'Fame', here lies a Cautionary Tale.

    I have been 'blogging' since April 2008. I'm not sure exactly why I started, but as I said at the time, probably ego came into it. Who doesn't like to hear the sound of their own voice! Plus it was all new to me and I like challenges. Only there are few people in the Western world that are so technically inept as myself; its a genetic thing I reckon, plus an age thing, plus a condition known as TGA which did my mental capabilities, never exceptional any favours at all.

    Various people, including my son in law Jeff helped me out, I adopted the name grumpyoldken and off I went.

    On the 16th April I wrote a blog entitled In the Beginning. I blogged regularly, more than weekly, only vaguely knowing what I was doing. Various people helped me out and I discovered a whole new world and some lovely people. I remember the thrill of receiving my first comments. Both, like Lord Lucan vanished in mysterious circumstances. Lindsey and Kyozan, where are you now, my friends? I remember too the shock and indignation at receiving a sarcastic, uncalled for comment when I pointed out, totally innocently that I didn't even know the derivation of the word 'blog'. Welcome to the world of blogging! The same pompous, self important twerp later sent me another dismissive missive (at least he was consistent.) I wondered about this 'blogging lark' Fortunately such idiots are in the minority. As a matter of fact over four years later I have never had a further negative comment; an extraordinary testament to the warm brother and sisterhood out there who regularly blog.

    My blogs are heartfelt I hope, if unexceptional; I marvel at the blogs that are out there. Erudite individuals who put me to shame. Bloggers Bernard and Eddie Bluelights spring to mind, learned gentlemen whose computer skills put me to shame, technical experts who dwarf my puny efforts. Plus advancing years seem no barrier to some.                                    .

    Around December 2010 my blog somehow appeared on an American site, something to do with Blogger I believe. Over a seven day period I had over 12,000 'hits' if memory serves me right, attracted over 1,000 'followers' and at the peak of my 'success' once had over 100 comments per post. I suddenly had visitors   from all over the world; America, Korea, Japan, India, South America. Even Finland, how the heck did someone in Finland know of my existence!

    The whole situation was embarrassing, surreal, unmanageable. Part of the embarrassment lay in the fact that no way can you personally acknowledge so many visitors. In fact one of the downsides of blogging is that individual personal circumstances mean we often fail to acknowledge others. In doing so we appear 'rude and disrespectful', a fact that has always filled me with feelings of guilt. (We are 'what we are' and I was always taught to be respectful to others. Ah the joys of a chapel upbringing!)

    The 'fame' passed; imperceptibly over a period of time my followers drifted away; and away; and away; to an alarming degree. Perhaps it's the Andy Warhol 'fifteen minutes of fame' syndrome. I remember bloggers from the past who were highly successful but who have vanished, often without trace. Some have, in four years consciously 'withdrawn'; others have sadly passed away. I strongly suspect blogging is a somewhat ephemeral pursuit, am I right? Yet there are still bloggers who attract wide audiences and masses of comments.

    I try to blog weekly. no fixed agenda but after over four years I  find it difficult.

 I consciously avoid topical subjects in the main thereby adding to my problems. Pressures elsewhere also add to my difficulties. I published, with technical help an e-book entitled 'A Childhood Revisited'. The technical side is mind bending. Completion due only to the skills and patience of my mentor Russell.

    The buzz  word in the e-book world seems to be 'marketing'; I have even jointed Twitter! (Who said I was always a bit of a twit!) My feeble brain is overstretched but life goes on. I will probably carry on blogging, hopefully until I am down to my last 'follower.' Thanks to everyone reads my attempts to amuse, educate, inform. how does it go 'You've made an old man very happy'.   

 In the Beginning   My first ever blog

Hooray we're away. Watch this space. As the old man used to say, 'softly, softly, catchee monkey.' A saying incidentally that one of my daughters finds incredibly naff. After several attempts this blog is finally off the ground, courtesy of a good friend, Chris who has the most incredible knowledge of how computers work. Thanks Chris, I feel as if I've now fully entered the 21st century. So 'What's it all about, Alfie?'

I suppose firstly, in a way it's an ego trip, hopefully allowed at my age. Secondly having had various health problems, nothing new at my age, I need to keep what's left of the old brain going. Thirdly, I write regularly, make little out of it but need an audience (the old ego trip again). So off we go and let's see what develops. But firstly, after all the excitement I need a lie down!

                                .

On Wigs not Wags.

I mentioned last week (Ramblings From a Misspent Week) the indignities of being led by the hand when lost on two separate occasions. It is NOT funny and I presumed it is a recent aberration in part due to increased years. Nobody is too sure as to the effects of a TGA I experienced a couple of years ago. (see blog dated 18th May 2008) To be told you have brain damage is both eerie and intriguing. Which bits gone I wonder. Then I happened to be reading my diary for 1985 and lo and behold, I find it is no recent 'quirk'. Seemingly there is no hope for this bumbling geriatric.

June 1985

To 'lose' someone in Asda, a huge local supermarket is quite an eye-opener. I spent twenty minutes trying to locate Paulette and trolley having spent five minutes studying the motoring section. Whilst Paulette melted anonymously amongst the milling hordes, another individual was so conspicuous that three times I espied him, unmistakable amidst the masses. Unfortunately the reason for his conspicuity was the fact that he so obviously sported a wig, a fact he no doubt wished to hide, an irony indeed. Seemingly the trouble with wigs is that they draw attention to themselves by the obviousness of their artificiality.

A Derby pub renowned for its tough Irish clientele has a customer whom I suspect boasts the world's most obvious toupee or wig. Ginger in colour, parted down the middle, it sits squarely on his large, presumably bald head, almost as if it had fallen from the sky, reminiscent of a furry animal or tropical insect at rest. One could not fail to be drawn, fascinated to such an unusual adornment. Whereby the large, fierce looking Irishman would look in your direction and you, in turn would focus your eyes over the head or shoulder of the gentleman in question, pretending to study a calender, a notice, even the wall itself. The joys of toupee ownership. Is it worth it?

Whilst I do not as a rule write much that is topical I could not help but notice that Nobby Stiles, an England World Cup hero of 1966 has suffered a TIA. He is two years younger than myself and I wish him well.

Come in, Number Seven, Your Times Up.

I was born during the Second World War. My mother was not married and hid her pregnancy, so I had no pre-natal attention. I had an operation soon after birth, probably for the condition known as pyloric stenosis. The story goes that I spent some time by the fire wrapped up in a shoe box. I was fortunate to survive. I also spent some considerable time in Bretby Hospital with rickets, a not uncommon condition where good diets are not easily available.

I had a happy childhood in the main and, being small of stature competed with 'the big boys' enthusiastically. So much so that I had broken bones on five separate occasions. The usual 'boyish' fun, often foolish and occasionally dangerous was the 'norm'. It was not clever to put pennies on the railway line but it was the river that came nearest to ending it all. We 'swam' in the River Derwent at Spondon in Derbyshire, the water being warm caused by the discharge from a local power station. Correction, the 'big boys' swam. I was a non swimmer at the time and amused myself by climbing alone along branches of overhanging trees and fetching out, with the aid of a long stick, dead fish killed by the warm water. Until the inevitable happened, and, with my usual enthusiasm for any task, I overbalanced and fell into around ten feet of water. I had moved away from the swimming group and was, pardon the pun, in deep trouble. Fortunately my predicament was eventually spotted (I was certainly not struggling in silence) and I was unceremoniously hauled out. I spent the next half hour, naked, in full view of passing trains as I patiently waited for my clothes to dry. Not too long afterwards I learnt to swim in the local canal. A filthy experience in the year that polio was rife and canals were suspected of being one source of the infection.

As a nineteen year old I had a very serious motor cycle accident. I can remember to this day lying under a lorry and wanting only to get the hell out of there, my teenage pride being hurt by my inexpert riding. Mind you, it was not the only thing hurt and I was hospitalised for some considerable time.

In my life I have survived skin cancer, septacemia, two TGA's and my diabetes is a minor irritation. So, might you ask, what's brought all this retrospective thinking to the surface.

Early this week my wife and I travelled south to fetch a magnificent Ind Coope Brewery exterior light from an address in Surrey. A trip down the M1 and M25, the latter particularly horrendous. The traffic was diabolical, road surfaces horrendous, congestion out of this world. A two day 'thrash' taking in Esher, Windsor, Hampton Court, Kingston. Some nice places but ye gods, mankind was surely not put on this earth for such pressurised living.

I stayed with friends at Welwyn Garden City on the way home. A pleasant experience that meant a detour across country to join the M1. I had an uneasy feeling that all was not right. The road surfaces were improved yet the feeling prevailed that something was amiss. I needed fuel so I pulled into a petrol station. And out of curiosity I asked my wife to check the wheel nuts. (The van was recently serviced.) Problem solved, three wheel nuts were less than finger tight, others were far short of safely tightened. At any stage one or more wheels could have come off. Such a happening, particularly at speed on crowded motorways does not bear thinking about. I have no doubt we would not have made it home intact from the point where we so luckily became aware of our predicament. (Thanks to the young man in the small truck who tightened the nuts and saved the day.) Which begs the question, one of my favourites, 'What's it all about, Alfie.'

Do you remember the 1956 film, 'Someone Up There Likes Me' starring Paul Newman. My religious friends insist there is a god, presumably up in the sky who watches over all of us, all of the time. Amazing, so what happens when millions starve in times of famine. Killing poor little devils who don't deserve to die; don't get me started. Some believe in fate. Was it fate, then, that kept the nuts on. Will it be fate next time if the nuts come off. The older I get, the less I know. All I know is, boy, that was another near miss. I've stopped shaking and, thanks to whoever or whatever, I'm still here. Hopefully with a lot more living to experience.

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.

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!

Blast from the Past no 1. (See blog dated 23rd Jan.)

Reasons For Choice.

It was only the sixth blog I ever did. I have chosen it because it epitomises so much of my blogging 'career' to date. I came into blogging completely ignorant with no preconceived ideas, and little prior knowledge, just the desire to write; a lifetime ambition mainly on hold due to other commitments that life inevitably thrusts upon us. At sixty eight ( sixty nine now) years of age I realise time is no longer on my side.

I had no real idea as to what I was about. I have no desire to become a 'sage' or to show others how clever I am. I suppose in a way I see it as 'thinking out loud' and if it amuses or entertains, so be it.

I have few technical skills. Thus my early efforts were unparagraphed, until others put me right. Indeed I still find much of the technical side frustrating and virtually impossible to fathom. I am not helped by TGA (see blog 18th May, Hooray for the NHS) and I suspect increasing senility. I still do not know how attracting new readers really works. (This was yet another blog from my early days that gleaned no response whatsoever.) In other words I am still not too far removed from the clueless geriatric of nine months ago. All this I hope is reflected in this early blog. What is not reflected is the generosity of spirit, encouragement and kind help of many I meet along the way. I have plans for the future, God willing. The words that come to mind are long time favourites but drive my youngest daughter to the point of distraction. I shall still aspire to gradual mastery of this blogging phenomenon, but it's 'Softly, softly, catchee monkey'.

(By coincidence my last blog was my 100th blog.)

Sunday 27th April 2008

An OAP let loose in the 21st century

Like a weasel to a rabbit I am transfixed. Hours spent trying to master the technology, mainly unsucessfully yet the urge to continue is overpowering. What was it Albert Einstein said, "Anyone who has never made a mistake has never tried anything new." My incomprehension is unsurprising when you consider I even find an Idiot's Guide impossible to understand. Please tell me I am not the only one, or am I uniquely stupid when it comes to modern technology. And how strange I find myself posing questions to a screen, a substitite for the real world. An unreal situation akin to making love to a blow up doll or our childhood habit of smoking rolled up walnut leaves in an oakcup pipe. Both unsatisfactory substitutes for the real thing but better than nothing. I hasten to add I am not speaking from experience on the former. Now I reckon my problems in the main stem from three sources. One, at my age I'm a bit long in the tooth to learn new technologies but I can but try. Two, I have recently been informed I am functioning on half a brain, maybe a bit more to be honest but some missing all the same. More of this at a later date but imagine what I could do if it was all there, so to speak. And three, I need my eyes testing. My ninety nine pence glasses from Home Bargains are good value but hardly the result of considered professional examination. But at least you get to try them out. Which is more than can be said for the local Lidl. A fierce gentleman, Croatian I think he is patrols the isles, and can spot from over twenty yards a customer opening the goods. As their glasses are packaged you therefore buy pot luck, so to speak. Their car park is full of wrecked cars or at least it deserves to be. Any day now they'll be selling white sticks. I've thought my eyes needed testing for some time but a family function in The Devonshire, a posh pub in Baslow, Derbyshire finally made the fact inescapable. After a pint or two, or three, or four the need for the toilet was dire. Not surprising but at least it would suggest the old prostate is still working, if nothing else. Panic over and a might bit relieved so to speak, and, educated by frequent notices exorting us to 'Now wash your hands' I did as ordered and visited the hot air hand blower. Only posh as the pub was, the machine was totally ineffective, pathetic in the extreme. No rush of air, hot or otherwise. As I pondered so useless an apparatus and contemplated my next move I noticed a young man quizzically eyeing me from the urinal. Fearing I was about to be propositioned, I hastily withdrew my still wet hands from the machines orifice. It was only then I made out the wording on the machine, blurred in my case but cringingly embarrassing. The immortal words read 'Contraceptives, all colours and shapes, two pounds for three.'

A Day in the Life of a Nobody

Idly wandering the internet, for no apparent reason I fed into Google 'A Day in the life of''. You have one or two choices, 74,000,000 to be precise! As I couldn't think of anything else on which to blog I thought, as a one off only, I'd make it 74,000,001.

Got out of bed, as usual reluctantly, just before eight o'clock, an early start for me. Found the bottle and gave a urine sample. Too much information, I know, I know, but a diabetic check was due. Even grumpier than usual, hungry due to the obligatory fast, I watched my wife having tea and toast. Cruelty comes in many forms.

Wandered up to the doctors surgery, obtained a ticket, number forty three and waited my turn. Question, if I was number forty three, I got there at one minute past nine and the clinic opens at nine, how come I was number forty three on the list. I'm new to this surgery and there's obviously something I don't know. Eventually called in and gave a right armful of blood. Tony Hancock would have been proud. The nurse reckons it was nothing, I don't call three bottles full, however small, nothing!

Travelled to a local garden centre, now in liquidation to collect my purchases from their internet sale on Monday morning. (The modern way, years ago you would have attended a proper sale and bid along with dozens of other addicted bargain hunters.) Not so much of a bargain, VAT plus other premiums puts over thirty per cent on the purchase price. Collected one pub type, humorous 'no smoking sign' which evidently attracted ten potential bidders and cost me a fortune. No matter, we are easily amused , it will be my most prized possession, at least for a few days. Come on, surely everyone has somethings they especially value.

Collected also my second purchase, four plastic garden tables and one chair, faded, used, price, £2; I could not resist them at that price. Again, hand on heart, have you never bought a bargain on impulse?

Home again, fed and watered, a little less light headed. A young man arrived by arrangement and tested the camera I had put in the previous nights paper. One of the cameras we had unwittingly bought in a previous on line auction. (We don't do these auctions regularly, honest. In fact we have only just discovered them, hence our bungling.) My visitor, a young Muslim obviously knows far more about cameras than I do. He tells me he owns a kebab shop and is only nineteen years of age. Hard working and technically proficient he puts us old 'uns to shame. He buys the camera, I am happy if he is happy.

I spend time on the phone contacting Citizens Advice and a solicitor on behalf of a relation. A son has been involved in a serious accident, the landlords response is to threaten eviction if the rent is withheld for whatever reason. Some people have more than their fair share of trial and tribulation.

We, my wife and I go into my 'pretend' bar and proceed to put my new sign on the wall. I am concerned that my wife might fall off the stepladder, it never looks over safe! She follows my instructions quite well as the place I choose is rather high on the wall. Too high, in fact and I decide to place it elsewhere. My wife says nothing. I reposition my sign in a place that does not necessitate the use of ladders. I admire my handiwork and feel right proud!

I fetch an old school colleague, Kenneth for the afternoon. He is unusual, somewhat eccentric, a lifelong bachelor and ninety two years of age. Ken too has his problems. He lives on his own in a poor neighbourhood. This year he has been targeted three times, almost certainly by children and has windows smashed on each occasion. Locals would like to buy his house and pester him to sell. He tells me one shouts after him in the street, "Please, please, you tell me when you die." In other circumstances it would be funny.

We have a convivial afternoon. We, my wife that is feeds him chocolate biscuits, beans on toast and cups of tea. He tells me the beans on toast remind him of his childhood. He claims he eats well at home but I do wonder, he has no help whatsoever. He bemoans the fact that due to lung problems he can no longer ride his bicycle. I am secretly not sorry as he used to fall off it frequently all of twenty years ago. He tells me he will not go on the roof of his house anymore as his crawling board is not safe and he is unwilling to spend on another. He is, though, he tells me, quite happy to use a ladder where necessary. (I have known him to use carpet squares on his roof instead of slates.) His lifestyle is his choice and he is sadly a dinosaur in a not always nice age; but the least he deserves is respect and safety. I take him home after dark. I do not enter his home; if he wished me to do so he would ask no doubt. He returns to his dimly lit solitude I to a brightly lit home and a loving wife.

Sister in law has rung in the meantime. Roger her husband is holidaying in Thailand. On the television comes the news that the main airport, Bangkok has been taken over by militants. A volatile country at best, Christine is naturally concerned. There is nothing you can do but I confess it goes through my mind that we never get problems holidaying in Skegness!

I spend the rest of the evening enjoying my 'bar' with sixties CD's playing in the background. Enjoy a bottle of Thwaites Lancaster Bomber. 4.4%. Elvis booms out, to my delight. Its the first time in my entire life my home is not physically attached to another. Someone sings 'You don't love me no more.' The teaching bit never goes away and I wince at such ungrammatical sloppiness but for once it doesn't really matter. Enjoy a bottle of Bavaria Holland Beer. 5.o%. I hear 'Sheila said she loves me, said she'd never leave me.' Didn't catch who was singing but does it matter. (any answers, 1960's music.) Enjoy an 'Extra Cold Carling' 4.1%. Note the warning on the tin 'UK Chief Medical Officers recommend men do not regularly exceed 3-4 units daily.' Sorry, chaps, but it's been a long day!

And eventually, reluctantly to bed. This blog was not meant to be educational but I've learnt something. The old TGA has not finished me off quite yet; I like my life and who needs to go to work when you don't have to.

The Numbers Game

I have been waiting to do this post for the past seventeen years, I know, I know that's way before blogging came about. I did think of doing it a couple of days ago but decided I did not wish to push my luck, so to speak. Let me tell you about it.

Eighteen years ago I suffered a TGA. (see blog dated 18th May.) Earlier this year I had another. After diagnosis, looking on the internet as you do, I read that you can suffer a second attack as long as eighteen years after the first. (How ironic the blog concerning the attack is dated the 18th May.) If I don't suffer another attack for the next eighteen years I shall be well pleased. Another eighteen years will do, I suppose, mustn't be greedy.

Now I'm not one for number patterns or coincidences but they take some avoiding. I left school at the age of seventeen. For the next few years I did a mixture of jobs, married, had two children and generally enjoyed life. Before I knew it, another seventeen years had passed.

At the age of thirty four I entered the noble profession of teaching. I enjoyed it, stayed in one school, and time passed by. At the age of fifty one, yes, another seventeen years, I decided to do other things. Early retirement was offered so I took it, a little apprehensively.

The years have passed and it dawned on me that the old seventeen syndrome would take me only to sixty eight. In the early days I took it non too seriously but as the years rolled by it became a less than funny feeling. Not helped by the health scares most of us suffer in our later years, and, without moaning, I have had my share of threatening situations.

What do you do in such circumstances. Confide in others. Of course not, that would only worry others and your fears are both irrational and illogical. How mortal and frail we all are when push comes to shove. So I've got on with life and tried not to look over my shoulder too often. Especially this week; especially last night. I confess, I was pleased to see midnight and you know why. You've guessed and guessed right. Today is my sixty ninth birthday and I'm a might bit relieved. By the way, I shall be eighty five in seventeen years time. In 2025 I believe!

Bougon by name, Bougon by nature

Today's Times tells the story of the Bougon family in France who have reacted bitterly to the French Canadian fictional TV series 'Les Bougon', concerning a fictional family of scroungers, fraudsters and alcoholics. The problem is, bougon in French translates as 'grumpy' thus the Bougon families concern.

Now I chose the blog name Grumpy Old Ken. Some say its very apt and who am I to judge. I suffer from TGA which I am informed has caused a degree of brain damage. It can cause emotional/behavioural problems, I repeat 'can cause' because I reckon I never ever throw 'wobblies' but again who am I to judge. What I do know is that if I feel like a 'grump' its easy to blame it on the TGA, its as good an excuse as anything else. And who can deny a grumpy old man such license. So come on Bougons, don't be so sensitive. Have you never heard the saying, 'Laugh and the world laughs with you; cry and you weep alone.'

All in the Mind Four

Friday number 4

A strange thing seems to have happened. I cannot, at this moment in time recall any instance or happening that I have not already committed to print. I must explain that I have already stored, so to speak a substantial autobiographical work that I wish to publish at a later date. Containing everthing I can or wish to remember up to the end of my teenage years. Therefore virtually everything I write concerning those years I am retrieving rather than considering for the first time. Plus much of this blog already touches on life in the sixties to the present day. Nevertheless what has surprised me, in view of my 'everything is stored in the brain' belief is that I cannot recall anything new so to speak. Another theory seems to bite the dust.

Am I losing it; has my TGA taken its toll; am I experiencing mid life crisis; am I doing too much and need to slow down. Or am I just another silly old devil who, nearer seventy than sixty needs to stop playing the old philosopher and get on with enjoying life in general. I'll settle for the latter!

Don't Forget.

We have transported to our new home over one hundred boxes containing our possessions, a proportion of which can only be truthfully labelled as junk. Surprisingly a large proportion of the boxes contain books. (Books are also amazingly heavy in bulk thus the amount of boxes needed steadily grows.) I stop and read frequently as I unpack, thus the unpacking rate per hour is painfully slow.

To my surprise I rediscover a book I thought I had lent to someone only I couldn't remember whom! Called, ironically 'How to develop a Super Power Memory' by Harry Lorayne, published in 1958, it fascinated me as a twenty year old trying to impress. It has presumably been in the loft and emits a strong smell that is probably smoke from our wood burners via the chimney through the loft. Nearly fifty years on I study its pages and wonder at its original attraction.

It is full of 'memory tricks' or aids to a good memory. He explains the 'Link Method', 'Peg Systems' and memory by 'Association'. Plus there are numerous quotes to emphasise the importance of having a good memory.

'The true art of memory is the art of attention.' Samuel Johnson.

'A man's real possession is his memory. In nothing else is he rich, in nothing else is he poor.' Alexander Smith.

'The memory is always present; ready and anxious to help-if only we would ask it to do so more often.' Roger Broille. (unfortunately I cannot trace a Mr Roger Broille. Can you do better.)

'All knowledge is but rememberence.' Plato.

Memory is 'the treasury and guardian of all things.' Cicero.

Lorayne evidently believed that the memory is like a muscle and must be exercised and developed if it is to give proper service. It has no limit as to its capacity and there is no such thing as a bad memory.

Evidently Lucius Scipio could remember all of the people in Rome; Cyrus could call every soldier in his army by name; Seneca could memorize and repeat two thousand words after hearing them once. So no excuses, get yourself a 'memory book' and you too will develop a super power memory. But time is money as they say, now what was I doing when I allowed Mr Lorayne to distract me! One thing is for certain, he certainly did not suffer from TGA.
I enjoyed Mr Lorayne's book and can't resist repeating the beginning of his chapter What's in a Name.

'This fellow was very proud of the way he could remember names by association, until he met Mrs Hummock. Mrs Hummock was quite heavy, and had a large stomach, so he decided to use 'stomach' as his association.

Three weeks later, he met the same lady, glanced at her stomach, and, feeling very pleased with himself said, "Good day, Mrs Kelly!"

Can you believe I had to get my wife to explain!

Always Look on The Bright Side

I watched Terry Pratchett the author on the television with great interest in the week. What a brave and talented man. Mr Pratchett has recently announced he is suffering from Alzheimer's and has probably been so for the past three years. The illness is progressive and one of the puzzles is to how to measure its progress.

In no way can I mirror Mr Pratchett's talent or his stoic demeanour for that matter but since being diagnosed with TGA I recognise the tendency to look for signs of progression in illness. We well might outwardly 'look on the bright side' and you have no real alternative, but there is a mite bit of pessimism in the most optimistic of men. And this is where imagination, conjecture, suspicion, call it what you like comes in. The slightest doubt that all is not well, that the old memory is going and you're away, and senility seems just around the corner.

I couldn't recall a name last week, however hard I tried; thus the black clouds gathered.That was it, finished, on the scrapheap, useless, a burden on both state and family. The former, not too bad an idea, they've had enough of my money over the years but the latter, not so keen. Never one for gloomy thoughts the mood passed and the new reality took over.

I'm sixty eight, for goodness sake, not twenty eight. No sixty eight year old still has it all intact, otherwise they wouldn't have invented viagra. My wife thinks Sean Connery is wonderful. I personally would love to see him first thing in the morning. Plus I've got more hair, just! Jealousy is a wonderful thing. And thinking back I wasn't exactly Einstein in my youth.

I went to town on my bike once and went home on the bus. When I eventually realised, a day or two later I returned and, lo and behold, it was still propped up by the kerb in the market place. How long would it last now I wonder, twenty minutes?

I regularly had to retrieve my football boots at the Barton Bus lost property office in Long Eaton, retrieved quickly though my satchel containing homework was less urgently recovered.

Its no secret I'm less than perfect as an adult. But I'm surely not the only person that's left library books on a car roof and driven off. (My last library fine for late returns was just under ten pounds.)

Haven't we all sat on a car park at least once and wondered where we were and why. A little more unusual in the school minibus but teaching is a very stressed profession.

I used to put my sandwiches on the staffroom window sill. I ate them early one dinner time and they were the best ever. I thought my wife had been to cookery classes. I fetched some books from the car and, hey presto, there were sandwiches on the passenger seat. I rushed indoors, slipped them onto the windowsill and waited. I watched a colleague retrieve sandwiches and tuck in. Only he continuously looked inside them to see what exactly they contained. I must confess he didn't seem over impressed. He should be so lucky.

I've given up on 'Hole in the wall cards' but I have more to do with my life than fetching the card back when I've fed in the wrong number. I know they give you three tries but three's nowhere near enough. OK, I sat outside the house this week for twenty minutes with the alarm going off because I fed in the wrong number but I tried every button and nothing would shut the thing up. Interesting no-one came out to see if I was being burgled. Thanks a bundle!

I'm not allowed a mobile phone, my wife quite rightly says I'd only lose it. Plus I once borrowed one, it went off in the car and it startled me so much I nearly finished up in the nearest ditch.

Everyone reckons my wife 'carries me' in life nowadays but she always did, and seems to enjoy it; I'm not totally hopeless. Not quite, though a cup of coffee I made recently when my wife was out gave food for thought. I thought it tasted a bit strange though it took me a while to decide. On close examination gravy brownings and salt are a poor substitute for coffee and sugar; come to think of it my taste buds are apparently failing along with everything else.

I might agree that I'm ready for the knackers yard but there again don't be too sure. I may not remember what I had for breakfast but who cares. I had a motorbike in the 1950's, a Francis Barnett; the number plate, TNU 137. My pride and joy in the 1960's was my Mini Cooper S, number GDT 703C. Not bad recall for a decrepit geriatric.

Good luck Mr Pratchett and anyone else similarly afflicted. By the way, the name I was looking for has still not come, but it will, I know it will.

Hooray for the NHS

The health thing being the main reason for moving I suppose I'd better get it out of the way.On my 50th birthday in 1989 a strange thing happened. I literally could not remember who I was for an hour or two, a strange experience both puzzling and disturbing to say the least. Birthday presents on the table but I could not see the connection with myself in any way whatsoever. I felt like an alien from another planet, a strange sensation to say the least. I recovered after a while and celebrated my birthday with my wife and friends though I felt less than one hundred per cent. I had another attack weeks later and visited a doctor as a matter of course. His request for me to 'Talk him through it' would be funny in other circumstances. I was completely, utterly blank during the attacks and am reliant on others to tell me what happened. I received no examination or treatment, had no further attacks and got on with my life.

Fast forward eighteen years and I had a similar though short lived experience earlier this year.I refused an ambulance at the time, as is my wont but a GP examination followed, hospital appointment were made and then the fun started.

Initially a stroke was suggested, except that I had no paralysis or obvious damage; a TIA was suspected. I remember the TIA bit because I'd liked the drink Tia Maria in my youth. ( A coffee liqueur type drink over 20% proof.) In this case TIA standing for Temporary Ischmetic Attack. Hospital appointments followed and the inevitable hospital visits. I'm not sure who was the most spaced out, me or the appointments.

I had an Electroencephalogram, EEG for short which is a brain scan involving twenty three electrodes. No jokes please as to whether they found one, I've heard them all a hundred times. I assume there are twenty three bits to your brain and not that our hospital has lost at least one electrode. Plus a Computerised tomography (CT) scan. Then followed, an anxious wait and eventually a diagnosis by a rather serious poker faced but presumably knowledgeable consultant.

The consultants informed me it was probably not TIA but TGA, which evidently stands for Transient Global Amnesia. 'Very rare, and by the way, both brain scans showed abnormalities and you have frontal lobe damage. But there are no signs of epilepsy.' Nice to have something rare and no epilepsy but the rest is a bit scary. And that basically was that. No treatment except that more pills were suggested. (Prescribed by the GP later but with such disgusting side effects that I took them for three days only. very naughty I know but I will go back to my GP eventually, honest)

I looked up TGA on the internet as you do, doesn't everyone with a medical problem do this. Evidently the exact causes of TGA attacks are unknown, but can include sudden immersion in cold water, strenuous physical activity, sexual intercourse, over excitement and acute emotional distress. Not all together of course.

By my reckoning anyone falling in the river in my condition is going to suffer a heart attack at least. I have no mistress and, having been married for all of thirty eight years so strenuous physical activity and over excitement during sexual intercourse can be ruled out. Which leaves acute emotional distress and there you have it. It's obviously all down to house prices. I knew it, I knew it, it's all the governments fault, result, yet another disgruntled voter.
Long term prognosis is decidedly unsure. But if the gap between attacks is another eighteen years that will probably do me. Nevertheless one more reason to put your house in order, so to speak, the house in our case being a more manageable bungalow.

In a way it may seem a strange thing to say but I personally am glad than for the past eighteen years I've been oblivious to the the problem. I feel okay and am getting on with my life. But I can't help thinking what a genius I would be with a complete brain.