Wherefore Art Thou.

I 'lost' my wife in town last week. And as anyone who reads my blog knows, a somewhat regular occurrence. (My wife had actually taken longer than I expected to retrieve a parcel from the 'returns' section of the Post Office.) Not for the first time it set me wondering how this must feel like in real life when someone vanishes, never to return. Some time ago I sat in Derby town centre 'people watching'. The following short story resulted from this experience. I have published this before on my blog but some considerable time ago. I appreciate that people in the main are too busy to read at length, but if the comments (if any) are favourable I will include other stories from my 'literary attempts' occasionally. Last time posted only two comments received. Is this all my attempts at emulating my literary heroes deserve! (Stand up the person who said 'fraid so!)

Wherefore Art Thou

'Old men are twice children'

Greek Proverb

In a way it’s a funny thing to have someone go missing on you in broad daylight. Only funny is the wrong word to use.
It began so innocuously. “I’m just going into Marks to get some paste.” The old ladies’ message was simple, unexceptional. So unexcitingly familiar that the old man’s attention, honed by over fifty years of somewhat uneventful marriage, was non-existent. So routinely ordinary that he as usual made no comment. Not even enquiring as to the type of paste to be purchased.
“You sit on the seat there and I’ll be back in no time.”
Probably the hundred thousandth request, order, instruction, command in a marriage approaching twenty thousand days!
Not one to argue, of any case glad of the rest from the humdrum tasks required of 21st century man, Edward, the old man did as he was told. “She who must be obeyed,” he thought to himself wistfully.
Edward surveyed all around him with interest, anything was preferable to queuing in boring old M and S.
People of all shapes, sizes, colours and creeds passed by; some hurried, others sauntering, seemingly with all the time in the world. Men in turbans, women in chadors. People in uniforms: nurses, care workers, shop assistants, but not a police uniform in sight. Blonds with black roots, shaven headed men and dark men sporting afros. Mobile phones in constant use, conveying messages seldom of importance, in Chinese, Urdu, Russian, Tamil and even English! Drinks were consumed and the cans or bottles discarded; sometimes in the bins provided, more often not: Pepsi, Coca Cola, Lucosade, Carling Black Label and supermarket cider.
Adolescent, pretty black girls greeted each other, like long lost friends meeting after years apart. Young lovers caressed, oblivious to those around them! A proud father pushed his offspring in an expensive, state of the art buggy. The wife issued instructions before vanishing for equally expensive hair and beauty treatment.
“Make sure he keeps his hat on, don’t feed him chips and watch out for him chucking his dummy!”
Grey suited businessmen passed by, attaché cases to hand, their earnest talk concerning high finance and credit.
A balloon seller plied his trade, his brightly coloured offerings attracting children’s pennies, or rather parent’s pounds.
Young men handed out fliers advertising ‘Monday Madness, Funky House Dance, RnB, with student DJ Tom Ralston.’
Chinese musicians played haunting oriental music on obscure instruments, inviting passers-bys to purchase CD’s, ‘one hour long, price £10.’
An abundance of T-shirts and leisure tops on show, their messages often obscure: International Karate Open and Weekly Warrior, both worn by extremely slightly built individuals. A football shirt announced Sandu no 10, probably self-explanatory. But what, Edward wondered, was the significance of the number 54 top of a rather large middle aged lady; or for that matter, number 93 on the back of a lady of similar proportions? Racing Extreme, Hey Ho Let’s Go, Guns and Roses other adult choices, plus a very pink Glitter Princess, a child’s choice.
An overweight, obviously unfit, ill individual walked slowly, with difficulty up to the bench housing Edward and another elderly gentleman. Reluctantly he flopped down, produced a crumpled cigarette from his pockets and lit up. Coughing loudly he inhaled, to the distaste and dismay of his fellow travellers.
Edward left the bench and. walked slowly up the street, unhurried, taking in the street’s offerings.
Nationwide, Nat West, Lush, Top Shop; Miss Selfridge, BHS and Shoe Zone; Manor Pharmacy, Reveal Records, Optical Express and Bradford and Bingley.
Ann Summers, their customers, usually confident young women, striding in without a moments hesitation. But occasionally middle-aged ladies, ill at ease, heads down, hoping that no one had witnessed their entering an obvious den of iniquity!
Sales and offers designed to seduce, reminding of the adage, ‘Let the buyer beware.’ The NTL sales van suggested in large letters on its side ‘Save money now.’ Ilkeston-Co-op Travel exhorted, ‘Seven nights on Malta, £149, pay nothing until next year.’ BHS offered ‘30% off some items, 75% off others.’ A large street sign reminded that ‘insurance is free on a Kia car.’ Going Places told of ‘Commission Free Foreign Currency.’ ‘GNT’s gold card discount, 40%.’ The Works, ‘the place for half price artist’s materials.’ The Carphone Warehouse informed, ‘Free calls for life for BT customers.’ One hour film processing and instant food. Live now, pay later, a world beyond Edward’s comprehension!
His wandering had tired him and he was grateful to find another seat, this time empty and a fair distance from his original resting place.
The ornamental clock at the end of the street struck the hour, interrupting Edward’s deliberations. He had become so preoccupied with his observational perambulations that he had clean forgotten why he was in the town in the first place! No mean feat where Doris was concerned. He was unsure how long she had been gone, for he wore no watch. Doris always said he would only lose it, of any case she decided who did what, when, and where so as to make a watch, certainly from Edward’s viewpoint, redundant.
What if she didn’t come back! The possibility, never before contemplated, amused. him greatly. No more nagging. No more, “Wipe your feet! Take your shoes off! You’re spilling that! Why can’t you be more careful?”
No more, “You’ve had two pints, why do you want any more? Slow down, you’re going too fast! Mind that cyclist! Don’t talk with your mouth full! Don’t slurp! Don’t slouch! Stand up straight! Don’t mumble! Stop scratching your head! Where’s your hanky? Don’t interrupt, in fact don’t breathe!”
Time continued to pass, and almost imperceptibly Edward’s mood began to change. Unsure as to how long his wife had been away, he felt the first pangs of uncertainty and anxiety. The sun beat down, increasing his discomfort. His choice of clothing betrayed a septuagenarian tendency to expect inclement weather, whatever the season, and dress accordingly. “We don’t want to be bedridden with a chill, and thus a nuisance to others do we?” his other half was wont to impress upon him, if even so much as an open necked shirt was suggested as summer apparel! The old man sat uncomfortably in his woollen vest, woollen socks, and woollen shirt, his unbuttoned topcoat his only concession to summer days. He began to sweat, in part due to the weather, but also induced by feelings of panic.
A thousand thoughts raced through his mind.” Where was she? Surely a pot of paste didn’t take this long? How long was it? The Lord only knows. Perhaps she’s been kidnapped? But who would kidnap a seventy year old? Why would they do that? For ransom, surely not! How would he raise money if it were so? Murdered because the ransom was not forthcoming, fed to the pigs like Mrs Muriel MacKay, the kidnapped wife of a newspaper magnate!”
His imagination knew no bounds. ”Perhaps she’s run away, left me for another man? Surely I’d have noticed the tell tale signs? Mind you, she had seemed happier recently. Perhaps it wasn’t just the new wallpaper. Has she had an accident? Is she stuck in a lift? Has she lost her memory?” The questions hurtled round the old man’s mind, increasing his discomfort.
He realised, with not a little embarrassment, that he could not remember what his wife was wearing. Fifty years of complacency, fifty years of taking his wife for granted. Never ever apart, yet never really together!
He thought of telephoning but to whom he had no idea. Plus he didn’t own a mobile phone, didn’t carry a mobile phone and, equally important, he’d no idea how to use a mobile phone.
He thought too of the police but it was not a serious possibility.
“You’ve lost your wife, sir, now when was that, sir? You’re not sure when, sir. She’s gone for some paste and not come back. Oh dear, it’s not exactly crime of the century, is it sir! Give us a ring if she doesn’t turn up in, say, six months, sir. Good day, sir!”
As his discomfort increased, Edward imagined those around him were becoming less acceptable, more threatening. He noticed an abundance of tattoos and body piercing; tattoos on ears and necks, chests, breasts and legs. Piercings through lips, noses, eyebrows, tongues and torsos.
An old man, the worse for drink leered at a minimally dressed pubescent child. Cyclists weaved through the pedestrians, causing women with children and pensioners alike to scatter. Four teenagers, one noticeably pregnant, mouthed obscenities at passers-by, their actions creating both fear and consternation.
A teenage beggar rose from his position in a shop doorway, collected up his blanket, lit his umpteenth cigarette and went on his way, his flea ridden dog in tow. No doubt to his home in the suburbs, and probably his plasma television with its ultra sound system.
Harassed mothers harangued misbehaving offspring, increasingly tired as the day wore on. A very disabled young man struggled to manoeuvre an ancient wheelchair over the block paving, a surface unhelpful to his endeavours, onlookers indifferent and uncaring. The Big Issue seller stood, tattooed and silent, arm held out but his wares disregarded, his plight ignored.
People at the cash dispensers clutched purses and wallets tightly, eyeing up all and sundry as they withdrew their fortunes, seeing danger where it probably didn’t exist. Even a single, grey, ladies boot lying on the pavement became an ominous object, its owner unknown, the reason for its solitary existence suspicious.
Edward noticed the St Peter’s Church banner extolled, “Cling only to what is necessary.” The banner for the local newspaper informed, depressingly, “Petrol breaks the £1 barrier,” and “Archdeacon pleads for return of grave body.”
Edward tried to remain calm, in control, but numbness overwhelmed him. His heartbeat increased and he fumbled for his tablets, his hands visibly shaking. He took two tablets, though his prescription forbad it.
He became aware of a warm feeling and he realised with horror that he had wet himself. His anxiety increased, He felt lost, lonely, dependent, helpless and not a little fearful. His heart pounded, and, as if in sympathy, the sky darkened and the sun vanished behind the gathering clouds. A light breeze signalled an oncoming storm.
Tears welled up in his eyes and he began to sob. Those around him became blurs and he felt himself fading. He tried to fight, but to no avail. He tried to call out, but no sound came. He saw the outline of a female apparition, surely an angel, coming towards him. He held open his arms and the apparition called his name. “Edward, where on earth have you been? I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

February, a Monster of a Month. Grumpy's Alternative News.

I see the world is still full of idiots, so lets get rid of them first. The Members of Parliament who made fun of a fellow MP's speech impediment (the MP in question suffers from cerebral palsy) are pathetic in the extreme. No action was taken, which tells you much about the people who are in charge of us. (Plus at least six of them are using 'the system' to keep their finances secret through so called 'blind trusts'; including cabinet members Kenneth Clarke, Chris Huhne and Francis Maude.) The people in charge of Barnsley charged a resident £4,000 for a 1.7 square foot of land to complete an extension. In Oldham councillors have suggested a 'fat tax' of £1000 in order to fight obesity. Kebab and fish and chip shops would be particularly affected. Undoubtedly 'Big Brother' is watching you in Oldham. A parish council near Norwich ordered a bowls club to stop giving council staff £20 at Christmas for keeping the bowling green so well, its a bribe you see, or so the council decreed. HMS Cumberland was diverted to the Libyan coast to evacuate Britains (and others) from this warring country. And where was it going, on its way to be scrapped of course.

The EU looks like its going to decide we in Britain can't discriminate between sexes concerning insurances of cars or anything else for that matter; the fact that our female friends are a proven better risk no matter. The mayor of Chita (Siberia) upset many, (I hope it was all) by voicing regret that the authorities did not have the power to shoot the homeless. Not that our American friends fare any better. Texas looks like deciding some 500,000 students in 38 universities can carry concealed weapons. No matter that 70% of Texans oppose it. In all these cases the suggestion is that those in charge know best. All these cases, important or otherwise suggest 'power corrupts'.

Various 'titbits', totally unrelated that caught my eye. Sumo wrestling in Japan is in disarray with allegations of match fixing. If it's proved bang goes hundreds of years of history. I wonder if Sumo wrestlers get bad backs. A fossilised spine found in northern Spain suggests man suffered from bad backs 4.4 million years ago. I bet the people from Newcastle-under-Lyme get bad backs, they top the bin league table with nine separate receptacles for rubbish. You'd need a beer after taking that lot out on collection day. Though probably not 'Purple Hand' brewed in Mexico City. It's the first beer ever brewed specifically for the gay community. Evidently it tastes like honey. Oh well, whatever turns you on! It's no doubt less harmful than smoking. Which is why America's First Lady is so pleased President Obama has finally quit smoking. Mind you, I then read he's 95% cured. What the heck does that mean. Not that anyone would believe him anyway. Apparently 51% of Republicans believe that President Obama was not born in the USA. Amazing country, amazing people. Doesn't it make you proud to be British! Especially as almost everyone attending a conference at Hugh Hefners Playboy Mansion went down with a form of legionnaire's disease. Daren't say too much, can you come up with your own headlines. I bet Hugh Hefner was annoyed. But not as annoyed as the man who attacked patients with an axe at a medical centre in Madrid. Evidently he had problems getting an appointment!

Animal stories are always interesting even if they show you how preferable animals are to humans. I was saddened to read around 100 sled dogs were slaughtered after a tour company's bookings dropped following the 2010 Vancouver Winter Olympics. And I confess I was less than upset when a man attending a cockfight in Delano, California was stabbed to death by a bird that had a blade attached to its foot. And should I have been amused by the elephant in Pilansberg Game Reserve than mistook a car for a mate, resulting in one overturned car. Less traumatic but again galling, the rare tortoises found in plastic lunchboxes air freighted from Thailand to Coventry. Much more heartening the seal operated on in Paignton Zoo, vets inserting drug implants to save its eyesight. Plus the fox found on the top floor (1.000 feet) of the unfinished Shard Skyscraper in London. (and later released onto the streets of Bermondsy). I noticed the donkey (mentioned in a previous post) whom idiot Russians sent up in a para sailing stunt has died; at least he ended his days in a donkey sanctuary.

Another interesting selection (in this the year of the rabbit, heralding, according to the Chinese a year of peace and prosperity.) And non more so than the newcomer to the Hastings Blue Reef Aquarium. In English, a wedge tail triggerfish. no problem, except that its Hawaiian name is a humuhumunukuapua'a.

Plenty to ponder. In many ways the saddest item was concerning the young lady who travelled to the USA for an illegal buttock enhancement procedure and died from a heart attack after the 'operation'. What a dreadful waste of a young life. The strangest bit of news, the blessing by Roman Catholics bishops of a new iPhone and iPad that allows users to make confessions with a virtual 'priest' over the internet. And two less than world shattering pieces of news. Did you notice James Marcus Smith was charged with benefit fraud in Worcester; who you might ask. Rememember him under his stage name, P J Proby? And I bet you didn't know British postmen use two million red rubber bands every day. The Royal Mail bought four billion rubber bands over the past five years, total cost almost £5 million. And finally one piece of news Grumpy couldn't resist. A snowdrop with a 'sad face', right grumpy has been bred by a snowdrop collector, Joe Sharman and is now part of the national collection at the national Cambo Collection in Fife. (Galanthus elwesii, priced around £100 per bulb.)

Me, I'm off to buy my tickets for the 2012 Olympics, on sale from the 15th March. On second thoughts, with the opening ceremony tickets costing between £20.12 and £2012; men's 100 metres final, £50 t0 £725; number of people registering an interest in tickets 1.7 million, I don't think I'll bother! I predict a shambles is in the making. As George used to say, 'Evening all'.

The Good Old Days.

I was in a shop this week and an old lady in front of me was talking about 'The good old days,' and how she wished it was still like it was. And I smiled to myself. Because that afternoon I had been putting the finishing touches to a chapter of a book I have been writing concerning life after the war. (I was born in 1939.) I want my children to know what it was really like, warts and all.

'We were in the main healthy if undernourished, though every conceivable malady or affliction was never far away. Like many other children I suffered the horrors of several, all debilitating, and some embarrassing.
Painful puss filled boils, often on the neck where clothing rubbed, the result of an unhealthy diet. Plus sties, an equally painful inflammation of the glands that lie along the edge of the eyelid. Each a sore red swelling with a head of white, painful itching treated, not always successfully by the application of greasy Golden Eye Ointment. Chicken pox and measles would travel through the village, and, on arrival, create anxious times for all who had been in contact with the first victims for the next three weeks.
Red sore patches and yellow oozing blisters would herald the arrival of impetigo, shared towels in infant and junior school meant shared impetigo.
Head lice too were rife, tiny wingless insects very capable of moving from school desk to school desk and then from friend to friend. The discovery of tiny greyish white eggs at an early stage preferable to the extreme itching that signified the eggs had hatched and the lice rife. Plus ringworm, sore, itchy and infectious, a fungus of distinctive red rings often caught from the animals ever present in village life. All irritating conditions but seldom life threatening. The same could not be said of other sicknesses and ailments prevalent in the village and surrounding area.
Whooping cough, particularly feared by parents of children under the age of one, contagious and dangerous. The ‘whooping’ sound emitting as those afflicted breathed in, distressing to victim and parent alike. Plus diphtheria, at least equally distressing. An airborne bacterium that can lead to severe breathing problems, paralysis, heart failure and death.
Scarlet fever, a not uncommon childhood illness, a distinctive, very infectious streptococcal bacteria often needing isolation in hospitals provided for the purpose if it was to be contained and its effects limited.
One child in the village distinctly remembered sitting on the pavement playing snobs, also sometimes called jacks, a pastime popular with many. An innocuous grazed finger caused by contact with the pavement led to isolation in nearby Draycott Hospital and eight weeks incarceration, the result of contracting Scarlet Fever. Another village child was in the same hospital for the same illness. Her smaller sister also contacted the disease, seemingly from innocuously kissing her hand whilst visiting. Each instance of infection distressing but not surprising.
Poliomyelitis, also called polio. A dangerous condition causing weakness, paralysis and serious breathing problems; often with fatal results. So serious that many who survived inherited weaknesses in an arm or leg for the rest of their lives. A contagious disease that was particularly rife when bathing in canals and pools was practised ignorant of and oblivious to the dangers inherent in such seemingly innocent pastimes.
One or two of the village children wore callipers, a reminder that Ockbrook was no more immune from the likes of polio or the condition known as club foot than any other post war village.
Also not unknown were neck goitres, a condition borne of an iodine deficiency, easily prevented in more enlightened times, so prevalent in Derbyshire that it was nicknamed ‘Derbyshire Neck’.
There were also at least two individuals who were termed mongol, (much later more sympathetically termed Downs Syndrome) and at least two persons termed ‘deaf and dumb’. Again a misnomer as the deaf persons in question were not necessarily mute, again indicative of less understanding times. Plus there were also present in the village one or two who were minus limbs due to accidents plus others with all manner of mental incapacity and instability, often hidden behind closed doors. Most afflictions treated with sympathy for village life tended to reflect in the main the idea that ‘You look after your own’. '

Lest people think we were unhappy, we we not, partly because we we knew of nothing else.
A sombre post indeed. So to cheer everyone up, a taste of the humour of the day. Suggesting that at times they were indeed 'The good old days.'

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow.

Most of my readers will have noticed that in my last post my wife has red hair. That is not to say that in my next post my wife will have red hair. We were in a shop last week. my wife looked at two dresses and asked me which one went with her hair. How silly, choose the dress colour and change the hair colour to match like you always do my dear.

We were in Asda recently and its massive. Now I'm not good in large supermarkets at the best of times. I managed to lose my family in Westfield on a family shopping trip. Having my whereabouts put out on the PA system when you're seventy plus is not funny. Held by the hand when being returned to your family by a young security guard is even less funny. (My daughter had suggested to the guard that her 'lost dad' looked like Lord Bath. As if a twenty something security guard would know what Lord Bath looks like, I ask you!)

But I digress, bright red hair has its advantages. Apart from sticking a toy windmill, or a Union Jack on her head I can think of no better way to signal my wife's whereabouts. It meant I could spot my wife from a dozen aisles away, very useful indeed, no more merging into the crowd. It was not the first time I have found my wife's choice of hair colouring useful. But strangely enough my wife was in fact second not first regarding the most conspicuous customer in the shop on one occasion. I lost my wife only three times. And each time I found her comparatively easily. But my searches revealed a strange thing. Each time I searched for my wife amidst the milling hoards I also 'discovered' a gentleman who was no doubt trying very hard to be inconspicuous. He was, by his general demeanour, gait, skin tone, probably older than me; he also sported a conspicuous, considerable head of curly jet black hair. Unmistakable, he was sporting a hairpiece. and few hairpieces are inconspicuous; one of life's little ironies.

I used to visit regularly a Derby pub renowned for its tough Irish clientele. It also boasted a customer whom I suspect sported the worlds most obvious toupee or wig. Ginger in colour, parted down the middle, it sat squarely on his large, presumably bald head, as if it had just 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 of the gentleman in question. And pretend to study a calender, notice or even the wall itself. The joys of toupe ownership; is it worth it?

If I genuinely have over a thousand followers I must surely have: either someone who wears a hair piece or toupe (not counting those worn for medical reasons) or has close connection with someone who wears such an appliance. Or am I being irreverent, as usual and the whole subject is too delicate for words!

Nothing to do with the subject really. But we went in Asda to buy a memory card reader. Reduced to £4, but only on the internet I was informed in the shop. We came out with; a memory card reader, a memory stick, a new keyboard, a computer mouse, a telephone some gluten free food, and, I nearly forgot, a television!

How Old Did You Say!

My daughter has bought a motorhome just like her dad. (No, her dad's not LIKE a motorhome, he's GOT a motorhome.) It's a Volkwagen Devon Moonraker. And it's old, again just like her dad. Twenty nine years old, and that's old for any motor. It's called Dottie and the whole family, Alison, Simon and the children, Ted, Tommy and Angelina absolutely adore it.

It's age is a small concern, But what the heck, many modern appliances are not exactly built to last. And I got to thinking, some of the appliances in our house are knocking on a bit. Not counting of course my clothes, but we can't both afford new clothes and my wife looks better in her new skirt and underwear than I do. (I have not tried them on, honest; anyway they were too tight!)
I was not thinking of inanimate objects but man made 'machinery' with moving parts. I'm a collector/hoarder by nature; some say mean. Plus I have never been known to throw away anything in my entire life and I do expect things to last. Especially things my wife has to use.
(In my front garden is a wheat/corn cutter made in Loughborough around 1880. Marked T Beeby. Double Cut. Only its long since seized up and has bits missing, plus my wife seldom cuts corn nowadays so it doesn't count.)

Now the mangle, that's different. The rollers are a bit pitted but I keep telling my wife, its good for a few years yet. She doesn't grease it enough, no wonder its hard work! Plus the butter churn works as well as the day it were made. Some days, especially on hot days in summer she says its too back breaking for comfort. Says I don't think about her. 'Cause I do' I sez, 'if its too hot, have a rest, don't make so much butter, use the little 'un.'

My wife's short of nothing. Cleaning, how easy is that with modern appliances. Our vacuum cleaner is a Hoover; only the best will do. Sez on the bag 'It Beats as it Sweeps as it Cleans.' I've still got the original guarantee; bought on the 7th March 1946. Mind you, I'm thinking of taking it back as the brushes are showing signs of wear. She moans about it sometimes. Reckons the new ones are more efficient. 'Rubbish' I sez (Reckon that were right quick thinking). 'Rubbish' I sez, 'a good workman never blames his tools. Anyway, how would you know what a new one's like.'

I've got to go, I can hear her shouting my tea's ready. An' don't think she's totally hard done by. She'll be in the tin bath by seven, then washing her hair and drying it by her ultra modern, two speed, HMV, art decor style hair drier. Now I concede, it may be a tiny little bit old, but come on, as I told her last week, 'New clothes or new appliances, one or the other. I'm not made of money.'

to be continued.

What's the oldest thing you own?

Hey, That's Not a Proper Post!

This is probably the strangest post, if you can call it a post that I've ever done. The recent mention as a 'blog of note' was very welcome but is not without problems. I have always answered any comment on my blog out of common courtesy. (Except when abusive, and I have only had one abusive reply in nearly three years!)

Because of the blog of note mention, whilst loving the visitors,I find it impossible to answer every comment and have steadily 'gone under' since! (I can assure you I read EVERY comment. I also promise I VISIT the blog of every visitor where possible even if I don't comment.) All this has bothered me as it may give the impression I am uncaring concerning my fellow bloggers; nothing could be further from the truth.
I get an 'award' and the world goes mad. Yet out there are many, many blogs that put mine to shame. For example, Life in Windemere, a blog written by a lady who has suffered life threatening illness yet writes with great courage and without self pity. Clouds and Silver Linings, the blog of Eddie, an ex-ambulance driver, whose self taught grasp of technology drives me mad with jealousy. Pig in the Kitchen, whose recipes are breathtaking, all the more so as many are gluten free. (My wife is a coeliac) And Bernard, who is both older and wiser than me! (Bernard predicted the the 'blog of note' thingy would give me problems.) Now of course I feel guilty for not mentioning the many others that I follow or have been following me since the early days. 'Guilt, guilt, guilt, oh lordy!

All this has also made me aware of the many out there who get no comments week after week. I have started deliberately visiting a 'commentless' blog, any commentless blog and trying to give a word of encouragement. How about visiting a 'commentless' blog, (from my followers list if you like.) (Who was it who once said, make my day!) One example, Witty Prmt who blogs merrily on without reward or reader comment. What would he say if he suddenly received half a dozen comments. (Mind you, I only want him encouraged, not frightened to death!)

I have completed just short of three hundred posts since April 2008. How some of you complete one a day is beyond me. Some observations. My first post ever contained those immortal lines 'softly softly catchee monkey'; how my daughter hates those words! The happiest post was perhaps 'Ted Arthur Roberts' (16th April 2009), the saddest 'RIP Shaun' (15th January 2009). And the most surprising 'Ramblings from a Misspent Youth', (12th June 2010) purely and simply because I was hospitalised and didn't see it coming!

This 'post' in a way is for all the 'little people' out there. The bloggers who seek neither fame nor fortune; but who nevertheless entertain, inform, educate; some of you are awesome, astonishing. All take a bow. I have been amazed since I joined the blogging fraternity all those months ago. Long may I continue to be so. (As long as senility doesn't completely take over although the post dated 27th April 2008 suggests it's a distinct possibility.) And concerning my next post, as they used to say on the television (as those of considerable age will testify,) 'Normal Service will be Resumed as soon as Possible'.

Lost.

I wonder if there is a 'lost' gene. I reckon the answer is yes and I've definitely got it, and had it for as long as I can remember. For instance I remember as a schoolboy proudly carrying my football boots wrapped in brown paper onto the bus to school; and not so proudly retrieving them from the lost property at the bus depot next day. No wonder I was never the star player, lack of actual match practice I reckon.

Equally vivid is the time spent trying to remember where I'd parked my far from valuable bicycle; definitely stolen I decided, though why should anyone want my dilapidated bike only the Almighty could surely know. Except that in an illuminated flashback I suddenly remembered going to town on my bike and coming home on the bus. And incidentally returning to town and finding my bike still parked at the curb in the market place three days later. Those were the days, my friend!

Then there's library books. Normal people choose their books, take them home and read them; far too boring! Definitely so when you can choose them, take them to the car, put them on the car roof, open the car door, get in and drive off. More fun, if rather expensive.

I remember searching, in a Spanish town (was it San Sebastian) for my Mini-Cooper S parked that very same day; on a humid summer evening; and returning to no car. Even hiring a taxi to tour the area in the forlorn hope that we (my holiday friend and I) recognise a street, a house, anything. Until, walking, (the taxi had long since gone) we espied under a street lamp, over a bridge on the OTHER side of the river a glorious pale blue Mini Cooper S. Not unlike mine; in fact it was mine. We had unsuccessfully, not surprisingly not previously found my pride and joy having unwittingly, very stupidly crossed the river bridge and had therefore been searching on the wrong riverbank for several hours. (Dementia, don't talk to me about dementia, I invented it!)

Unfortunately this 'lost' thing runs in the family. My wife, Paulette, bless her wore large 'owl like' round glasses when we first met. Probably to please me she graduated to contact lenses, with mixed success. When we travelled on honeymoon in my Mini Cooper she triumphantly sported her newish contact lenses. Only they tended to fall out with regular monotony. You need to search for a contact lens in a car full of confetti to really have fun. (My wife crashed the car on honeymoon in the Lake District and we're still married! Shows what a forgiving sort of chap I am!)

I remember being pulled up a sand dune at Sheringham by our less than well behaved bull terrier Buster, Paulette, the children and myself. And what should 'pop out' but one of my wife's contact lenses. On a sand dune, I ask you! Finding a contact lens amongst hundreds of tons of sand, no chance, surely one of natures most difficult tasks. Mind you, I was more successful when my wife lost a lens in the shower. I went to the drains, patiently emptied out all the filthy stagnant, foul smelling water and patiently sifted the gritty, oozing contents; a labour of love, true love. (Every beetle 'shell' felt just like a lens to the touch.) And surprise, surprise, after around two hours I found it. And do you know what, she refused to wear it again; now there's gratitude for you!

We didn't have much luck with my wife's contact lenses. They were forever falling out. they usually stick to the clothes of the person wearing them. The trick is to undress, pile the clothes in a neat pile on the floor and then go through them very carefully. Now this gets great interest if in, say Marks and Spencer, but at home in the same circumstances interest in the lens diminishes for some considerable time.

Life goes on. I notice much time is spent in our family searching for children's dummies, schoolbags, coats, nintendos, you name it, we apparently lose it. Definitely a family of 'losers'. But I bet we're not on our own. What is the biggest thing you've lost; or the most important. And whose the biggest 'loser' in your family, you or the kids.