Thoughts of a Nobody from Nowhere Important.

    I'm never sure whether the next post will come easily. Do you have the same problem? My life smacks of a somewhat repetitive humdrum existence (my choice in the main) so finding something of interest is often difficult. Today's 'action' on which to 'pontificate' thus was gratefully received.

    I happened to see the BBC's Star Gazing Live 'starring' Professor Brian Cox. (It coincided with Derby University unveiling a copy of Sir William Herschel's (1738-1822, the discoverer of Uranus and its moons.) telescope that has been proudly built on the university campus.) Wonderful except that fog prevented any view of a single star! We might be clever, but control of the weather has a long way to go.The models of the universe were brilliantly done, I learnt things (you must never stop learning) that made me view things in a different light.

    I looked up some facts and figures. Mostly beyond this geriatric's comprehension; the following has stayed with me.

    Out there is our universe. There are billions, not millions of stars in the Milky Way of which we are apparently a part. There are close to a trillion galaxies and that's just in the Observable Universe. The universe is around 13.75 billion years old; I'm 73 years old by the way, years that is! The edge of the Observable Universe is about 46-47 billion light years away. (Some parts of the universe are probably, since the Big Bang, too far away for the light emitted to have arrived yet.) From earth to the edge of our known Observable Universe is 46 billion light years in any direction. (Religious people, did God create all of the aforementioned, or just earth, the place on which we reside?) One other statistic stays in my mind. Evidently an Apophis Asteroid is going to collide with earth in 2036. Not 2022, 2032, 2042 but 2036.I find such knowledge mind bendingly difficult to take in. As I say so many times, 'What's it all about, Alfie!'

    My family and I (how very Royal) travelled to St Anne's for the weekend. A distance of around 115 miles each way. We visited Fleetwood, Blackpool and Lytham; all very enjoyable, quite an adventure. It made me aware what a confined, cocooned existence we live nowadays, my wife and I.

I live in a bungalow on the outskirts of the town of Derby. In a normal month I will shop, visit doctors and dentists, the theatre, the library, the pub and friends etc within a five mile radious. Some days I will write, eat and sleep solely within the confines of my home and garden; all within around thirty paces.  I have one daughter and family who lives in the same street; their house is around one hundred yards away, (Note, no metres allowed in my life!) Within the year I will visit places of interest but it is unlikely any place will be over two hundred miles from home. No criticism of any of you leading exciting lives or visiting exotic places. My life might, to some, be somewhat pointless, but is, after all, my life. I hope you are as happy and at peace with the world as myself.

      Life is for enjoying, not to be taken too seriously;  if we can raise a smile and help each other, how ever parochial as we pass through, that is indeed a bonus. My/our purchases from our recent excursions might give food for thought.  The photograph was taken in Blackpool's Madame Tussauds. I know, I know Christmas has come and gone but we couldn't resist the reindeer. One final thought. As I moved 'Santa' from the shop, the two of us seemed to cause both consternation and hilarity as I carried him to my vehicle. Come to think of it, my appearance seemed to attract comment as I wandered around the north west! But never mind, if insignificant me can bring a little cheer, why not indeed!

s   

Deja vu, Deja vu, Deja vu.

I hadn't reckoned on writing this post. I have, through other commitments, got in the habit of writing only every five or six days. Then granddaughter Angelina forgot to take her coat to school and who gets a phone call, granddad of course! She regularly forgets things, Angelina, mother calls it her Stevens gene. So off we, my wife and I drive, plus coat to the school three miles away. What, after all are granddads for!

We took the opportunity to call in the local Tesco in Mickleover. It was a bitterly cold morning, dark, gloomy and raining. At the roadside outside, near the entrance stood a 'Big Issue' seller; a middle aged lady, perhaps younger due to life's stresses. I approached her and explained, somewhat apologetically, I had bought one near Blackpool very recently from a Romanian gentleman. The ladies English was very limited, but she recognised the name Blackpool. 'Ah,' she said, quite excited, 'he my brother.' Evidently she had travelled from Birmingham to stand in Derby's rain.

I suggested she stand under cover. 'No, she replied, 'it private.'

We communicated as best we could, I shook her hand and went in the shop.

I sought out a staff member and asked was it necessary for the lady outside to stand in the rain. If not allowed in the shop, a covered area nearby would have been a drier, if not warmer alternative. The young staff member was sympathetic and directed me to Customer Services. I found the required counter and asked if it was possible to speak to a duty manager concerning the lady outside. And boy, did 'officialdom' kick in. No, I couldn't, and no the person outside shouldn't be there. Evidently Tesco issue some sort of permit, she hadn't got one and that was that.

I felt ashamed to be British. You missed the point completely. Rules, regulations, so what. People matter more, all people.That the store is full of Christmas merchandise, tough. That the person was cold and wet, 'hard cheese', presumably Romanian street sellers have neither rights nor feelings.

I was amazed at the response in someone comparatively young. The lack of concern for others who, though low in the pecking order of British life, are still human beings; what have we become.

Are such people so enveloped in the Tesco culture of profit and dominance that they have lost sight of basic decencies. Tesco, please don't shout from the rooftops all you do for communities. There's always an ultimate motive. If you want to be loved, instill in all, not just some of your staff GENUINE compassion, not a superficial 'Be polite to customers and that will do' syndrome.

I was angry, shocked, saddened, you name it. And whilst I was having my 'difference of opinion' with 'officialdom' an interesting thing happened. A well dressed lady customer heard my vehement protest and decided to add her 'halfpennyworth'.

'They shouldn't be here' she stated emphatically. 'You should fetch the police and move her on.'

Ignorance personified.

'There you are,' said Customers Services' triumphantly, not all OUR customers agree with you.'

Have they no idea as to how the Big Issue system works. Happy Christmas, ladies. Mind you, I reckon Mickleover, mainly affluent Mickleover always was a 'fur coat and no knickers' sort of place. I asked for Tesco's head office number and walked off, definitely not amused.

I left the place fifteen minutes later. The rain continued to howl down. Outside my Romanian friend was still there. And lo and behold, the Lord had partly answered my prayer. No, the place was still standing and no-one had been struck dead. But the Romanian lady now sported a brightly coloured umbrella. I smiled and pointed to the umbrella.

'From inside' she said, 'I have to take back.'

We talked again briefly, I gave her a pound coin, she gave me her blessing and I went on my way.

Someone had had second thoughts after my little 'discussion'. I trust it was for compassionate reasons and not to 'cover their back' in case I rang head office. I shan't do so, I cannot see it achieving anything, sadly. I am sorry for returning to the subject of this post in a way. But the incident caused me great anxiety during the night. All you people out there, what do you think?

Helping the North West's Economy and a bit of Deja Vu.

My wife and I (Now doesn't that sound regal!) have recently spent a delightful three nights on the streets of St Annes. (In our motorhome, not literally on the streets!) The weather was horrific; it rained, the wind blew and it wasn't exactly hot but who cares. We visited my daughter, son in law and grand-daughter, we shopped, people watched and a good time was had by all.

We, motorhomers are none too popular in this corner of the north west. Parking on the streets mean we have no hotel costs, which no doubt galls the hotel trade. Possibly the reason there is a profusion of signs in Blackpool in particular reading simply 'cars only'. And it's getting noticeably worse. A pity as my wife tried to boost the local economy on our visit, and I wasn't too far behind. So what did we spend.

For a start there were pubs meals in Wetherspoons: my two sausages, two bacon, four slices of toast, two eggs, a slice of black pudding and a tomato, £3.99; brilliant. Plus numerous cups of coffee and tea. Then there's the gluten free food (my wife's a Coeliac.) Biscuits, cakes, even gluten free liquorish sticks. A petticoat from Fleetwood Market (my wife's purchase, honest!) and posh leggings plus a bright red handbag bought in Blackpool. (My wife again, silly!) Chocolate bargains and other sweets from Freeport. A red coat (no other colour considered) from a charity shop and some serious spending in between; a seven piece bed set, not cheap but well worth the price. Oh, and a fur hat each, very fashionable for 'geriatrics' and worn at Derby County versus Portsmouth FC!

My wife's the main spender in our house, but I didn't do so bad either. An Elvis musical figurine purchased will take pride of place in my 'bar'. (Plays a non too musical version of Love Me Tender') and I couldn't resist the cruets imprinted with pictures of Cliff, Elvis and the Beatles. To complete the 'spending spree, books from my favourite charity shop, Barnado's in Lytham, price five for £1.99. (A Spread of Over 40's Jokes; A Handbook for All Word Puzzling; a book on Crime and Detection; The A-Z of Behaving Badly and Britain Land of Contrasts. Add fuel before returning home and I reckon there's £2oo plus gone into the north west economy; recession, what recession! Please think twice, north west councils, there's a lot of us and plenty of places that would welcome our 'dosh'.

And so to the deja vu. (See post dated 23rd April 2008). We spent the last hour of our short visit in St Annes. Hurrying back to our rather expensive motorhome we espied outside B and M a somewhat forlorn seller of 'The Big Issue'. I did the usual, avoided eye contact and hurried past. The wind was blowing, it was cold, my pockets were nearly empty and I needed the warmth of my 'motor'. And so to home, back to my comfort zone, a smashing break, but its home where we're happiest. Except that I retraced my steps before I left St Annes, had a chat with the young man outside B and M and bought a Big Issue. Evidently he was Romanian, selling the Big Issue with quiet dignity to keep body and soul together in a foreign, not always hospitable country. I am not interested in the arguments concerning immigration issues and the rights and wrongs of 'our country'. All I know he was a pleasant, dignified young man. I was glad, for whatever reasons I had returned and purchased one of his papers.

To Make the News, try Food or Rude!

Looking for items for my 'Grumpy's Alternative News', I was struck by how many stories were either 'rude' or all about food.

Bears all over the world are apparently foraging for food prior to their forthcoming hibernation. I know the feeling. And a Christmas flavoured Pot Noodle's gone on sale, having been tried out on British troops overseas. Called 'Pot Noeldle' its 'a festive fusion of turkey and stuffing with all the trimmings'. Looking even further ahead The Church of England has produced the first ever Christian Easter egg, priced £.3.99 in order to fight commercialism. Look out for it next year. I notice Greggs the bakers are going all posh, offering pain au chocolat and croissants. In the south-east, OK, I'm not so sure 'up north'. We don't mess about north of Watford. That's probably why two tram drivers in Blackpool have been suspended for being overweight. The council have given them a month to lose half a stone. Not sure about the food properties of gugas (young gannets) but they're serving them free at the Musa Restaurant in Aberdeen. Animal welfare groups aren't too amused. Wonder if they would go with Naga Hari, the worlds hottest chilli pepper, grown on a chilli farm in Devon. (If you want to impress at the next cocktail party you go to, mention the Scoville scale, evidently the way to measure a chilli's heat.) It certainly won't go with the seventy year old Mortlach whisky, (price for a full bottle £10,000) on exhibition at a trade fair in Stockholm. Somebody pinched it! Have a cigarette instead, preferably not made from tobacco, Almaty style. Its mildly narcotic and made from chicken droppings! And talking of smoking, though its not really food, did you notice Charlie the chimp has died at Bloemfontein Zoo in South Africa. Well known as 'a smoker', visitors thought it funny to give him cigarettes, Charle lived to fifty two years of age in spite of the publics stupidity. Good old Charlie.

'And now for something completely different', as they used to say in 'Monty Python'. Those of a sensitive nature, please go for a cup of tea!

I see Keith Richard's autobiography makes great reference to Mick Jaggers 'manhood'. Made even more interesting by Jerry Hall's comments that Keith was only jealous. She reckons that's just about the size of it! Whose telling the truth I suppose we'll never know. But don't these stories make you look small. Sorry!

Mind you, Martin Amis doesn't help. He suggests writing well about sex is impossible. He reckons sex lurked in the background of the works of Richardson, Fielding, Austen and Dickens. Then along came D. H. Lawrence and it was no longer in the background. Except that Amis suggests even Lawrence had no success 'describing the actual act'; strange man, Martin Amis.

If all this becomes too serious, Cliff's seventieth birthday 'bash' at the Albert Hall added an air of frivolity to the whole picture. A sex symbol at seventy indeed; The Daily Mirror suggested he was indeed a sexy boy fifty years ago. Well, the elderly lady who 'sashayed' up the isle to the rendering of 'Devil Woman' still thinks he fits the picture. Plus the hundreds of senior citizens who flocked to the front in his finale can't all be wrong.

I read the El Paradise, recently opened in Madrid, is Europe's first mega-brothel. Eighty bedrooms, an events centre for six hundred people and two other halls to host shows. I daren't make other comments. The mind boggles, and we'll leave it there!

It's difficult to decide what is merely funny and what is definitely in bad taste. I suppose it depends on many things. Frank Skinner wrote an article entitled 'Is this joke too rude.' He talked of regretting having no nude photographs of himself as a young man as 'It would be nice to have proof that my genitals didn't always look like 'Parky', (Michael Parkinson.') He actually said this on television. Funny or otherwise, there is a suggestion that some things are OK discussed privately but not publicly. I find that sort of thing almost hypercritical but I do concede our sensibilities vary. The first rule of blogging is never put into a post anything you do not wish to be read, an obvious point. Having said that, I would not wish to offend anyone. A young women teacher was recently sentenced for having sex with her pupils. The attitude to this varies, one small point, is the attitude the same where a male teacher is involved; I wonder.

Getting a mite serious, this post so lets lighten the mood. I notice staid, inoffensive, not really with it Marks and Spencer are moving with these less than delicate times. Have you seen their latest men's underwear. Called 'Bodymax Frontal Enhancement Pants' they have an in-built fuzzy codpiece protruding from the front of the boxer shorts. (You can also buy vests that enhance and padded socks.) What do the initials M and S now stand for, any suggestions.

The pants are definitely me, I can't wait to go to town. Mind you, it does seem a shame to wear trousers as well; might try them without, where I live it's fairy quiet! Mind you, sex and sexiness is a great attribute when you're young. But at my age, in my condition, what's the modern parlance, 'You're having a laugh!'

On People and Places.

We've just been away in our motorhome for a few days. Our travels may not be in the same league as George Orwell's (Eric Arthur Blair) but I've enjoyed the change.

We called at a scrap yard near Preston on the way up. Don't let my wife ever tell you I don't take her anywhere interesting. I'm sure many a lady would like to be taken round a scrap yard! I bought two brass signs for my bar. Corny, yes, but they amuse me. Why ever grow up when you don't have to.

We stayed the week on the playing fields of King Edward VII and Queen Mary School, Lytham St Annes, courtesy of The Camping and Caravan Club (Lune Valley D A). Within sight of my daughter's home, literally across the road. An ideal situation, close but not under each other's feet, so to speak.

I hadn't realised how elderly many caravaners and motorhomers are. Smashing people in the main, many in their seventies and no small number eighty plus. Brilliant that so many ' oldies' are still active in this day and age. Though I doubt that all drivers following cars and caravans on our crowded roads would agree.
St Annes up the road (And Lytham for that matter) have a gentile, affluent feel about them.. My mother in law, well into her eighties loves them. She says they have a better class of charity shop than most. (I counted six at least in St Annes, charity shops that is, not mother in laws!)

Whereas Blackpool, not too far down the road has no pretensions of grandeur. Many people in Lytham and St Annes are rude about Blackpool. snobbery to a degree, but I can see why. I must admit I have seldom seen so much obesity, so many people smoking and so many tattoos for many a while. And that was only the ladies! (Only joking). I met a delightful man and his father who lived in Stoke on Trent, the son had had retired this week after thirty eight years in teaching and they always holidayed in Blackpool. Stoke, Blackpool and thirty eight years in teaching, the mind boggles! Nevertheless I like Blackpool.

Fleetwood is unique in its own way. A port, though perhaps somewhat in decline, not particularly attractive, certainly not pretty; it's biggest claim to fame appears to be its markets, Tuesdays, Fridays and Saturdays. The numerous parked buses testament to the many day trippers who descend on the markets week after week. And I have never seen so many geriatrics, and geriatric aids for that matter in one place. The market heaves with ancient old dears intent on a bargain and woe betide anyone not quick on their feet who momentarily blocks their path in the search for the holy grail. If I have learnt nothing else from this short break, I have learnt that the average age of the British population is high in the extreme. Either that or they've all migrated to the north west.

I did meet one interesting young man by the name of Andrew. He wandered over to our motorhome on the seafront at Fleetwood. He insisted on telling me a large proportion of his life story. Andrew is twenty seven, married into a travelling family, with children and has recently moved from Rochdale, having run up several hundred pounds in debts owed to the council. (I was unclear as to whether the money is still owed.) He and his brother make a precarious 'living' collecting scrap metal with the aid of an old van. evidently 'scrap' is worth around £170 a ton but was £200 not long ago. Andrew had recently been arrested for 'stealing by finding'. Taking scrap without permission, even though it's been lying round for some considerable time. You learn something everyday if you're prepared to give a little of your time.

Andrew was waiting for a friend who was 'in front' of the magistrates in the nearby courts, (a favourite parking spot of mine) charged with numerous motoring offences. Ok, so Andrew was not 'the sharpest pencil in the box' and maybe he'd had a drink. But he was totally friendly, polite and civil and no, he didn't 'tap me up' for money; I am ashamed that I considered that might be his motive. We shook hands and parted, Andrew informing me that his ambition was to move his family up the coast to a quiet life in a nearby village. I hope his dreams come true. (Back home we are visited by three different groups collecting scrap metal on a regular basis. I have not seen this happen for many years; it must be a sign of austere times.)

One other memory. Life consists of millions of individuals seeking contentment, success, pleasure in their brief lives. The punk groups in Blackpool, there to attend concerts in the Winter Gardens were a joy to behold. A non conforming, colourful, good humoured presence, piercings and Mohican's to the fore, they were a joy to behold; thanks lads and lasses, you made my day.

And at the end of the week, what did we take home. Five books, second hand from a charity shop and a pair of shoes each, new, though in the sales from a 'proper' shop and a cardigan for the wife (that sounds a good swap to me). A watch (I never learn, can't get it to work yet but there's hope) plus some meat of all things, both from a car boot sale. (I hope the marks on the meat are not made by a saddle.) Plus a Colocasia Black Magic and a Musa Santa Morelli from a garden centre. Oh, and memories to savour on the dark nights ahead. Roll on Christmas!

Every House Should Have One

In the main I blog to keep what's left of my brain active. At the same time I struggle to find something on which to write. I don't have the urge to write everyday, be topical or 'up to date' and of any case others do it better. ( Which doesn't mean I don't care what's happening in the world.) But I do enjoy it plus I may be grumpy but I try not to be boring. Which in a way is strange because I suddenly find myself writing a semi technological blog when I consider myself to be the least technological person in the world. Now talk about money and I'm yours, but for once the two are linked hence my interest. Let me explain.

Southern Electric recently sent us a thingy me bob that measures instantly how much electricity you are using at any one time. And boy is that a life changing experience. My wife fixed it up, plugged in (I told you I don't do technology) and away we went.

We recently moved house, having bought my daughter and son in law's bungalow, a state of the art little palace in which to end our days; but not yet I hope. So the running costs are unknown to us. Running costs, now they're boring for a start, but only a fool or a very rich man could ignore such things in this day and age.

The gadget has a screen that gives out continuous information. Now I know that electricity is measured in kilowatts (kW), without having the faintest idea what a kilowatt really is. No matter, as long as you know how much each one costs you're away. (Plus very cleverly the price is adjustable, you merely change the setting every time the price of electricity goes up, which is very frequently nowadays.) It also tells you what you used yesterday, what your monthly bill will be, etc, etc. Lecture over, now what.
My daughter, Sarah and husband Jeff Ascough ran a very successful photographic business from our present address that necessitated good lighting. Plus the younger generation are into modern 21st century living. So far removed from my early days. I remember sitting at home as a child doing homework, the hissing gaslight casting shadows, hindering my feeble efforts in the gloomy little room, the silverfish glinting in the embers of the fire. (Who was it who sang 'Those were the days my friend.') Sarah and family have gone to live in Lytham St Annes near Blackpool. Our bungalow would give Blackpool illuminations a run for their money.

We switched on our new toy, television was ignored and we watched the alternative screen with baited breathe. Basically a kilowatt of electricity is costing us around 13p. With virtually nothing switched on our costs are apparently around £27 a month. We try the four kitchen lights. (halogen). Evidently halogen lights use five times more electricity than ordinary lights. The cost immediately rockets to £47 a month. (Remember, four halogen lights only.) I turn on the electric kettle and it rockets the bill to £200 a month. I know you don't use an electric kettle for long but you get the picture.

I fetch a notebook and biro and walk round the house. I count at least fifty six light bulbs, of which forty three are halogen. I also count three televisions, two hi-fi systems, two Sky boxes and a radio. A washing machine, a tumble dryer, another dryer, a fridge, freezer, and two bread machines. A microwave, juicer, toaster, food mixer, computer, printer and a shredder. Plus the central heating is constantly on so the boiler naturally takes a hammering. Come to think of it, I don't know how the National Grid copes. Something has to go, something has to give, that's for sure.

Christmas decorations, bah, humbug. I sort out my seventy eight rpm records; my wind up gramophone needs a run out, it's so long since I last used it. Though I have a job reading the labels, especially in the dark. I hesitate, undecided, the choice, orchestral, Woody Herman or Tommy Dorsey. At least I'm not missing the central heating, three jumpers are better than two. Of any case, I'm going to bed in a minute. And I've not missed the television, honest. And if staying becomes too much of a bore, we can always go visiting. What nights are you in?

Good old Bob and Dean

I wrote some of this post for Motorhome Monthly a while ago. On cold and miserable autuminal days such as today I reread it and, hey presto, I am transported back in time.

Memories are made of This

Those of us who can only be described of as ‘of mature years’ will undoubtedly remember a song recorded, by amongst others, Dean Martin in 1956. Called ‘Memories are Made of This’ it began with the lines
Sweet, sweet memories you gave-a me
You can’t beat the memories you gave-a me
Admittedly now considered rather twee, a remnant of a perhaps more gentle, innocent era, it nevertheless prompted me, mere months after purchase, to recall some of the delights our present motorhome has provided to date. Ordinary, unexceptional occurrences, yet experiences that bring a smile to lighten dark nights.
I suppose literally the first memory was the sight of a gleaming motorhome on a bright summer’s day, and the realisation that we were, at last the proud owners. Incidentally, it is the first new mode of transport I have ever purchased in nearly fifty years of driving, but well worth the wait. Plus the smell of a new vehicle is unique, an indescribable almost sensual heady mix that, bottled, would I’m sure rival Chanel, Dior or Nina Ricci for sales. (Raleigh bikes smelling of chain oil had the same effect when I was fifteen.) And finally my wife’s Cheshire Cat smile as she re-examined the washroom for the umpteenth time, surely the actions of a deprived child. Definitely a Royal Flush, if you like! All this and we hadn’t even left the dealers!
That first night, trying to comprehend the direction of the toilet in the early hours. (I’ve never used silver screens overnight before and found the blackness created by their presence disorienting in the extreme.) And the joy of lying in bed that first time, like children Christmas morning, excited beyond belief, the dawn, at least for us, of a new era.
Single nights, week-ends, weeks and longer, each and every occasion experiences, if not always to savour, at least to remember.
Excitement in Lancashire, tempered with not a little trepidation when, arriving back home, so to speak near Blackpool front we found our motorhome surrounded by numerous policeman. Evidently the result of an earlier ‘incident’ that we were relieved to discover, had nothing to do with us. Plus going to sleep only minutes later, the sound of clanking trams surprisingly soporific. Norfolk, unhurried and in the main unchanged. Walsingham, a meaningful haven for all, irrespective of creed or belief. A place of pilgrimage for centuries in an often disorderly world. To tread where pilgrims have trod for almost a thousand years, an awesome thought that surely cannot fail to impress. Gressenhall Farm and Workhouse, one of the best days out for under ten pounds I have ever experienced. Workhouse incarceration an austere, uncompromising existence, a sombre reminder of the cruelty of the not too distant past. Plus time spent in the company of a delightful individual who had exchanged the turmoil of modern day South Africa for the simple pleasures associated with hardware shop keeping in sleepy Mundersley.
The looks of astonished amazement from the gathered fishermen as we arrived in the tiniest of coves in Clovelly, Devon having misread the signs on approach. (The wife’s fault, of cause, as of always!) Extraditing ourselves with great difficulty and I maintain not a little skill. The fact that we should not have been there in the first place surely of no consequence!
An enchanting evening spent at the public house in The Lake District where we honeymooned all those years ago. (thirty seven years ago to be precise.) Overnight spent in the van on the road outside the pub. (The Mason’s Arms, Strawberry Bank near Windemere.) Who says romance is dead!
Hadrian’s Wall, County Durham where history and mystery combine. Well worth the visit, though much of the wall has since been spirited away by the enterprising hordes the Romans were so keen to repel. The sheer scale of the enterprise is mind bending. Originally over seventy miles long, mainly completed in ten years, I found the statistics too complex to take in, finding a fact from fiction more intriguing. A replica wall one kilometre in length was built in County Clare, Ireland for the film King Arthur. It took three hundred construction workers four months to build. (The largest movie set ever built in Ireland.) Remember, this replica was only one kilometre long!
Glorious sunsets at Blackpool, Fleetwood and Crackington Cove plus equally
splendid rainbows in the Yorkshire Dales. Surely the cheapest beer in the country in a pub near York, courtesy of Sam Smith, and some of the dearest campsites nationwide in the Lakes. The memories are endless.
High winds near Castleton, enough to rock the van, an eerie overnight stay both haunting and daunting. Non-stop rain at Eden Camp, near Maltby, the visit a fascinating reminder of the trials and tribulations of Britain at war.
Regular sojourns at Derby County Football Club home games. After the match we sit munching bacon butties or beef burgers, mug of steaming tea to hand and watch gridlocked supporters impatiently fume, blood pressures rising, their frustration perversely making our meal all the more enjoyable. Local radio echoing to the howls and growls of those stuck fast.
Fed and watered, nerves intact, we leave when the last car has disappeared over the railway bridge, forty-five minutes after the final whistle. (We arrive home fifteen minutes later than had we left immediately after the match ended.) A ritual repeated at fortnightly intervals.
The Christmas Market weekend at Lincoln early in December. The lights, the street entertainment, the market itself and the crowds. An enchanting countdown to Christmas attracting 160,000 visitors over four days: tiring but well worth the effort.
Plus the magic of Christmas itself. Parked outside the grandchildren’s house Christmas Eve so as to be ‘in situ’, so to speak when presents are opened Christmas morning.
Dressing up as Father Christmas, right down to full-length beard. Elaborate preparations including a scattering of ‘Reindeer Dust’ and walking up the street complete with sack. “Who’s this coming up the road?” Angelina aged five is asked by mother.
“Father Christmas” she replies on cue, eyes wide with amazement. “Who is it?” is enquired of brother Tommy, not yet three. “Santa Granddad” is the instant dismissive reply. Out of the mouth of babes and all that! ( I have been asked to be Father Christmas at the junior school where my daughter teaches. Only Tommy and Angelina now attend that school so I've no chance. I wonder if I'll get away as being 'Santa's brother.)
The illustrious Bob Hope adopted as his theme tune ‘Thanks for the Memory’ (Written in 1937 by Ralph Rainger and Leo Robin.) Included are the lines

Many’s the time that we feasted
And many’s the time that we fasted.
Oh well, it was swell while it lasted.
I don’t remember the fasting, Mr Hope, but it was certainly swell. If 2009 compares I for one won’t be disappointed. Memorable experiences to take into extreme old age, though not yet! Expensive cruises, who needs them!

Afterthoughts. 2008 became, out of the blue, the year of the 'great move'. Thus our travels were in the main 'on hold.' Roll on 2009!

Lost, or was it Forgotten.

Today's Times includes the story of the airline passenger who, travelling from Tel Aviv to Paris with five children, his wife and eighteen pieces of luggage, managed to leave one of the children behind.

One's immediate reaction is to be horrified at such incompetent parenting but is that necessarily fair? 'Let him who is without sin' and all that springs to mind.

I remember as a proud father of a two year old visiting the local pub with two friends for a convivial couple of hours. Only to remember after the first pint that we had been left in charge of the infant who was fast asleep in bed, blissfully unaware of our wilful neglect. All three of us were teachers at the time but still hopelessly inadequate beings it seems. Our wives were unimpressed with our dereliction of duty and we were all reminded of it for many a day.

As a teacher also I remember taking, with twenty other staff, five hundred secondary school pupils in eight non too luxurious buses to Drayton Manor for an end of term treat. (Alton Towers declined to accept such numbers on one trip and I don't blame them.) We returned with four hundred and ninety seven. The missing three returned under their own steam some time later. It was all very reminiscent of the 'Albert and the Lion' saga though with a less serious ending. Ironically one of the three tragically drowned in a local river days after the school term ended.

I remember too as a youth leader returning from Blackpool to Derby after a youth club outing minus one young lady. I had to knock on the door of her parent's house and explain we had lost the daughter they had lovingly brought up for the past sixteen years. Not funny, I can assure you, even less funny when she arrived home hours later, having found a 'young man' on another trip from Derby and travelled home with her new found friend on their bus.

Contrary to what people might think we were and hopefully still are conscientious if sometimes flawed individuals. But times have changed and in this 'Madeleine McCann' era woe betide any mistake by those in charge, be they parent or teacher. Sometimes, just sometimes I'm glad I'm just an old fool whose main occupation in life is merely watching the world go by. Or is it only me that did daft things; you tell me.