Health and Safety Rules OK

I bought an awesome object yesterday. So awesome that you use it at your own risk. The instructions are detailed and must be read prior to use. 'Failure to follow all instructions may result in electric shock, fire and/or serious personal injury. WARNING: To reduce the risk of injury, the user must read and understand the operator's manual before using this product.'

I unpack gingerly and check for damage, for the object must not be used if damage has occurred during shipping and handling. (One never knows, it could have been subject to storms at best, hurricane or typhoon at worst.)

Everything seems ok. I proceed to remove my jewellery, rings, bracelets etc as instructed. I seek out my best non-skid footwear as advised and put on my electrically conductive gloves bought specially for the task in hand.

I take off my glasses for 'Everyday glasses have only impact resistant lenses. Plus ordinary glasses have no side shields.' (The manual actually says lense, not lenses but I know what it means, for 'ordinary glasses are NOT safety glasses.')

I check that there are no adults near to the working area as I have unfortunately only one pair of safety glasses and 'adults near the work area must wear safety glasses.'
I put my hair covering in place as suggested and strategically place my ear muffs close by in case the procedure takes too long. Taking care of course to remember that I MUST NOT overreach should I find I need the ear muffs, because 'proper footing and balance is a must at all times.' I mentally check whether I now meet the criteria required to use such an obviously dangerous weapon. I have had no medication today as required though I have been on it for several years; I have refrained from alcohol and leisure drugs for twenty four hours; I feel ready for the task ahead, if a little lightheaded. Remembering of course to avoid distractions while operating, for 'distractions can cause you to lose control '.

I wonder whether I am up to the difficult, technical, dangerous task in hand but I have arrived at the point of no return. I take a deep breath, press the button and my new, AA 4.8v Cordless Rechargeable Screwdriver whirrs into life. For Singing Santa needs new batteries inserting if Christmas is to be saved.

Answers to a Christmas Quiz

Answers as promised. Love to know who scored what without looking up answers. To be honest I now reckon anything over ten would be quite good. It's my quiz and I'd be hard pushed!

Answer sheet A Christmas Quiz by Ken Stevens

1 Norway Spruce (Pice abres)
2 Hellebore
3 Ash
4 A holly tree
5 Mistletoe
6 Nine drummers drummimg
7 Prince Albert
8 a ‘Joey’
9 December 25th
10 Tom Smith (Victorian pastry cook)
11 Isiah 9 verse 6 and 7
12 Luke 2 verses 1 and 2
13 The playing of the merry organ, sweet singing in the choir
14 And fit us for Heaven, to live with thee there.
15 Indian Ocean
16 Discovered Christmas Day
17 Workhouse
18 Christmas pudding
19 Christmas pudding again!
20 Mrs Beeton
21 4 shillings (twenty new pence)
22 Probably after alms boxes(the day after Christmas)
23 Good King Wenceslas
24 January 6th
25 Holiday Inn
26 Jimmy Boyd
27 Dora Bryan
28 Greg Lake
29 Bruce Springsteen
30 Irving Berlin
31 John Lennon
32 The Little Match Girl
33 Hans Christian Anderson
34 Louisa May Alcott
35 Little Women
36 The Wind in the Willows
37 Kenneth Grahame
38 Adrian Mole
39 Sue Towsend
40 Saint Nicholas’ faithful servant (Dutch)
41 Peter Paul Rubens (also painted Giorgione)
42 Saint Boniface (Germany)
43 Turkey farm (Bernard Mathews)
44 Samuel Pepys
45 York Minster
46 to 50 Any five from: Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid,
Donner, Blitzen.

Christmas is a' Coming

I know it's not really a blog but who cares. A quiz I set whilst teaching to keep the blighters quiet. (The children were allowed to look up answers.) How I miss those end of term days in teaching. Answers in a day or two. Atheists, agnostics and down right miseries, look away now.

A Seasonal Quiz by Ken Stevens

Nature and Christmas

1 ‘A Christmas tree’ is traditionally what species?
2 What is another name for a ‘Christmas Rose’?
3 A traditional Yule log should be what sort of wood?
4 What traditionally sprang from the ground where Christ first stood?
5 What ‘plant is also known as ‘Heal-all’?

Five miscellaneous questions

6 What did my true love send to me on the 9th day of Christmas?
7 Who is credited with introducing the Christmas tree to England?
8 What was the nickname of the little silver three-penny bit often put inside Christmas puddings?
9 On which day was Charlemagne crowned Emperor?
10 Who is credited with introducing ‘Christmas crackers’ to England?

Christmas is after all a religious festival

11 Where from: ‘ For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given’?
12 Again: ‘And it came to pass, in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus’?
13 ‘The rising of the sun and the running of the deer’? Next line, please.
(last line of The Holly and the Ivy)
14 Similarly ‘Bless all the children in thy tender care’?
(Away in a manger)

Ten mixed questions

15 Which ocean is Christmas Isle in?
16 Why was it so called?
17 George R Sims used to recite a monologue about ‘Christmas Day in the ………?
18 Similarly Stanley Holloway used to sing about ‘Old Sam’s Christmas …….’?
19 1½lb raisins 1½lb currants. ¾lb breadcrumbs. ½lb mixed peel ¾lb suet. 8 eggs 1 wine glassful of brandy
Numbers 19, 20 and 21 . A ‘recipe for what? Whose recipe? What was its cost
22 What is Boxing Day probably named after?
23 Bohemian nobleman, 10th century, murdered , aged 26, by his mother and brother?
24 When does the Greek/Russian Orthodox Church celebrate the birth of Christ?
(the old date for Christmas)

For those musically inclined

25 ‘White Christmas’ was first sang in which 1942 movie?
26 Who, in 1953, ‘saw mommy kissing Santa Claus’?
27 Who, in 1963, sang ‘All I want for Christmas is a Beatle’?
28 Who sang, ‘ I believe in Father Christmas’ in the 1970’s? (his only solo UK hit)
29 Who sang ‘Father Christmas is coming to town’ in 1985?
30 Who wrote ‘White Christmas’?
31 Who scored with ‘Happy Christmas, war is over’?

Christmas/seasonal literature

‘It was so dreadfully cold! It was snowing, and the evening was beginning to darken.’
32 Which famous story? 33 The author?
‘ Jo was the first to wake in the grey dawn of Christmas’
34 The authoress? 35 Which famous story?
‘I think it must be the field-mice’ replied the ….. with a touch of pride in his manner. ’They go
round carol singing regularly at this time of the year.’
36 The novel? 37 The author?
‘Sat 25th Dec. Got up at 7.30. Had a wash and shave, cleaned teeth, squeezed spots then went upstairs.’
38 The book? 39 The writer?

A Mixed Selection

40 Who is Black Peter? ( a clue-Holland)
41 Who painted ‘The Adoration of the Magi’ in 1624?
42 Who is the saint associated with the Christmas tree?
43 The worlds largest 'what’ is at great Witchington, Norfolk?
44 Who tells us he was late for Communion. 25th December, 1662?
45 Only one Christian Church (building in England) uses mistletoe in decorations. Which?
Finally, name five of Santa’s reindeer. There are eight possibilities.
Nos 46, 47, 48,49,50.

Over twenty, excellent. Ten to twenty, not too bad. Nought to ten, not very good, but Happy Christmas all the same!

Reflections of a Not so Hard Sexagenarian

It's the time of year for parties, present wrapping and school nativities. Thus there are numerous blogs with a 'feel good factor'. Nearly all written by ladies, often mothers who are most in tune with the season of good will. Which made me think, particularly this week, if too many of us males have lost, or never had a gentle streak, necessary in a hard, combative, aggressive, worried world.
Many of my generation were brought up acutely aware that to be male was to be manly. Men were allowed to swear and drink pints, not halves; to fight, fly aeroplanes and work down the pit. Too often crude, rude and unappreciative of partners or wives who deserved better. As children we had toys, if only a few; boys had guns, girls had dolls. Men went to work, women shopped, went home and prepared the men's food; men were strong, women were weak. In a country wearied after years of war and deprivation all too often attitudes seemed to reflect a British stoicism that is almost frightening.

I had no father at home, not unusual in those long gone days. On the 8th September, 1953, the 8th being a Tuesday, I arrived home from school. For reasons I cannot remember, I went to the house of my grandmother, around a mile from my own home. Aunt Mary was at the house as well as Grannie Hudston. I cannot remember exactly what was said, but I remember Mary crying as she informed me that my mother had been very ill, from pneumonia and had died. As simple as that! I remember no tears from myself, and I cannot recall that I knew my mother was in fact ill. Then I did what was in retrospect an amazing thing. I left the house, alone, and did my paper round. An action that sounds almost coldly clinical especially where thirteen year old boys are concerned. But I am sure now that I was probably in shock; plus the fact that years of existing in an emotional vacuum had to a certain extent desensitized me where everyday emotions were concerned.
This was the way my family, the Hudstons, that is, dealt with the situation. Perhaps this is the way many families dealt with life, and ultimately death in the immediate post war years. And this is the way I personally dealt with the problem. It was the only way I knew. No doubt in part allied to the fact that, being boys, we were encouraged ‘to be brave’ as undoubtedly men should be. And though the ‘manly’ bit was implied rather than being actively instilled, what I do remember is this. I was smaller than other boys of my age. On occasion bullied, deliberately or otherwise; to show weakness made the transgressions even more likely to be repeated.
Herein lies the phrase than has probably shaped my life more than any other. For the term ‘cry baby’ was commonly used among us children, a title that was cuttingly cruel and devastatingly effective. To be ‘a cry baby’ implied weakness, and a cry baby I was usually not. At the expense of showing feeling or emotions that often should have been the normal emotional response to life’s problems.

There was no greater love in my life than my mother. But it was a love not based on kisses and cuddles. Mary, my mother was usually far too busy, and often far too exhausted to show maternal affection in an everyday family sense. That she loved my sister and myself was never in doubt. But a constant round of cleaning for various well to do families in the village, plus hours in between as a school cook was all consuming. Add ironing, home cooking, clothes mending and shopping and it was obvious that the burden was awesome in the extreme. On my mother’s death certificate, at the age of forty-six it read, ‘cause of death, pneumonia’. It would have been more honest had it read ‘ death due to overwork’.

Fast forward to December 10th, 2008. My wife and I attended the nativity of Silverhill Infants School. My highly talented daughter, Alison organised this event for the umpteenth time, seemingly contracted for ever. My equally talented son in law, Simon, not a teacher, arranged the music. Their children, Angelina and Tommy, pupils at the school participated with enthusiasm, as did each and every other pupil at the school. The children are of mixed sex, age and religious persuasion; the performance of each and everyone was nothing short of brilliant. There was pathos, occasional unintentional humour and talent by the bucket load. The audience, mothers, fathers, grandparents and family friends almost glowed with pride. I glanced surreptitiously around and there were few dry eyes in the audience; I confess I was no exception. (As a matter of interest, when did you last shed a tear?) What was it Johny Ray used to sing, 'It's no secret, you feel better if you cry.' (It is purely an observation, there is not one single male teacher at this school.)
An event no doubt repeated in virtually every area of Britain. In these troubled times there is hope for us all. On the surface many still proffer a hard, unyielding front. But underneath there is often a softer, more loving, less inhibited affection that is nurtured by many parents everywhere, but particularly by today's liberated mothers. And even the modern male is allowed to show his feminine side on occasion. I drink to that, though a pint, please and not a half!

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?

F W Woolworth, Going Going, Gone but Not Forgotten.

Evidently Woolworths this week had a giant sale, selling everything and everything at half price, so I am led to believe. I missed out as usual, but there again crowded shops are hardly my scene. But my memories remain (see Nov 27th) and I am a little taken aback as to how many have indicated to me fond memories of F W W.

Not Exactly the Calm Before the Storm.

Many Woolworth employee’s were unusual and some even unstable. Some of us would pass the dinner hour in the snooker hall round the corner above Burton the Tailor’s. A non-too salubrious establishment and a game frowned on by some.
On one occasion being beaten proved too much for one trainee, John, bigger and older than we seventeen year olds. We returned to Woolworths at the end of our allotted dinner hour and our defeated colleague proceeded to exhibit his displeasure by hurling large tins of paint around the stockroom. Inevitably some tins and lids parted company, paint in large quantities by now coating the stockroom floor in every conceivable colour. At which point our demented friend demanded that we lesser mortals clear up the mess. No volunteers forth coming, John proceeded to grab the individual standing nearest to his awesome display and, with considerable strength forced the luckless individual’s face along the paint stricken floor. It was what could only be called a ‘wobbly’ of significant proportions, in fact the first time I ever saw a nervous breakdown occurring at first hand. Senior staff were called and with some difficulty John was ejected from Woolworths premises, presumably for ever more. Where he promptly compounded his misdemeanour by announcing he was going to wait for one of the female staff whom he claimed was his fiancée by virtue of a ring he had given her in the none too distant past. Even more alarming he insisted he would cut off the ring if it was not forthcoming when she left for home. Police assistance was needed, the whole incident bizarre even by F W Woolworths standards. That John had a history of unstable behaviour and had in fact failed medical school examinations would indicate a cross section of Woolworth employees contained some unusual characters indeed.
We, two youths in ill-fitting khaki overalls and a be-suited, slightly more senior trainee daily carried, unarmed, large sums of money in full view through the town to a local bank, our trips regular, time and route no secret; definitely an unwise thing to do, yet indicative of a more naive, less aware era.
On one occasion a customer found a maggot in a quarter pound of peanuts. I thus spent an entire afternoon sifting through numerous seven pound boxes of peanuts for other examples of the grubby intruders. For no way would Woolworth’s destroy the whole consignment, profit first and foremost the reason for their very existence.
Insect life was also of interest to Woolworth’s on the fruit and vegetable scene. We trainees were shown examples of exotic and often dangerous creatures likely to hitch a ride in bananas and other fruit from their tropical abodes. My education enhanced on learning they were in fact called arthropods. I was therefore delighted, early in my Woolworths education when I espied a large, ginger, numerous legged, lively arthropod in a box of newly arrived bananas. I coaxed him, for I had decided he was male into a matchbox with the aid of a stick, not an easy task due to his size and aggression. I transported my prize to the store manager’s office. Surely to be awarded praise indeed for initiative and dedication to duty. I burst into the office without ceremony, retrieved the box from my pocket and with a triumphant “Have you seen this!” placed the box on the boss’s desk and opened it carefully, a little at a time, until, fully opened, it revealed, absolutely nothing! Just an empty box a and a panic stricken trainee who spent the next fifteen minutes stripped off, completely and utterly engaged in a frantic search for an unhappy myriapod that was never to be seen again!
Though we were paid to work and did so, thus enhancing F W Woolworth’s considerable profits, much of our time was spent creating diversions that amused. Not surprising considering many of us were undisciplined individuals under twenty-five years of age.
Hurling empty tea chests from the stockroom flat roof three storeys up into the yard below we thought funny in the extreme, yet fraught with danger for individuals blissfully unaware of our intentions.
Boring overtime was on occasions lightened by the riding of my motorcycle round the shop floor, the echoing noise deafening, the shop filled with choking fumes. Alternately we would don skates and participate in races round the counters, reminders of childhood so reluctantly left behind.
We made Woolworth’s money, but not without cost. The stockroom assistant who fell through the ceiling of the staff canteen, amidst the rhubarb and custard certainly reduced the profits that week. A lift sent up and down the lift shaft with the aid of a matchstick inserted alongside a button worked well. That is, until the lift was overloaded, the lift minus human control hurtling to the basement, the sound of arrival horrendous, the repair cost expensive in the extreme. No one to my knowledge ever admitted as to being the culprit but the practice ceased forthwith.
At times appearing an ill disciplined rabble, we had a certain camaraderie that made the place bearable. There was little to encourage loyalty to Woolworth’s, the feeling was always that we were expendable. Indeed, if there was any doubt about this fact, a single instance proved the fragility of our working existence. Woolworth’s were a non-union employee, though we tried to support each other. But the only time that we tried the tactic of ‘one for all and all for one’ we were emphatically defeated, and quickly. Fed up of overtime at short notice, minimum wages and a general feeling that our efforts were not appreciated we went on strike. Result a telephone call from the manager to the Labour Exchange with the request, ‘Send me ten men.’ Result, probably the shortest strike the world has ever known as ten disgruntled employees returned to their labours, even more disgruntled.
So life at FWW continued, and diversions continued to spice up our rather mundane existences. One morning an earth tremor in February 1957 which ran for many miles through the East Midlands shook the building, causing tins and bottles to cascade down from the stockroom shelves. We, staff and customers were alarmed to say the least. But not half as frightened as the workmen in the culvert under Victoria Street outside who, fearing for their lives, not surprisingly, like startled rabbits, surfaced at great speed
A shoplifter, upended within the shop by overzealous floor-walkers however illegal was a talking point for many a week. Life was seldom boring for very long, hard yes, but boring, never.
At times I wished to escape and attended interviews for other jobs, for instance selling vacuum cleaners, no wages but £6 commission paid for each vacuum cleaner sold. Even the daily grind at Woolworths was preferable to such dubious employment and I would have probably remained there for several if not many years had not the fates conspired against me.

Not Always the Sweet Smell of Success

There's a funny smell in our motorhome; worse than usual. We don't have a car, my wife and I. So the not so old Fiat Ducati, 0008 PAU doubles as both car and carrier; and I mean carrier. Shopping, plants, bags for the tip; building materials, allotment produce; old friends and young relations, incontinency, probable and possible. They all go in. Which in itself is the problem. The smell could be anything. Not counting of course stale washing up water in the underfloor tank; or maybe the toilet tank or the fridge needs emptying.

The smell is strangely fish like; a mysterious, disgusting, decaying, putrid smell yet frustratingly unidentifiable. And its not going away. Immediately I am reminded of digs in Leicester all of forty three years ago. One young man I will ever remember. You always knew when he entered the house, an all pervading foot odour wafted through the building the like of which I have never smelt before or since. I assume there is a name for the problem. Developed in wartime I am sure it could be developed with devastating effect. Harry(not his real name) where are you now!

Strangely enough on of the large shoe manufacturers is having problems with trainers whose stink is a commercial disaster. Worry not, Nike, Harry's odour was world class, you are not in the same league!

Funny things, smells we take them for granted and only miss them when they're gone. And how magical is the ability to smell, both to smell and be smelled. So many questions, so many memories.

Why for instance do men and women smell different. Why do we love some smells and detest others. Who decides which is a 'good' smell and which is 'bad'? God or no God its all clever stuff. Ever been to Burton on Trent? The whole place stinks of hops, at least it used to. I remember visiting Bournville as a child and still remember the occasion. The sweet smell of cocoa powder hit you way before you set eyes on the place.

We had night riders visiting our row of cottages when I was a child. Men who emptied the outside toilets down the garden. Carrying huge pans of sewerage on their shoulders, the slops often cascading down their backs from overfilled containers. You didn't need to remember the days they came, dark or not dark you could tell when they arrived in the next street. They carried out their duties with cheerful abandon, enjoying their sandwiches in between jobs, sat on the lorry steps, oblivious of our nauseous retching.

We, as village children, rushed out to claim the steaming piles of horse dung frequently deposited in the road. And for what? To sell for pennies to gardeners who lovingly placed the stinking piles around their beloved rosebushes. The result, roses that offered the most heavenly scents known to man; how incredible is nature. (Could we be conditioned, I wonder, to love the smell of dung and hate the smell of roses?)

As I write this the faint smell of rubber is present. Emanating from gas masks on the wall of my 'museum'. No problem yet there are people who have a fetish for rubber. I wonder when mere liking something becomes a fetish or addiction. Glue sniffing was prevalent in my early days of teaching, a sticky, revolting past time not to be recommended. Plus a young chap of my acquaintance died after inhaling from a fire extinguisher. Similarly I was indirectly involved with someone who was addicted to cough mixture and died as a result. We are all different, presumably the sense of smell (and taste) is not equally distributed. I personally don't dislike the smell of garlic but it is not recommended where' l'Amour' is concerned. Please tell me why.

I could go on for ever. For instance, whatever happened to the idea of 'smelly films', the cinema reeking in harmony with the films subject matter. The possibilities were enormous, were any ever made? But enough is enough, I have work to do. Hand me a gas mask before I continue my search for the source of the elusive stench. By the way, any memorable smells in your life, or have you no sense of smell.