The Older I Get, The Less I Know.

One of my childhood homes was supposedly haunted; I've been writing about it this week so its fresh in my mind. But is there anyone out there who is willing to say, 'I don't care whay you say, I Believe.! 

Sometimes when I was a teacher I’d be stuck for a lesson or a lesson would finish early. In which case I’d only have to say, “What do you know about ghosts?” and we’d be away. (I know, I know lesson plans are important but nobody’s perfect!)

“My granny says the Old Post Office is haunted and she knows ‘cause she’s old.”

“My mum says she saw a girl in odd clothes and a funny hat in her bedroom when she were a girl.”

(How many times have I told you, Trixiebell, it’s ‘you were, she was,’ not ‘you was, she were.’)

“Granddad often sees strange things on his way home from the pub.”

(I’ll bet he does!)

There’s no doubt many people believe in the supernatural and motorhomers are no different to anyone else. Plus the fact that they, motorhomers have the capability to visit places most likely to foster an unearthly presence. And though most of our metaphysical experiences can be explained, sometimes, just sometimes experiences are not so easily resolved.

I remember camping near Cromer many years ago when our children were very young. We, adults and small children wandered in the severest of fogs from the campsite towards the town. I seem to remember the weather often being foul, howling gales, or dense fog being the norm. (Which accounts for a proliferation of holiday photos showing anorak clad families braving the elements year after year.) Suddenly the ghostly sound of galloping horses echoed through the mist, becoming louder and louder, ghostly yet terrifyingly real. And real they were indeed, a group of runaway horses appeared out of the mist and fled past us at high speed to we knew not where.

I remember too food mysteriously spirited away nightly from our awnings in a park in Southport. Very strange, except that ghosts and apparitions have no need of our pork pies and treacle tarts, whilst tramps forced to sleep rough on the seafront definitely rate such culinary delights.

In the selfsame park on a late night walk our English bull terrier Buster became very agitated, at the same time doing my already high blood pressure no favours. I continued our walk, alone in the eerie darkness, a spooky experience guaranteed to set the heart pounding. Suddenly a large boxlike object came into view. Some sort of electrical substation, it emitted a persistent buzzing noise which could be heard only when you were very close indeed. Yet Buster had picked up the noise from some considerable distance. No ghostly cause then, but food for thought.

We have stayed in our trailer tent days inside the RAF Museum at Cosford. It is reputed that one aircraft, the Avro Lincoln RF398 is haunted. In the evenings when the public has gone home the place has an eerie mystique not easily dismissed. Whilst we cannot claim to have even fleetingly glimpsed a ghost, we did meet a volunteer who adamantly claimed an unearthly presence regularly misplaced his cleaning clothes as he worked on the aircraft.

Often we associate history with haunting. My wife and I visited Culloden on a cold, miserable morning. Culloden of course is the site of the last battle to be fought on mainland Britain. The date, April 16th 1746 when the army of the Jacobites were defeated by British Government troops.

We found the site fascinating and informative yet one thing stood out. The place had a chilling presence not easily ignored. And, though it was early summer, surprisingly not a single wild bird’s song could be heard; the silence was shattering in the extreme. Coincidence, perhaps, a fluke situation, maybe, but if ever a place deserves to be haunted, it’s Culloden.

Similarly Hadrian’s Wall is awesome yet, on a dull day at least, foreboding. Built by the Romans between AD 122-30, it is a stone and turf fortification built to keep out the Pictish tribes. It takes no great imagination to picture Roman soldiers marching the wall tops, weapons at hand to deter the warring Pics. And when the wind howls and the snow falls, who can be blamed if they hear the sound of caligae (military sandals) tramping the wall or the shouts of those in command urging on wet, cold soldiers.

A visit to Naseby is somewhat disappointing. The site of the most important battles in England, its importance in English history is unsurpassed. Here on June 14th 1645 Royal troops led by Prince Rupert fought Parliamentary troops under the command of Sir Thomas Fairfax. There has been little attempt to market, if that be the right word so important a place in our British heritage. Contrast the wonderful, informative modern displays at Culloden and Hadrian’s Wall. Staying in the area we visited the site of the battle, its presence almost grudgingly acknowledged by the local authority. A monument, open fields and that’s about it. Yet shut your eyes and the sound of battle can be heard by anyone with a feel for history. In the daytime just fields that could be any old fields. But at dusk an indefinable presence takes over and the sound of battle cries are never far away.

We have wild camped near Castleton in the Peak District, an area particularly steeped in murder and ghostly happenings. Particularly famous is the tale of the young couple on their way to be married, who were waylaid, robbed and their bodies flung unmercifully down a nearby mineshaft. We regularly park up overnight within a hundred yards or so of the site of the grisly deed. It’s not for the faint hearted of a stormy night yet we never seen sight of the merest apparition I’m sorry to say. My wife, by the way is not so sorry.

There you have it. Goulies and ghosties are for believers or those wanting to believe. Old sceptics like myself have little time for such silliness. I used to say, ‘think ghoul, think fool.’ That is until a strange experience challenged my entrenched beliefs.

Some years ago we visited Lindisfarne, a favourite haunt if you’ll forgive the pun. It was a bright summer’s day, not a cloud in the sky or ghosts in the air. We had by then a new, all white English bull terrier by the name of Sam. The churchyard contains several thought provoking graves and I was keen to see them.

We walked down the path and through the lynch gate. That is, my wife and I walked, Sam refused point blank to enter the churchyard despite being coaxed gently then pulled less gently on his lead. Bystanders thought it hilarious, I was somewhat embarrassed. The result being my wife and Sam sat on a seat at the lynch gate whilst I wandered alone round the churchyard and adjoining abbey ruins.

Holiday over we returned home and the holiday memories faded. Come Christmas and I was present hunting. I espied the Atlas of Magical Britain by Janet and Colin Bord; an inspired choice for a son in law interested in apparitions, phantoms, spooks and sprites.

I happened to read the book prior to it being gift wrapped (My wife says I’m a cheapskate, too mean to buy two copies) and there it was.

By tradition the ghost of St Aiden is said to still haunt the abbey and the Island. Plus the amazing statement that a ghostly white dog is also said to haunt the abbey ruins.

Coincidence, maybe; perhaps dogs are more perceptive than humans or merely one daft dog wanted a rest. Whatever the answer, this is one old cynic who’s not so sure about it all as he used to be. What do you think?

January, Start as you Mean to Go On. Grumpy's Alternative News.

Ten completely unconnected things that caught my eye. I make no comment! I leave that to you, dear readers.
1  Primary school pupils aged 3 to 11  are being given anger management classes in Leeds in order to 'break the cycle of poor behaviour.'
2 The World Cancer Research Fund suggests most Britons do not understand the calorie content of everyday foods. The example they give is hommos!
3 Traffic wardens have a new computer system in Southend. Its a hand held device that takes note of all parked vehicles EXCEPT the numbers of councillors cars!

4 Regarding the discussion concerning the capping of benefits in Westminster there are at least 190 families getting over £61,000 in state benefits annually according to the Department for Work and Pensions.

5 You don't have to have a working brain to have a baby. Christopher Dixon from Sutton near Hull, babysitting his daughter drank 12 bottles of lager and left the child in her pram on the street. He got a twelve month suspended sentence.

6 The Metropolitan Police spent more than £35,000 on calls to the Speaking Clock in the last two years. Plus £200,000 to Directory Enquiries.

7 Each call to 101, the new non-emergency police number for victims of minor crimes will cost you 10 pence. It is hoped it will relieve the pressure on 999 calls.

8 A Massena motorist was arrested after failing to appear in court on a traffic charge. His four year old daughter told an enquiring policeman 'Daddy is scared and hiding in the attic.'

9 A woman went through Cardiff Airport with a hippopotamus foot in her luggage. Possible from an illegal poaching operation, she claimed she was unaware she needed a licence.

10 Two centuries after Switzerland was last at war the country is set to have a referendum on abolishing conscription. About one third of Swiss households have a firearm.

11 What has been described as 'disgusting, ugly, unsexy, reminiscent of the bark of an ill tempered baboon.' Evidently the sound some female tennis players make in 'full throttle' so to speak. Now the Women's Tennis Association is trying to do something about it. Concentrating on the next generation of course Maria Sharapova is ok then!

12 Finally ladies take a bow. An NCP study of 2,500 people parking found women better concerning many aspects. The general impression was that men were in too much of a hurry. Plus women were far more likely to reverse into a space, (the method approved by instructors.) It might take ladies longer, but they do it right. Well done, ladies!

There was a song many years ago, sang by Anthony Newley entitled 'Stop the World I Want to get Off.' I often think about it. Do strange cum mad people know they are strange cum mad. Rich, famous Antony Worrall Thompson shoplifts cheese and wine from his local Tesco. Not once but five times, and that was just the times he was caught on camera. 636 people were murdered in the last twelve months in the UK. Circumstances vary, the bit I find strangest is that 29 murderers released from prison in the last ten years have killed again. 324 hauliers were fined for watching DVD's whilst driving in France in 2010 and its on the increase. (One driver was ALSO cooking a meal on a portable gas stove.) A dentist in Massachusetts uses paper clips instead of stainless steel whilst doing root canal treatment. A couple from Blackpool have been charged with keeping a ten year old boy in a converted coal bunker. They have not entered a plea. (What do you plead in such a case.) Just a small selection of people who are different, behaviour that is 'different. Do people know when they are DIFFERENT?

Perhaps it wouldn't do for us all to be the same. But surely there's a limit. What do you think?

Again and Again and Again.

I seldom plan ahead concerning the writing of posts. Not surprising in view of the fact that I'm not even sure as to why I blog. On a good day, a fairly easy task, on a bad day a blank canvas awaiting my limited efforts. Are you the same, dear friends. I've never particularly been one for topicality or the 'world scene', others do it better. Then, occasionally, something in the news catches my eye and off we go.

The Tibetan people are having it rough, rougher than normal at the hands of their Chinese oppressors, particularly in the Sichuan districts. (16 Tibetans have set fire to themselves since March of last year.) The Chinese Government of course deny any brutality in Tibet, or anywhere else for that matter. Truth is just as easy to suppress as people. Which suggests a 'deja vu' post yet again.

In the 1950's I was a wide-eyed schoolboy growing up in a village in Derbyshire. I was brought up in a Moravian household purely and simply because there happened to be a Moravian congregation where I lived. (A very old Protestant religion, similar to Methodists, established in Ockbrook in 1750.)

The Moravian Church happens to be a missionary church, so treats for us children would be visiting missionaries from far away places on 'furlow', speaking in the chapel concerning their important work delivering the word of God' to 'ignorant savages overseas'. (I did have a cousin who became a missionary but it had no appeal for me. Though I was fascinated by pictures of Eskimo children sucking seals eyes in the same way as we village boys sucked our gobstoppers.)

One day there appeared in church a small robed man, playing a musical instrument and singing/chanting; way beyond a village boys comprehension or experience. Evidently he was Tibetan, a Buddist converted to the Christian faith by Moravian missionaries. (Shortly to be expelled from Tibet by, you've guessed it,  the Chinese rulers in Tibet. All this in the 1950's, not 2012.)

The Moravians in Ockbrook arranged for a Derby engineering firm to make a typewriter that typed in the Tibetan language. Brilliant, They couldn't have been too many of them around! Then the little man returned to Tibet to a life full of danger and uncertainty, for his life had already been threatened because of his conversion to Christianity; he was a brave little man indeed and I salute him.

Over fifty years on the Chinese militia are still brutally suppressing the indigenous people of Tibet, presumably on the orders of their masters in Bejing.

At times I despair. Nothing changes. I have no answers and that at times worries me. Some religious adherents can be exceedingly self satisfied as to their beliefs. I make no point as to the rights or otherwise of religions converting others to their viewpoint. (I remember vividly feeling rather smug as a ten year old that I was lucky enough to be going eventually to an 'afterlife', others, apparantly were not to be so lucky. This of course I had been 'taught' as a child.) But as an adult I am non too impressed by many pious individuals of many different religions who seem convinced they and their ilk alone are assured of eternal salvation. (Though not all, many are sympathetic and understanding of other religions/beliefs.) Fanatics cum zealots are both frightening and dangerous. But this is not the main point of this post. The point that struck me most was how short is life. How repetative are mankinds mistakes. And so it will presumably be, for ever and ever. Deja-vu indeed. What say ye? .

If Canute couldn't hold back change I've no Chance!

Not the post I intended but the 'two times' clowns have got to me. The lady giving the motoring news on Ken Bruce's Show on the radio announces a person was a 'two time' winner. Bob Wharman, presenter on the ITV Tonight programme, old enough to know better announces an event happened 'two times'. Sloppy, infantile, clumsy, strange, unnecessary, inappropriate choice of words. Whatever happened to the word TWICE for goodness sake. Where did the word TWICE go, when did it go and why. I honestly would love someone to tell me. Come on, any experts out there. (As a matter of interest, am I the only one whose noticed, or is it just another sign I'm cracking up, so to speak!) The following short story I wrote when I first became aware of the problem a year or two back. My apologies if I've used it 'two times' before! Just another sign the slide into oblivion becomes ever closer!

“If things were to be done twice, all would be wise.” G Herbert, Outlandish Proverbs, 1640

                                                                       Two’s Company

    Horacio lay on his bed in the Royal Kingswood Psychiatric Hospital, formally the Royal Derby and District Asylum, idly contemplating the fates that had contrived to incarcerate him in so fine an institution.
There was no history of mental instability in the family, at least not massively so. True, Cousin Walter had been thought of as eccentric, with a predisposition towards silk dresses, chiffon and lipstick. Plus Cousin Elsie was banned from the local park for nude sunbathing at eighty years of age, which amused the locals but frightened the ducks! But Horacio was the first to be an involuntary patient in the aforesaid establishment.
He smiled at the irony of being first at anything. Second, yes, he was definitely a number two person, that was the problem. Where had it all begun?
    Born at two am on the second of February 1922, Horacio was the second son of George and Clara Smith.
    The family lived at number two South Street, in a two up and two down cottage between two shops. His childhood was uneventful, though his mother often recalled his tantrums when negotiating the tribulations associated with children during the ‘terrible twos’.
    He had a special friend, George from his days in junior school, standard two, but tended not to associate with other children besides George, believing from an early age the maxim, ‘two’s company, three’s a crowd’. There were no two ways about it. Horacio and George were like two peas in a pod.
    At the local secondary school he enjoyed both football, as a full back, shirt number two, and also cricket, coming in to bat at number two. “Too right, two strings to my bow, works wonders,” thought Horacio.
Academically average, Horacio left school having gained a pass level in two minor subjects and joined Toogood the Tailors. He enjoyed the work, selling more Tootle and Double Two shirts than any other trainee. “What a pity they don’t sell tutu’s too,” Horacio thought to himself when praised for his salesmanship. Horacio could also be lackadaisical, though any attempt to jolly him into extra effort resulted in the muttered retort, “I can’t be in two places at once!” Nevertheless Horacio was happy at Toogoods and life was good, but not without its problems.
    Though it never occurred to Horacio that there was a problem at all. True, he caught a number twenty-two bus to work when a number nineteen passed the shop doorway and ran more frequently. Never mind the extra half-mile he had to walk to a number twenty-two bus stop. Plus the time taken waiting for a double-decker twenty-two bus. “Too bad,” Horacio used to say to himself.
    And Horacio would probably have continued his mundane, unobtrusive, happy existence had it not been for a strange inexplicable quirk on the part of the media that sent him over the top, so to speak. There’s no two ways about it! Horacio noticed that the word twice had inexplicably disappeared from the English language. The radio announced the Wimbledon Champion as a two-time winner. The local newspaper reported that Donald Peers was appearing two times nightly at the Hippodrome. Food evidently cost two times as much as three years previously. Runners ran two times round tracks and men were apparently two times more likely to die before retirement than women. The effect on Horacio was catastrophic. Too afraid to read the newspapers or listen to the radio, lest the deterioration of the language be too fearful even to contemplate, Horatio sank into a veritable pit of despair. It was all too much.
    The ever-indefatigable George persuaded Horatio to visit his doctor. The doctor was sympathetic, prescribing antidepressants and sending Horacio for two blood-tests. “Take two tablets twice a day and come back and see me in two weeks,” he had said. Two days later Horacio visited his local library and spent the entire morning surreptitiously tearing out all the page twos he could find from the books in the reference section. Ejected from the library, he made his way to the local supermarket. Two hours after his library escapade he was again apprehended, by two shop assistants. This time lining up all manner of produce in twos up and down the shop isles: two tins of beans, two loaves, two cabbages, two pumpkins, two bottles of lemonade, the pairings were endless. Only this time events took a sinister turn when the shop assistants were threatened with violence by an extremely excitable Horacio.
    “I’ll fetch my shotgun and shoot you both,” Horacio announced, “dead easy to do, it’s a double barrel.”
Which is why Horacio resided in the Royal Kingswood, having been overpowered by two policemen, certified by two doctors and carted off, so to speak, by two men in white coats.
    The resident psychologist at the Royal Kingswood had studied many unusual individuals. But he recognised Horacio was that little bit special, even measured amongst those who thought they were Napoleon, Jesus Christ or giant rabbits incarcerated in the confines of The Royal Kingswood.
    Two days after his committal the psychologist took Horacio into room two on the second floor.

    “Hi, I’m Doctor Russell. We are going to do an experiment, you and I,” he announced in his best patient friendly voice designed to put Horacio at ease. “Yours is a very interesting case.”

    “Too true,” thought Horacio.

    Dr Russell produced a number of cards, several, definitely more than two!

    “Now I want you to look at these cards, in your own time and tell me what they suggest to you.” The psychologist had used the cards many times in his illustrious career. Called Rorschach Cards, known to lesser mortals as the Inkblot Cards, they are meant to capture the unconscious thoughts of participating victims. The psychologist handed Horacio the first card.

    “In your own time.” He invited a response. Horacio studied the inkblot thoughtfully.

    “A car, my favourite car. Yes definitely a Deux Chevaux.”

    He handed Horacio a second card.

    “A bike. A tandem. Riding in the country with George on our tandem.” Horacio’s answer was immediately forthcoming. Dr Russell made no comment and showed no emotion.

    “Food, tea, biscuits, cream cakes.” The psychologist raised an eyebrow at Horacio’s answer to card number three. A possible change of direction, perhaps?

    “Tea for two and two for tea.” Horacio destroyed the illusion almost before it had begun.

    “Ireland, my favourite place.” Doctor Russell made no presumptions as to Horacio’s response to card number four. He was a fast learner.

    “Visiting Twomileborris, Two Mile Bridge and Toomore with George. In a two berth caravan on a two week holiday.” Dr Russell betrayed a nervous twitch in his left eye.

    The response to card number five was instant. “The Bible, definitely the Bible. It’s the animals in the Ark, Noah’s Ark.” Horacio needed no prompting.

    “As if,” thought Dr Russell somewhat unprofessionally.
    “There went in two and two unto Noah.” Horacio demonstrated his Biblical knowledge. Dr Russell demonstrated his inability to control a tendency to sweat as well as to twitch.
     “My favourite dance. The Tango.” Dr Russell’s eyes glazed as he contemplated the answer to number six.
Dr Russell steeled himself for the inevitable.
“It takes two to tango.” The psychologist’s body language suggested someone who was decidedly unwell.

    He tried one last card. Horacio for once reacted with indecision.

“My favourite song, ‘Two coins in a fountain’.” The psychologist broke the golden rule of Rorschach card testing. No comment and no involvement by the tester.

Dr Russell looked nervously at Horacio. “Surely it’s ‘Three coins in a fountain?’”

    “Not in my fountain it’s not!” Horacio’s withering look contemptuously dismissed the psychologist’s apparent lack of musical expertise. Not that Dr Russell noticed. He had gone for a lie down in a suitably darkened room!

    A panel was appointed to decide Horacio’s fate, so to speak. The panel debated the pros and cons of two possible treatments for the enigmatic Horacio.

    Both Lobotomy and Electric Shock Treatment (ECT) had supporters on the panel as well as detractors. The former involving surgical invasion of the brain, a procedure guaranteed to bring tears to the eyes. The latter using electrodes attached to the head in order to pass electricity through the brain. Two shocking alternatives, awesome choices indeed! The panel was in two minds but the ECT won by a short head, in this case, Horatio’s.

    Two sessions took place, both at two o’clock, two days apart. The treatment went well. Horacio had no memory whatsoever of life prior to his treatment.

George walked down the ward past the notice ‘Psychiatric Ward Rules. Strictly Only One Visitor At A Time.’ Something puzzled George but what he wasn’t sure.

Horacio was a good friend and one good turn deserved another.

Horacio saw him coming and put down the story by H G Well’s, ‘In the Country of the Blind the One Eyed Man is King.’

“How are you, my friend?” enquired George.

“Fine,” answered Horacio. “I really think my problems were a one off.”

“How’s that?” enquired the ever solicitous George

“Because I’m cured of the curse of the twos,” exclaimed Horacio.

    “One knows when one’s not ones self. And one knows when one’s cured. One way and another life can only get better. And that’s one in the eye for modern medicine.

    ''As soon as I’m out of here we’ll go riding in the country yet again.”

    “But I’ve sold the tandem,” stuttered George.

 “Don’t be silly,” said Horacio fondly. “What would we want a tandem for?”  “I’ve put an order in for two unicycles!”

Derby, a Quiet Little Backwater.

The local paper, The Derby Evening Telegraph included an article this week concerning Mrs Alice Wheeldon. There is no doubt she was 'set up' by government agents. (MI5). (See article from Wed 27th August 2008). There are moves afoot to clear her name. Governments are 'all powerful' and I view the attempts to clear her name with interest.  

Deja Vu, Coincidence, Take your Pick. Article dated 27th August 2008.

On January 29th, 1917, the police arrested Mrs Alice Wheeldon, her daughters Hettie and Winifred and Winifred's husband Alfred Mason. The charge, plotting the assassination of the Prime Minister, Lloyd George, using a poisoned dart whilst he was out walking on a Surrey golf course. It was a far fetched almost unbelievable scheme but Mrs Wheeldon, was a known anarchist involved with women's suffrage and her son Willie was a conscientious objector. Though much of the evidence was gained by the use of government agent provocateurs, William Rickards and Herbert Booth, Mrs Wheeldon and her fellow conspirators were sent for trial. Mrs Wheeldon was sentenced to ten years in jail, Mason to seven and Winifred to five; Hettie was acquitted. (Mrs Wheeldon was released after only a few months in prison, Rickards was committed to a mental asylum.)

Mrs Wheeldon ran a second hand clothes shop and lived over the premises in Pear Tree Road, Normanton, a poor area in the town of Derby.

Today's local newspaper headline concerns the arrest of a man in Derby on Tuesday. The fourth arrest in connection with a plot to kill the Prime Minister, Gordon Brown. Mrs Margaret Beckett local MP was quoted as saying, "I would be sorry that anyone from the city is being considered as having been involved in something so serious." But she would, wouldn't she and of any case she's not originally from Derby so as we say in Derby, "She knows nowt!" Oh, I forgot to mention, the arrest took place in Moore Street, Derby just another street in Normanton, over ninety years on still a poor suburb of Derby. Some things never change.

(I was particularly interested in the case concerning Gordon Brown. The man arrested was an Albanian. He received a sentence of seven years imprisonment at Preston Crown Court in November 2009. Evidently he is to serve half his sentence and then be deported. The charges related to items found in his Moore Street house. Items including: 71.8 litres of petrol, The Bomb Book, a video titled Mobile Detonators. The Hezbollah Military Intruders Manuals and a document titled Ragnars Detonators. Life in Derby in the 21st century?)

I hope justice is achieved for Mrs Wheeldon. But so much concerning these cases astound me. Two Prime Ministers, separated by many, many years. But apparently hated to such an extent that people wished them dead. Life goes on, for better or worse. Just another story in a newspaper, todays news, tomorrow's history. Derby, my home town seldom attracts more than a passing glance. I think I prefer it that way. What do you think?

I'm Gonna Make it Through the Night.

     Its been a bad few days. My wife and I have clocked up over ten hospital and doctor appointments in around twenty days. (The memories none too good and I have long since lost count.) Including in my wife's case a potentially life threatening condition. The worry has been enormous, in a way part and parcel of life for those of 'senior' years. Which made me eternally grateful that we live in the western world with all its imperfections. I have no doubt that had we been born in the so called 'Third World' I in particular would have been long since gone, though where to exactly I am none too sure; consider the following and wonder.

    I recently lay on the bed, minus clothes. (Not a pretty sight!) And I marvelled as to life's little joke, starting from the feet up. Two feet, size six, delicately formed, one big toe reddened by gout, a condition that is proving persistent. Two fairly handsome lower legs, though a little 'bandy', the effect of wartime rickets, common enough in the Second World War. The result of poor diet and inadequate pre-natal medical attention. One lower leg scarred (Motorbiking), one knee scarred even more so, rebuilt in 1959, (Ah, those motorbikes), both knee joints very, very worn,  need replacing, wear, tear and general old age.

Hip joint, left,  one ceramic replacement, works quite well, not surprising, the newest of my parts, everything else is over seventy years old. Hip, right, scarred, the result of removal of bone to rebuild left knee. We'll skip quickly over the private 'bits', (work quite well Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Or is it Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday!) Still moving 'northward', one scarred torso, a long term reminder of an operation performed when 24 hours old. (I was told it was to correct a twisted bowel, I am reliably informed it was probably for the condition pyloric stenosis.)  I was evidently christened in order to be buried; being placed in a box by the fire probably ensured my survival.
    Onward, ever onward; one shoulder joint, damaged, recently subjected to ultrasound examination, prognosis not promising, I think the technical term is 'knackered'. Two arms and hands, work quite well in spite of two broken arms, two broken collar bones (falling off cycles, cricket rollers etc.) and one broken thumb (Fighting at school) Being below average height meant you tried harder to 'compete' with the 'bigger boys'.
    Life is a lottery. My face is battered and 'lived in'.  My teeth are worn and far from complete. One of my eyes has never worked properly and one ear bears the marks of a skin cancer operation. (Too much sun at 'sunny Skegness as a child methinks!)
    Life takes its toll. There is an inevitability about it all, in view or out of sight. (I have twice suffered internal hemorrhages. For pint after pint of donated blood I will forever be grateful.) I have twice suffered bouts of TGA. Scary but I'm still here. I could give my body for medical science! But its not in very good 'nick'. On a scale of 1-10 what do you reckon. Two, three max! Has your life been a  roller coaster up to now?  Never mind, it will soon be spring!

(Think of all the cheerful songs that help to keep us going. 'Keep right on to the end of the road' springs to mind. And what cheers you up when life gets tough?)

Bye Bye December, Grumpy's Alternative News.

So what made the news in December. For starters the need for money is universal. Interesting how some go about getting it. In my home town, Derby, Daniel Thornton admitted over one hundred scrap metal crimes in three months. Including taking lead off one school roof FIVE times in one week! Are we more diligent than most in Derby! (There is a saying, Derbyshire born, Derbyshire bred, strong in the arm, weak in the head.)

Siegfried K, 22 previous convictions, tried to hold up a bank in Berlin that had been closed for four years. He took a hostage instead and forced her to withdraw £345 from a cash machine. He was traced by his fingerprints on a toy gun he abandoned in a stolen car!

Thieves in Rio de Janeiro were better prepared. They oiled a train track, forcing a train to slow down and stole fifty tons of grain using a tow truck with a hook.  

A burglar's 'hit list' found in Manchester gave food for thought. It listed every item to be stolen, where house keys were kept, which houses left windows open and so on. Let this be a warning! Mind you, you don't necessarily have to turn to crime to prosper.

The money paid out by NHS Trusts in private finance initiative contracts (PFI's) is interesting. For instance, £525 to move three beds. (County Durham and Darlington NHS.) £242 to change a padlock on a garden gate. (North Staffordshire Combined Healthcare.) £169 to open a locker. (Brighton and Sussex University Hospital NHS Trust.) Just three examples of many. If you want to get rich, do work for the NHS. It makes me mad, but not as mad as the motorist who swore at a policeman in Manchester on his way home from an anger management session. (He was on the course after an assault!) You do wonder about some people. There was an 'almighty brawl' (if those are the right words) at a Midnight Mass in Southampton and a man man had his finger bitten off at a school nativity play in South Shields, Tyneside.

So what else caught the eye? A road safety scheme in Paris was embarrassed when an electric car knocked down a pedestrian because she didn't hear it coming. Overweight priests are being paid mileage allowances if they use their bikes in the Diocese of Ely. I notice Hamleys the toy store has stopped having separate floors for boys and girls. No more cookery sets, fluffy animals and beauty products separate from construction toys and spaceships.  They say a Twitter campaign is a coincidence!

Amazing that there were two, not one bedbug stories this month. One told how bedbugs aren't too keen on hairy people, the other that genetically they can breed with near offspring, making survival easier. Talking of offspring, a man in an hotel in Harare collapsed when a prostitute he hired to visit his room turned out to be his daughter. He had to apologise to both wife and daughter. Bad taste, maybe, so how about the lottery ticket given to residents of New Taipei City for each bag collected. And what are they collecting, didn't I say, dog faeces of course. Up to now the total stands at 14,000 bags.

Party poopers included, the Methodist Church who argued that its ministers have no employment rights as they reckoned they served 'at the call of God'; the female disability claimant from Cardiff filmed on a waterslide whilst on holiday with her family and a persistent Pakistani criminal, Altaf Khan, guilty of attempted robbery, theft and battery and sex with an underage girl. Aggrieved because he lost his appeal in Strasbourg against deportation, arguing HIS rights were affected.  

Finally we must have some December 'feelgood' factors. Casper, the puppy born with cataracts who can now see after thousands donated money for an operation in Thornbury near Bristol. Similarly four month old Eva Joyce from Birmingham, the youngest person in Britain ever to receive a cornea transplant. The Rev Gavin Tyte, who conveyed the Nativity story in rap (winning £5,000 in the process. Plus the Queen travelling to her Christmas  'hols' in Sandringham by train, just like you and me. Mind you, she did travel first class! Just a few more examples of life in Britain: roll on 2012!