as a Level 3 violation concerning the possession, concealment or sale of dangerous instruments. I know it was later rescinded but that's not the point. How could anyone in the first place go down this route. The same mentality I suppose who decided that Humpty Dumpty is, contrary to common rumour, capable of being put back together. (A BBC programme for children decided that Humpty 'should be made happy again'.) Who needs the king's men when we have the BBC!
I feel my life ebbing away as I contemplate such things. I peer out of the window looking for the men in the white coats. A surreal feeling reinforced by reading that calling cows by individual names, Buttercup, Daisybell or Norma increases their milk yields. That is, according to the scientists at Newcastle University who are apparently experts in bovine motivational psychology. Who pays for such research I wonder. Recession, what recession? There is a recession of course, McDonald's have closed both their restaurants in Iceland due to the country's economic collapse. All say aahh on behalf of those who had money in Icelandic Banks. Talking of fast food, a man charged with criminal damage to two beefburgers in Swansea was found not guilty. (He rejected them when they were delivered late.)
And this is the real world. Are you sure? a flock of sheep burst into flames when methane escaping from a waste plant caught fire in northern Jordan. The locals thought it was the start of a volcanic eruption. That's the real world. A supermarket cancels an order and 1,090,000 puff pastry pies filled with mixed fruit finish up on e-bay.That too is the real world, 2009 style. We are also perhaps in danger of becoming fools led by fools. Officials (how I hate that word) on an Olympic Committee in Dorset could not differentiate between Lawrence of Arabia and Laurence Olivier when compiling facts about Dorset. And I'll bet they don't earn the minimum wage!
I soldier on regardless. Evidently Britain is ranked 12th in a list of the world's most prosperous countries (measured by wealth and happiness.) (Finland is listed as the happiest place to live.) Me, I know nought. Though a 100 year old Somalian in Mogadishu seems to have the right idea. He's married a seventeen year old girl. He said he had wanted to marry her for years but waited until she was older! She is incidentally his sixth wife. It's all a change from that idiot Home Secretary Alan Johnson trying to tell scientists he's the expert on cannabis, not them. Come to think of it, who the hell needs cannabis in the mad world we live in!

Bye Bye October. Grumpy's Alternative News.

October, politicians still whingeing, banks still raking it in, and times are still hard; but who cares. There was enough to distract from the humdrum if you looked closely.

People never cease to amaze. Plenty of idiots for a start. The young woman driving on the M4 at ninety miles an hour and trying to inject heroin at the same time. Evidently she is studying four A levels to gain entrance to university. I wonder what subjects!

The comedian Jimmy Carr, cleared of driving whilst using his phone as he was only using it to record a joke. A pathetic response, Mr Carr.

Harriet Harman, alleged to have been involved in a car accident, witnessed, whilst on her mobile. Plus not stopping to exchange insurance details . (She was banned in 2003 for driving at 99mph on the M4.)

Mukesh Ambani, India's richest man has capped his wages this year 'to set a personal example'. He 's only drawing £2.3 million instead of £6 million. That's all right then.

Plus Andrew Robathan, Tory MP who bleats 'I could lose my second home' if the rules on MP's allowances are changed. (He has a £2,000,000 townhouse plus a farmhouse in the country.) Are these people real? Do the people at the top ever think before speaking. In fact do they ever think.

David Blunkett is donating his brain to medical research. I have a better idea. Compulsory purchase the brains of the five people mentioned. You will then be guaranteed brains that have never been used.

Who else made the news. I see a man was jailed after claiming £75,000 in Manchester for severe back and leg pain. (He was seen break-dancing at a work event.) And his job? Benefits Officer!

Likewise the pensioner claiming disability who was spotted break-dancing on 'Britain's Got Talent'.

Misguided, the teacher who was turned in by his own pupils when he rewrote their essays in a school in Tamworth. The pupils objected to the changes even though they got higher marks.

Unlucky, the pensioner in Berlin whose £16,000 blew from his car. The police helped him recover it. Including the receipt that indicated it was smuggled money. Unlucky also the family locked in the Nat West Bank in Fulwood when the staff locked up and went home. One way to keep customers I suppose. The same goes for the man in Plymouth whose wife ordered him to sell his collection of 7,500 Happy Meal Toys. Only he was doubly unlucky in that they did not attract a single bid and he had to take them all back home again!

Anyone who follows my blog will know of my doubts concerning flying. One day I must get round to trying it. But is it any wonder I have grave misgivings.

There was a brawl on an Air India Airbus at 30,000 feet. Passengers you might expect but it was in fact the aircrew. Evidently they came to blows over a claim of sexual harassment. It is alleged that at one stage the plane was left unmanned during the scuffle. This sort of thing does not exactly impress. And it has been denied that the reason a Northwest Airlines flight overshot its destination by 150 miles was because the pilots had been taking a nap at the controls. The pilots claimed they were not asleep, 'merely having a heated discussion over airline policy and they lost situational awareness'.

I also noticed an 86, yes 86 year old man from Ohio who crashed a plane killing himself and his five passengers had been warned by his doctor not to even drive a car! (He had been treated for macular degeneration.) And you wonder why I'm not a fan. If I ever do get round to flying I know exactly where I'm going to sit. I'm going to sit on the black box, at least that's always recovered.

Having got a bit morbid, lets finish on a more amusing note. (Though not everyone shares my dubious sense of humour!) A young man on a train mooning at railway staff got his trousers caught in a door and was dragged half naked off the platform. Fortunately only his pride was hurt. And finally a woman gave her husband a potion and dragged him off to the woods, thence to attack him with a knife before running off to a prearranged lover. Very serious, I admit, but I bet it's the last time he takes horny goat weed, even for a bet!

It's All in There Somewhere

Probably the main joy of blogging is the contact with others. Ideas and experiences are exchanged which means you never stop learning. I happened to be reading the blogs of Violet Sky, a Canadian lady who never ceases to interest. The particular blog in question talked of writing on five unconnected words chosen by the good lady herself. An idea that grew on me so here goes. The five words chosen for myself were:

Railroads Smoke Pillars Phobias Fish

Railroads.

As children many of us were avid trainspotters. Plus Derby was very much a railway town. Its all a long time ago but some of it is still there in the mind. The engine classifications, Jubilee and Patriot classes; the wheel formations, 4-6-0 and was it 4-4-2 and the names, Leander and Bahamas.

But more memorable was cycling to a lonely spot away from adult examination. Then placing pennies on the track and hiding behind bushes as an express train roared past. And retrieving the now much larger pennies, hot to the touch, trophies to be secretly admired at home, but unseen by prying grown ups eyes. Stupidly dangerous, unforgivable but never to be forgotten.

Smoke

The joys of learning to smoke, walnut leaves in home made pipes and nub ends collected in the streets. A dirty, dangerous secretive past time. How did we ever reach adulthood when we could earn money to smoke Woodbines, Park Drives and, when we wished to show off, Passing Clouds.

Plus memories of granny trailing a plastic bucket, bottomless through the house, leaving behind a line of smouldering 'peg rugs' set alight by the hot ashes she had deposited in the bucket to take to the dustbin.

'This modern stuff, rubbish' was her dismissive appraisal of the problem.

Pillars

A baffling choice, well done Sanna. I seem to remember a dream, or was it just a story from childhood. This chap (was it my dream?) has this enormous Turkish Delight which he devoured with great difficulty but which was tremendously enjoyable. Then he woke up and the pillar was missing.

Intrigued I looked up pillar jokes on the Internet.

What pillar can't hold up a building.

Answer, a caterpillar!

And who spotted the 'deliberate' mistake! The word is of course pillars, totally different. Yet another sign of my declining powers! On a serious note such an error could have major consequences, for instance if the mistake was made whilst dispensing medicines. But what the hell, no need for seriousness today. Remember the girl who wrote 'a pessimist was something her mother bought from the chemist'. And the boy who thought an enigma was 'something you put up your bottom'.
(Both from pupils in my English teaching days) And I had the nerve to be critical of such efforts. Oh how is the biter bit!

PhobiasI don't personally have any phobias that I know of. But I remember as a child a man putting his arm down a rat hole. No way would I do that, but that's pure common sense! My youngest daughter is sensible, mature, level headed and has the most awful phobia imaginable concerning mice. I wonder where such severe phobias come from. Any experts out there?

Fish

Again stories of childhood danger. Being orphaned at thirteen I had an upbringing often lacking adult supervision . In my early teens I had a very near miss in the River Derwent, falling into ten feet of water whilst trying to retrieve dead fish from a tree stump with the aid of a stick. (I was a non swimmer at the time, the spot was a favourite for swimmers due to the close proximity of the power station. The water was warm, hence the dead fish.)

I also remember as a young child shopping on dark autumn nights with my mother and taking home her favourite, yellow fish. Never my favourite but I am reminded every time I see it.

I remember too of fishing in the local brook with home made nets, catching Sticklebacks and Bullyheads, otherwise known as Millers Thumb. I wonder if the children of today still do the same.

And there you have it. I believe everything we ever experience is still in the brain, waiting to be retrieved. The real clever amongst you might suggest where all these thoughts and experiences go after we are no longer 'earthlings'. Nowhere I suppose. But what was it we were taught at school 'Energy can be neither created nor destroyed.'. What the hell was that all about! Deep thoughts, and all from five random words. (Which amazingly reminds me of Arthur English's stage act as a spiv. He sometimes ended 'raving' and uttering the words 'open the cage.') Thank you Sanna. If any of my readers out there are interested, the following five words of my choice might stimulate those grey cells.

punctures embarrassing coincidence feet poems

Thinking Out Loud

I had no idea two years ago how frustrating a computer could be. Boy oh boy, has the darn thing given me grief this week. And seemingly the cause is Html. Which stands for Horrific Terrorising Mystifying Language. I had problems setting out my last blog; no big deal, right. But being unable to solve my problems has had an amazing effect. At times this week I have questioned my very existence, began to look at some aspects of life differently and have even dreamt about Html. (In my dream basically Html took the form of an oblong card, not unlike a credit card. It followed me around but refused to go home to any slot offered.Plus it was not tiny but large and very intimidating.) In hospital five years ago I had a strange reaction to morphine. I hallucinated and at one stage it was so vivid I saw things that I was convinced, absolutely convinced were real. My Html dream was on a par with this experience.I began to think Html has a mind of its own. Me versus the computer, both capable of independent life but the latter cleverest and in better nick. Now I know this is rubbish but it really got me going. When you do something over and over again, come what may, unsuccessfully, you begin to think you are going mad. Question, if someone is, for use of a better word, mad, do they know it themselves. (I fully realise the term is politically incorrect and rightly so but I'm intrigued as to how they see themselves in relation to others when they are mentally ill.) I have one or two friends who are manic depressives (bio-polar). But I can only guess as to their conception of life.
All illnesses are difficult but I suspect physical illnesses are easier to interpret.
The idea of 'losing' it inevitably figures in our lives, the more so as we get older. Dementia is a much feared part of life today. Terry Pratchett has bravely done much to improve the profile and understanding of dementia. I liked the answer of a reader of my blog who suggested that if you think you have dementia, then you haven't. At times the last few days, baffled by Html, I suspected I was going mad. Presumably I'm not! I was never over technical and one's ability to improve does not improve with age. Add a TGA not too long ago and it's a wonder at times I function at all. (Some say I don't!) I do try, honest. I have a copy of Blogging for Dummies. I also recently purchased Which's 'Computing Made Easy for the Over 50's.' I own 'The Computer Book (Vista Edition)' and '1001 Computer hints and tips.'
Yet I sit with a glazed expression, incomprehension at its finest. My cards read 'blogger extraordinaire'. Perhaps they should read 'blogger extraordinarily stupid'.
Apologies to all you out there with real problems in life. My problems are tiny in comparison. All this just because I couldn't get a computer to do as I wished! And I'm much happier now I've got it off my chest. Wiser, no, but happier. Any thoughts, support, encouragement welcome. Or is everyone out there expert in the technology stakes. And I promise I won't do another 'heavy' blog for a while!