Dec 20 - The Fragile Basis of Reality

This is the Last Letter from Lincs - and for some of you, literally the last one. Recent conversations have revealed that for some, because of your busy lives, these letters are a drudge to read. One reaction was - “Oh no! Another four pages”. That should not be. It was never my intention to send you letters that are a nuisance. Happily, there are also those amongst you who find them amusing and engaging - and who write to me to tell me so. Thanks for that but there are those who don’t see them that way. So, the answer is - stop sending them to everyone on the main dist. lists - instead, just to those who ask. I will create a new list solely for that small band.

It was a puzzle though, how can the same document bring delight to some and tedium to others? The best explanation I could come up with is that it’s how much you like to read; plus, how you read, literally or with imagination. If you lean towards the literal rather than the imaginative, these letters are unlikely to suit you. I live in a dream world where the reality seen by the masses is ignored in favour of a different perspective. Considering that I believe in Magic, Angels and Santa, you're not likely to find much in these letters that might be mistaken for 'sensible'.

If you’re not inclined towards reading as a pleasurable pastime, perhaps being used to business papers bristling with facts and information, these are definitely not for you. One friend said that she skim reads them. I can’t see the point of that. These letters are written and rewritten several times to make them prosaic and lyrical. Words are swapped for other words to change the drift subtly to improve balance and nuance. Every word makes a contribution. Skim reading ignores that polishing, misses the changes in emphasis, and loses the sub-conscious effect - by searching for facts, a Fool’s Errand. There are nearly no facts in these letters.

I don’t write in the style - “This happened, then that happened… My sister is fine, Steve is fine…” That style of writing makes me cringe. I dress up ordinary incidents, I make up stuff, I introduce provocative, abstruse views of politics and current affairs, football, celebrity behaviour and similar distractions hoping to make you think and maybe smile. If you’re looking for the standard letter we were taught to write as kids, you’ll be disappointed. I want to disturb the Status Quo, to challenge the comfortable assumptions on which so many rely. If you prefer the predictable, the conventional and the obvious, these letters will be hard work, hence they must stop.

These letters aspire to be lyrical prose, containing next to no useful information. They strive to create images, not to inform drily of life here in Lincs - despite the title. That’s the furthest thing from their raison d’être. If at all present, factual content is light. I embellish events to make them amusing or interesting. My aim is to entertain- not to inform. Consequently, if they are not entertaining, they are best stopped.

 I recognise that some of you are voracious readers - and some reluctant readers. My solution strives to acknowledge this dichotomy. Unless you write to me to ask for these to continue, you will be removed from the dist. lists - just for these letters. Jokes, video clips, PowerPoint shows, commentaries on current affairs and sporting shenanigans will probably continue, it’s the Letters from Lincs that will end. This way they’ll find the right audience.

2013 brought a kaleidoscope of experiences, starting with the loss of dear friends Jim Carville and Ron Mulrenan and finishing with my first ever visit to Santa’s Grotto (at 65). There were problems with tenants at Keysland, offset by a couple of wins at the golf club. And, due to our advancing ages, health scares from some of you - balanced by lovely emails and phone calls from others. In essence, a year of low lows, and high highs. I suppose this is what makes life what it is - a turbulence of famine and feast, and no telling which one’s around the next corner.

On that subject, I heard an interesting question on the radio recently, “What makes us human?” That is certainly a question that had never crossed my mind previously. I’m not sure I know the answer. Is it the consideration and love we show to others- or our cruelty? There is no cruelty in the rest of the animal kingdom. There is certainly ruthlessness for reasons of hunger - but cruelty - just being nasty because you are bigger and more vicious, like that of smarmy Shere Khan in the cartoon Jungle Book, I don’t think I’ve seen that trait in any creature other than humans.

Maybe it is our emotional strength or its reflection - vulnerability? Perhaps our creativity, poetry or art? Taking that further, is it the ability to create beauty - or the ability to see beauty? Perhaps it’s our desire to reach for the stars? The possibilities are endless. Maybe that’s it? What makes us human is that we reach for the stars, filled with the hope that we can touch them? More likely, it’s a combination of several attributes. The chances of it being just one must be slim.

Well, heady romantic stuff to start this letter and to end this year. While this next part may seem a digression as it starts, it is related. It is a soft, meandering lead-in to a greater point.

My Freesat and Freeview HDD boxes are filling up. When I set the programmer, it seems like a good idea at the time to record a particular film, documentary or drama, some of which then sit there ignored for months, sometimes over a year.

Couple this with a love of music and a plan emerges. I have started watching the BBC4 music documentaries that I’ve recorded: the lives of Pop Stars, Blues, Tamala, Abba, Paul Simon, The Beach Boys, Queen, Jeff Lynne, Paul Carrack, The Travelling Wilburys, Michael Jackson’s last Tour… The HDD boxes are bulging with an eclectic collection. Apart from revisiting music that was once popular, you also learn a lot of World History. For instance, Paul Simon unwittingly broke South Africa’s Apartheid Laws when he recorded Graceland (in South Africa), with black musicians. He didn’t know that there was a law against cultural integration of blacks and whites (music being cultural). Even the black movement of the time attacked him as they felt he was undermining their case for equality - by practicing it. They were determined to be victims.

The History of the Eagles was a frank biopic, including candid admissions by Don Henley and Glenn Frey of their avaricious attitude toward relating royalties to song-writing. They didn’t say how much of the royalties went to the people who contributed to the arrangements. Surely that is also a big part of the final product and the song’s success? Separately, Roy Orbison’s song-writing was inspirational and a mystery to many as he didn’t observe the rules of the day for conventional song structure - verse, chorus, middle eight. His songs wandered about all over the place. As you see, in watching these programmes there is so much more than a simple trip down a Memory Lane. You get an education in world history and song-writing techniques as well.

The person that made the most impression and got me thinking was Otis Redding, a strong young man in his prime. At 6’ 4” he was a big lump, handy with his fists when riled, a popular singer at a time of accepted racism and segregation that was America in the 50s and 60s. As I watched the programme, I thought back to my early life in England. While racism was more open in my childhood and teenage years, it was rare, at least from my personal experience. Having a brown face, I was on the receiving end of sharp comments occasionally, but as I said, rarely. The odd comment from children in the street or on the football pitch struck home but I never really thought I was different till I was 20 when a girlfriend told me on our third date that her parents didn’t want her to carry on seeing me ‘because it was wrong’. That was 1968.

Val was a soft, gentle girl, a Flower Power hippy. She lives in my memory as  the only girlfriend who, when I asked her out, replied with artless openness “Yes, I’d like that”. Their attitude shook her. She only saw me for who I was and was in tears when she told me. At her insistence, I promised to meet her again but I didn’t turn up and it ended there. She was close to her Mum & Dad and I didn’t see a way of resolving it happily, so I ran away from the problem. In my defence, I was only 20 and not up for a fight. Other than this, through my life, friends, girlfriends, my ex-wife and her family, never noticed the colour of my skin and that’s what matters.

Friends that have criticised me - did so for my utterances or my actions, a fair call as through immaturity I often leant towards the sensational to get a laugh or a reaction rather than behaving more thoughtfully. It has been my way and I regret that now that I am of a quieter, more reflective disposition. However, milk was spilt. I have to live with that and accept responsibility.

But my experience was mild. For Otis Redding, it was a lot worse. He lived through a time where his face couldn’t be put on his album covers as that would prevent sales in America - so they put pretty white girls’ faces on them instead. He could only play to black audiences. Mixed audiences were not a feature of American concerts. He wasn’t allowed in restaurants reserved for whites; all this in our lifetime.

This changed when he played a European Tour with his band the MGs (plus Booker T), a mixed group of black and white musicians. Imagine, for the negroes in that gathering, being used to being treated as second class citizens all their lives and then being served drinks on a BOAC plane by a pleasant, well-mannered white stewardess or being accepted in England without fuss in any restaurant that you walked into. Best of all, imagine his delight at performing to a mixed audience and feeling their unfettered, guileless joy radiating across the footlights.

They arrived at Heathrow in the early hours, wondering how to get to their hotel. A fleet of limousines turned up unexpectedly. The Beatles had sent their cars. How kind, thoughtful and generous was that?

The programme featured tributes by Tom Jones, Rod Stewart, Bryan Ferry, Chris Farlowe and Eric Burdon. Booker T, in talking about him, described his humility. “He was not slow to pick up his own bag and he would not ask someone to get him a glass of water. He’d get it himself. He put himself low - and in doing so was a king.” When on tour, he phoned his wife five or six times a day to ask how she and the kids were. Can you see today’s celebrities behaving like this? He was a young man, just 26 when he died in a plane crash. So when I watch these shows ostensibly about music, there is a lot more that comes out of it than old music. There is also World History plus a wealth of anecdotes of people behaving decently, honourably and generously - with humanity and humility.

Conversely, look at this Andrew Mitchell nonsense, supposedly about whether he called policemen ‘Plebs’ (apparently not - but really, who cares? It’s only name calling.) How old are these people? Aren’t they called ‘Pigs’ and ‘Filth’ to their faces on a daily basis? It seems to me that ‘Plebs’ is pretty lightweight by comparison - unless you have a hidden agenda, such as whether it’s a way to repay him for police cuts, then it’s worth banging the drum about “My feelings have been hurt. Boo Hoo! Poor me.”

The more interesting story is whether police lie to fit people up. From my scrutiny of the news and of history books, this has been going on since Robert Peel but a bit of publicity for that every now and again, and the vindictive intent behind it - all at the same time as police taking payments from the newspapers, just goes to show - the police are no more honest than you or me.

At Mimi’s yesterday, I saw James Martin’s Saturday Kitchen where he made a modified Bread & Butter pudding. Now, if you have a sweet tooth, a cholesterol problem, a death wish and a desire to try Russian Roulette, this is the very thing. I like Bread & Butter Pudding; it is a simple uncomplicated dish with the versatility to accommodate Ice Cream or custard as a partner. However, this is Turbo Bread & Butter Pudding. It is called White Chocolate, Whisky and Croissant Pudding. Starting with All Butter Croissants, you add more butter. Slosh in some full cream milk, then add more cream. Put in some eggs, then add more eggs (yolks), and finally, season with whisky and slabs of white chocolate. Job done - a dish of heart attack.

I made a ‘lite’ version today. If you visit Mimi’s over Christmas, it will be repeated. There may be some left - but be quick; I can’t see it lasting long. Mine was a ‘lite’ version as my efforts to reduce my sugar intake in recent years has increased sensitivity to sweetness. I made an apple pie a month or so back and though I reduced the sugar from that recommended by the recipe, it was still far too sweet. I couldn’t eat it. It set my teeth on edge. I had one bowl and gave the rest to the birds. The few that were eventually able to fly out of the garden, now have diabetes.

With that experience lingering, this time I didn’t follow the recipe. I reduced sugar and fat considerably and tasted as I went along. Result - a deliciously moist, slightly sweet pud that will reduce your life by just a few years.

Which gets us to the point of looking after your health. A few of you have seen the light and are dieting (not before time, I may add). A few of you have had health scares and so are watching what you eat and drink - well done, and a few are even exercising (allegedly). But for all of these sensible measures, we can still be sitting in a pub when a helicopter falls on our heads as happened to those poor people in Glasgow. I’m not suggesting you laugh in the face of good advice from your doctors and do what you want, but at the same time, don’t live in a bubble so that all pleasure is denied. Show some judgement - N.B. This is not recommended by the Health & Safety police who insist on protecting you from everything God’s Wrath to difficult crossword puzzles.

Let’s close with a bit about fat balls. Ladies, I can see your eyes lighting up but I’m talking about feeding the birds again. In defrosting the fridge, I found a number of jars of goose fat, ideal for roast spuds or those special games where a bit of extra lubrication can be handy - but of little other practical benefit. By combining this glut of (melted), fat with the rest of the cottage loaf from Saturday diced up into tiny pieces - and the crushed remains of some croutons until then, expecting a starring rôle in Caesar Salads, you get a dish of fat-coated bread bits. Let the fat cool and set, then shape with an ice cream scoop and your garden birds will think Christmas has come early. This may be a kindness, or possibly a way to visit a torrent of heart attacks on the local feathered society. At any rate, the birds wolfed them - probably because of the recent cold spell.

 So there it is; the last letter. If you still want to receive these in the future, let me know. If you don’t, do nothing. They’ll stop as if by magic. I won’t take offence. I know that some of you don’t like to read that much. I on the other hand read a lot and enjoy the wonder that is the English Language. I treat words like computers, they’re toys for me. People judge by their own standards.

Future topics will include rants on Human Rights - is there such a thing? Democracy - Does It Exist Anywhere Outside Switzerland? Bribery in Football. The MPs' Pay Rise - Is It Enough? More Ways To Kill Birds And Make It Look Like a Kindness.

Nov 24 - Simple Pleasures

‘Simple pleasures’ are the theme of this letter. An awareness of being easily-pleased is dawning. From these letters, you will note that increasingly, I am finding happiness in things of little consequence. It seems I am turning into a kitten swiping at a ball of wool dangled in front of me. This eureka moment arrived today as I was in the middle of moving the boxes from the garage into the spare bedroom so I can put the car away for the winter, a very satisfying exercise.

Now, I have every intention of emptying these boxes into eBay and making myself into a rich man in the process. Let me tell you - there is treasure in those boxes: collectible plates, two Psion organisers, several cameras, Dad’s engineering tools, calibrated in imperial as the older ones were bought in India in the 40s and the rest accumulated over the course of a lifetime in engineering, Mum & Dad’s old Ronson lighters and Parker pens, old calendars - kept so I could have their pictures framed when the year was over (so many of my pictures around the house are from old calendars), plus other detritus from a  lifetime of hoarding.

I started to wonder recently, why I keep this stuff. I don’t look at it from one year to the next. Retained initially for its sentimental value or for the off chance that it might come in handy ‘one day’…  now, it just sits in the garage, usually in a box, in a box, till I move it somewhere else.

No longer. A new dawn has arisen. My eyes have been opened. It started yesterday when I put three film cameras and a flash gun on eBay. They’re all due to end about this time tomorrow (Monday the 25^th). There are several watchers, none of whom have bid. They’re probably all waiting for the last minute as seems to be the protocol now. Exciting stuff, eh? A once-mighty Canon SLR that captured treasured memories of my children, friends’ weddings, travels etc., soon to be gone. As for the buyers, it’ll cost them more for the postage. BTW - I forgot to add in the cost of the packaging so I’ll wind up losing money. Lesson learned.

In my clearing up of the garage, I started by chucking away some old bubble wrap and ripping up some small cardboard boxes for the recycling as they were just taking up space. As I type this, I realise that I will have to buy some bubble wrap and a few small cardboard boxes… As a great man once said “D-oh!”

At this point, a stray thought enters my head and, as the only rule is that there are no rules, I mention it now - have any of you thought of writing to you friends about your own lives? Big Swinging Dick used to write hugely-entertaining missives to us - his golfing mates, (probably his only mates), from his sojourn in St. Helena.

Currently, several of you write to me privately with news of your lives, and that is nice. I am grateful - Thank You. Banished in disgrace from Essex (and that is a hard contest to win), destined to live in exile in Lincolnshire, the Internet overcomes that distance and puts each of you right in front of me. We are able to chat as though face to face. So, think about it. Apart from me, there may be friends and family who would love to hear from you.

So far, including but not exclusively, I have talked Blues with Ron Poulter, CDs with Phil Shaw and TV programmes with Phil Burrell. Guitars and music ad infinitum, with my cousin Malcolm, stories with Joao Mattos and Ruth Underhill - and memories of the 60s with Carole Devlin.

Separately, a few of you call with computer problems, or to chat about photography and golf. While some of you share your views and readings on Philosophy and Psychology. Some just confide your current ups and downs in life. On a less dramatic note but still generating strong emotion, football incidents and News items are debated with numerous correspondents. We are spoiled for choice in the vast array of topics available to us.

I recognise that some of you are not writers by natural preference but by the same token, some of you are. In the writings I have seen, many of you write lyrically and fluently. Give it some thought. Give it a go. From our conversations, I know you all have a story to tell. You’re dead a long while. Don’t put it off. As Bob Hoskins used to say - “It’s good to talk”.

 

While we have mobile phones, they tend to be used more as computers than phones. Nevertheless, a few of you call me here on the home phone. I speak with my sister and son Steve every week and also with others of you at a lesser frequency. Occasionally, it is for a specific purpose but sometimes it is just for an aimless chat; what joy. In a busy world where actions are usually designed for a deliberate purpose, how about doing something with no agenda - just because it seems like a good idea at the time.

A week or so ago, there was a model railway show at the local exhibition centre.

 While I have no pressing interest in toy trains, the little boy in all men cannot be denied. So I trawled along on the Saturday and spent a happy few hours in Toy Train Wonderland; a return to childhood. It never goes away. Whoo-whoo!

Out of the blue this week, the camera club received an invitation to Baytree Garden Centre to visit Santa’s Grotto. Baytree is a large garden centre, well-known locally, famous for its Christmas displays. The grotto was opened to us for an hour or so before the general public.  It was a revelation. Until now, Santa has been portrayed as “a jolly happy sort” or so the song would have us believe. Frankly, I think there may be a darker side. In his grotto, he was shown at home with reindeer heads mounted on his mantelpiece in the manner of the big game hunters of yore.

 

 

Can anyone name the original eight reindeer? No, Rudolph wasn’t one. He came along about 100 years after the original eight reindeer were named in The Night Before Christmas by Clement C Moore. You have till the end of this letter where there is an extract from a poem that I used to read to Steve and Nick every night, all the way through December in the late-70s and early-80s, when I put them to bed. If any of you have young children, grandchildren or nieces and nephews, I recommend this as a goodnight poem through December. It has beautiful metre, rhythm and cadence. Put another way, it bounces along nicely.

Not wishing to bring the mood down, more as a change of direction, have any of you given thought to a Bucket List, i.e. a list of Things To Do Before You Kick The Bucket? I have lived a full life with more memories than you can shake a stick at; life in India, life here especially in the early days of Basildon, schooldays, the sport, the travels, the people I’ve met along the way, life in Portugal, relationships, the scrapes, the fun, the unexpected; yet, a few unfulfilled ambitions linger. For instance, my ex-wife could never understand my desire to meet aliens.

In a universe of 100 Billion Galaxies, where we live on one planet in ten of our little sun, which is just one star in 200 Billion in our galaxy alone, to me that makes 20 Thousand Billion Billion, (20,000,000,000,000,000,000,000) potential stars in the visible universe. Which, if Einstein is right and the universe is curved, there’s probably more as we won’t be able to see what’s around the bend.

If our tiny sun, a pixel against some of the basketball-sized suns that we know about, has a life bearing planet, what are the chances of the other suns having at least one life-supporting planet too? As I see it if every sun had just one planet with life on it, that’s 20,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 worlds that can support life as we understand it. Mathematically, it makes no sense that we are the only life form in the universe. The odds are against it. There ought to be other life about, some of which is likely to be ahead of ours technically and who have conquered space travel.

So, I hope to meet an alien, a friendly one of course, before I move on. As you see, when it’s time to move on, I’m not thinking in terms of Heaven & Hell, leaning more towards reincarnation. It would also be nice to meet the Guardians of the Universe. But I suppose that is expecting too much.

Continuing on a science theme, it would be nice to have scientists tell us that the speed of light can be exceeded. Think of the possibilities. We nearly had that a year or two back, only to discover that the cleverest scientists we have to offer - had made a mistake in the calibration of their equipment - which gives me hope. If they can make a mistake about that, why can’t they be wrong about the speed of light being the maximum limitation on speed?

A long held ambition is to learn to glide. There is something magical about being held up in the air by nothing more than crossed fingers. It has nearly happened a couple of times in my life but something always got in the way. Lockerbie was the first discouragement. That happened just before Colin Oxley and I booked our first lesson. It proved to be a bit of a wet blanket for some years. Just down the road is Crowland Gliding Club. Next summer, watch this space.

Lastly, on the Bucket List, I’d like to meet an honest politician. I’m not too hopeful here. My ride in the alien spaceship is looking the better bet.

Still on a flying theme, I was in Basildon yesterday for a flying visit. Tuesday was a landmark birthday for my sister so we went to dinner with Steve and Naomi. But first, I had to go to Lakeside to get her main present - a hoover. Small tip - I find that when choosing a thoughtful present for a woman, you can’t go far wrong with home appliances. With that taken care of, it occurred to me that I hadn’t eaten since the breakfast croissants - and it was now half past three. I took a look at the food gallery on the top floor. Really, I was just after a coffee and a bit of cake. I suppose I should have just popped into Costas which is down amongst the main shops but the fast food outlets beckoned.

Being the discerning gourmet that you’d expect, I chose Spudulike. To be fair, mainly because it was the first one I came to. I would have liked to have mulled over the relative merits of Spuds ’R Us or Spuds 4U but hunger pangs gnawed so I looked no further. The service was instant and a few moments later I was tucking into a potato that had been cooked some years earlier and kept warm at a mouth-blistering temp. Seduced by the cuisine, I was lost in thought so was only vaguely aware of three teenagers that drew up alongside, a boy and two girls.

They were chatting away loudly, as teenagers do but this was just background noise for me, lost in the general hubbub of the Food Hall. The leader, a girl, was a typical English Rose, slim and despite her Ugg boots, elegant, with long blonde hair untarnished by product or colouring, nicely complemented by an Alice band.

Although not listening to their conversation despite their eagerness to share it with anyone in earshot, I was aware that she had a lovely speaking voice, a clear, well-bred accent that pronounced every “T” and “G” reminiscent of the ‘ting’ you get when you flick a crystal wine glass.

You must imagine my surprise when on getting to the end of whatever it was she had to say, until then delivered so melodically, she closed with the incongruous “Innit Bruv”. My hopes for the survival of spoken English, cruelly betrayed.

Speaking of speaking English, the BBC has thrown up certain pronunciation puzzles. I am left to wonder what is right - “Aitch” or Haitch”, Mis-chiv-us” or Mis-chee-vee-us”, “Dip-loh-doh-cus” or “Dip-lod-acus”. The recent sale of Misty brought up some interesting variations. Now, while I can understand some doubt about the correct pronunciation of the name of a Chinese politician or an African dictator as local dialect is involved, English words that have been around for aeons should not be a matter for debate. And yet they are. I expect BBC presenters to get it right, however, I am disappointed every day. BBC English used to be a byword. Sadly, this is no longer. Daily, they split infinitives, mispronounce simple words and misplace adverbs. We have arrived. This is truly Hell In A Handbasket.

It was camera club this evening and we had a model with proper studio lighting. The model was the daughter of our Treasurer and the lighting was the private setup of one of the other members who understands the mechanics of photographic lighting. Here are a couple of photos. They will be tinkered with in Photoshop. This is them in their raw state.

 

 

 

Georgia was a replacement model. The original was pregnant and it was the intention to photograph the bump; an unusual modelling format that would have been a novel approach, for me at least. However, some of the members were not too keen on that, principally the lady members, so the idea was dropped.

I mentioned Santa’s reindeer earlier on. Here is the extract from the poem that I promised.

‘More rapid than eagles, his coursers they came, and he whistled and shouted and called them by name. “Now, Dasher, now, Dancer, now, Prancer and Vixen. On, Comet on Cupid, on, Donder and Blitzen. To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall. Now dash away, dash away, dash away all.” As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky, so up to the rooftops, his coursers they flew. With a sleigh full of toys and Saint Nicholas too.’

For those of you who want to insist on including Rudolf, he came along about 1939. This poem was written in 1825. There are many more verses. It’s well worth a read even if you haven’t got a kid as an excuse. Eccentricity is valued nowadays.

Well, that’s my life for now; eBay, Spudulike, Toy Trains, Santa, models, alien encounters and gliding; bog-standard stuff. Just another day in paradise.

 

Oct 18 - Looking back on the summer

When you get to the end of this letter, you will probably think, well, that was a lot of nothing in particular - and you’d be right. My life is full of ‘nothing in particular’, brimming with it. Days pass, weeks, months, the summer - trivial things come and go, bringing warmth and peace of mind in their uncomplicated nature.

F’rinstance, I mention often, the clearing of this study. I mention it because it is always happening - yet it remains a ‘job that needs to be done’. Recent weeks have seen the shredding of several recycling sacks of paper and the clearing of the last cardboard box - leaving the room a little lighter, a little  brighter and a good deal neater. It seems appropriate, at this point, to mention that I was an accountant when I was working. By ‘accountant’ I mean this as a generic term referring to one’s natural inclinations. I LOVE hanging onto paper - just in case it is needed one day to solve some point of home administration - or to satisfy government bureaucracy.

Yesterday, I shredded bank statements from 1997, phone bills from 1990 and some papers of Mum’s going back to the 80s. On top of that, I discovered papers from Quiz Nights that I had organised for the Lisbon Casuals in the mid-90s, memorabilia from the New York marathon and I reread love letters from girlfriends in the 80s. Hope I don’t need those bank statements. That’ll keep me awake till the anxiety passes.

All of this has allowed me to reach the book shelves again and rearrangement is under way. English Language, photography, computer books, cookery, gardening and of course, fiction - all are starting to find their peers again. These are books that used to share shelf space in Keysland, but became separated when they were unpacked here 15 months ago. The rebuilding of the study  has shown me books that I’ve bought but never read or, just as likely, have forgotten I have read - so still hold appeal.

For the ones I know I have read, there is a small bookshop in town that I favour. It’s not a charity shop but has to compete with charity shops of which we have an abundance, so I give them my old hardbacks. They in turn, do me a favour by displaying posters for the Chain Bridge Forge. I seem I have jumped ahead so perhaps a little rewind might clarify.

I have started volunteer work here in the Spalding area. It works like this. You go to the council. They note what you’re good at, then match you (via a computer system), with vacancies at various charitable organisations. The forge is one of these. It is a ‘living museum’ where you can watch blacksmithing and try it out yourself if you are so minded. Remember that poem from school? “Under a spreading chestnut tree, the village smithy stands, a mighty man is he”. The forge aspires to promote blacksmithing, perhaps even revive it. Certainly to slow, perhaps even reverse its demise. I design and then circulate advertising posters for them.

As well as the forge, I have started teaching people at Spalding Library how to use computers. The plan is that I get them started on Excel, Word, PowerPoint, the Internet etc. Just ‘get them started’ you understand. Should they want anything beyond the basics, a formal course at a college will be necessary. My own sessions run for about 6 weeks. I started on Oct 4^th with one lady who wants to know how to do things in Windows 8 and her partner, who wants to know how to get into the Internet. They both seem pleased with their progress thus far.

Two weeks ago, I discovered Spalding Photographic Society. It is a friendly club where you can talk photography with like-minded people. The capacity to learn is boundless. There is a lot to be gleaned from people who share your interest. This week I did some Light Painting. You will note, this is capitalised as it is a specific aspect of photography as opposed to light painting - which suggests a bit of casual, reflective daubing with brushes and watercolours.

Light Painting - is sitting in a room with the lights out, the camera on a tripod and the shutter open (this is the BULB setting for those of you who have slightly more options in shutter speeds than that afforded by compact cameras or smartphones). As you sit there, a mate spins a wheel with fairy lights on it and waves light sabres in the manner of Luke Skywalker challenging his dad. Above are a couple of outcomes. Yes, these are photographs. If you remember ‘straight line envelopes’ from maths at school, the principle is similar.

Recently, I started a winter project, which is to gather photos in Photo Books. I have had poor service from a couple of the photo book suppliers so continue my search for a reliable supplier. New software has to be learnt each time as their products differ as do formats, layouts, paper quality and price, the consequence being that different processes are needed to compile the collection that you want to put together. But, what else have I got to do?

One day, I will have a number of coffee table books of my holidays around the world, my time in Portugal especially the trip to the unspoiled North which beguiled with huge, lush valleys, towns and villages unaffected by time, road markings or metal traffic signs. Separately, there were castles, monasteries and hunting lodges re-born as Pousadas (luxury hotels),plus photos from a town where they ran with the bulls and the border towns and cities in the East that rarely get visited by tourists.

 

Photos have also accumulated from trips to Chelsea Flower Shows and RHS gardens, visits to York, Barnstaple, the Lake District and various National Trust stately homes and immaculately-manicured gardens. Add to that, pictures of the boys when they were children and Basildon in B&W in the 60s. As with most people, my life is captured in photos. Of course, I could have all of these in albums but who has photo albums nowadays?

Talking of Portugal, this reminds me of a silly story. I was in the North, which as I mentioned, in its rural areas, is untouched. It was the end of June 1996. The day was stiflingly hot as I tootled along a  country lane aimlessly, not a care in the world. Imagine my surprise as I rounded a bend to find a herd of cows filling the road. There was no cowherd with them and no way past. Momentarily, I was nonplussed, stymied, bemused. Filling the road, they were clearly in no rush to be anywhere. The last cow turned slowly to look at me and its expression made it clear that it was not about to break into a stroll. It was at peace with the world.

A collie emerged from the front of the herd. He must have said “Look ladies, we’re in the way.” because, as if by magic, they started to drift to one side - more or less in single file, to let me past. In their own time, you understand but undoubtedly organised by the collie. With no sign of any human cowherd, I was able to pass and wound down my window to give the collie a wave of thanks. I know this sounds daft but he’d (she’d?) clearly moved the herd over on seeing me so it would have been rude to pass without some expression of gratitude. I could have sworn a head was nodded in acknowledgement.

The summer here has been kind. With sunshine almost every day, it has been spent mainly on the golf course. I became blacker than Darth Vader’s heart. Well, arms, legs and the face. The rest of me stayed pretty well untouched so I was two-tone for a while, a sort of Mary Quant creation.

The golf got better in that lessons, practice and playing three or four times a week saw a couple of successes that got my handicap cut. My walking improved briefly but seems to be falling back now so I continue to stumble around the course. Diabetes took a turn for the worse as I became cavalier with sweet things and self-discipline (as usual), played little or no part in my life, but a ticking off from the Diabetes Nurse put me back on track. D. Nurse will see me again in Dec to see if I have made any progress.

The annual golf tour in Sept reached its 38^th year this year and we spent it in Bristol. The courses were beautiful, well-manicured, and a lot of fun was had by all - as evidenced by the photos once I get them to the web site. Here are a couple of landscapes for now. I have known these guys for almost 40 years - some for slightly longer as I knew them before the tour started. We bicker and fight like brothers. I cannot imagine life without them.

 

 

 

The garden has taken a bit of a bashing, a pruning frenzy occurred a few weeks back. The rain of 2012 brought growth that was dealt with by the landscapers earlier this year. Since then I made free with the secateurs - not dissimilar to Edward Scissorhands conducting the Last Night of the Proms.

Bags of green waste sprung up everywhere and the garden now looks as well-scrubbed as a choirboy’s face. Undoubtedly next Spring will bring a new growth spurt and I will be up a ladder waving the hedge trimmer - but let’s worry about that when it happens. If I sell Keysland before then, I am likely to buy a flat in Spalding and then gardening will become a thing of the past. But first, this depends on the housing market in the South East. Should I sell the Keysland house, my plan is to stay in this area.

I have grown accustomed to the (snail’s) pace of life here. The golf club is friendly. I have a dentist and a doctor. Three Post Offices, several pubs, shops, supermarkets and petrol stations are to hand - unlike some of the Yorkshire villages that I saw on today’s news where it’s a 40 mile drive to fill up your tank. How remote is that? I am only two hours away from Essex so can get back to see various groups of friends easily as I will at the start of Dec. when I’ll see about 20 of you at different lunches and dinners.

With winter approaching, I am preparing for hibernation. The Radio Times gets perused in some detail each week, attractive programmes are ringed and snacks feature more heavily on the shopping list. There have been a number of good series lately: By Any Means, Peaky Blinders, Scandal, Downton. We are spoiled for choice, with the winter schedules offering even more variety. Occasionally, I watch Horizon when I want to learn something about science but generally a series where someone gets killed is favoured.

Comedy also features strongly, with 8 Out Of Ten Cats, Mock The week, Have I Got News For You and QI as regulars. Have you seen London Irish? Appalling language - but used in context and not unnecessarily just for a cheap laugh - with outrageous plotlines. Hugely funny. True Irish thinking. Beyond that, the channels bristle with films. I try and watch two or three films a week. The Freesat and Freeview Hard Disk boxes collect recordings faster than I can clear them.

So there  you have it, Lots to watch, read and do. Life is full and, dare I say, fun. Occasionally, I get worked up about some aspect of the news that is badly-reported and write a mad mail to the largely useless BBC whose journalists appear to be more interested in not giving offence rather than asking incisive, awkward, (im)pertinent questions.

Most of the time, I sit here in my cave, minding my own business, watching the world go by. While maybe leaning towards reclusive, I believe this life suits me. When I was younger and full of fire, I hadn’t realised how easy it was to live life. I let myself be led by the nose. Standards were set by popular expectation and the herd’s behaviour, and were rarely questioned. I tried too hard. Now, the world glides by like a leaf on a soft-flowing river, with me sitting on a lily pad watching from the side-lines. Little matters. I have problems of course, but when I cannot change them, I do not rail in anger and frustration. I shrug my shoulders and move on, spilt milk.

“The moving finger having writ, moves on. Not all thy piety nor wit can lure it back to cancel half a line, nor all thy tears wash out a single word of it.” As you see, the Philosophy books have taken a bit of a bashing.

This is my life today. I miss you all and the part you used to play in it but, life goes on with its changes, twists and turns. I expect to see you less but hopefully, will still see you. Thank you for what you have contributed in the past. They are my memories - which I treasure beyond any material possession.

 



After A Small Delay

Today is my 65^th birthday. Not according to Facebook perhaps, but Facebook is not to be trusted for any info about me. Pretty much nothing on there is true - to confound scammers.

As ever, Life is a conundrum. There is nothing of any consequence going on - yet plenty to tell. My life continues to overflow, thankfully. Golf, reading, writing, travels, the guitars, the garden, all jostle to occupy my time, yet accommodate each other. Most of today has been spent sketching. The photo below was taken when out walking the dogs at my last visit to Ken & Maria. It’s a peaceful scene - so I started sketching it. Not to turn out a copy. What’s the point in that? Plus, I don’t have the ability; more to experiment with lines, textures and colours.

 

The result, still in progress, is an Andy Warhol, Day-Glo, poke in the eye version. You will see a resemblance in that you will recognise a field, the sky and a ramshackle hut, - but that’s all.

 Each day seems to fly by at the speed of a dove plummeting to earth after being in the wrong place on the Glorious Twelfth. Apart from the everyday things that happen, the news provides so much to amuse, engage and remark on, with new material arriving in droves. As you know, I like to look beneath the surface and have an opinion on most things. To that end, the web site - Ventarant, gives me the chance to comment on Edward Snowden’s antics, Jailing Bankers and the like and gives those of you who choose to - the chance to join in, agree with me, argue with me or take the topic off in another direction. Aren’t we lucky?

Another web site, Castletown Golf Society is in the throes of a facelift, and I have offered my PC technical services to the Spalding Volunteer Service should a charity need a process designed, a spreadsheet or a PowerPoint presentation. I await their response. That was Tuesday. Nothing yet.

Once again, life is kind. It hasn’t been. There were problems in March and April that left me poorer, frazzled and annoyed - but why dwell on negatives? Those dramas have passed  and are dealt with. Today I am in a good mood again and not just because I am officially an Old Age Pensioner. This may be down to the medication, the wine - or just that life has been kind. At any rate, I’m content. There have been a number of phone calls re the birthday, texts and Facebook posts. Thank you to all who got in touch. I try to forget birthdays; it seems that’s not allowed.

Golf at Spalding GC is introducing me to a number of friendly and interesting people. Mostly pensioners who are in their 70s yet playing off low handicaps, with a couple in their 80s, still playing AND dishing out banter. As for the golf, I’m taking lessons and practicing what I learn. Those of you who play will know that lessons usually result in deterioration of one’s game as you adjust to the new grip, stance, back lift, follow through etc. However, confidence grows with each painful game. I await the dividend.

Day trips to National Trust properties have precipitated more photos and days in the sun in lovely gardens and interesting old houses. At the Whitsun Bank Holiday the weather forecast for the Monday was good so I got in the car and set off for Gunby Hall near Skegness, an hour away.

They had a small party going on there where people dressed up in the garb of the era. It made me smile to see people dressed like this wielding digital cameras and sporting fashionable watches.

I have been writing increasingly, with mixed success. I am still struggling to find a ‘voice’ in which to write. It seems I use too many in my stories and that confuses readers, not really helpful.  As writing standards rise all the time, I doubt I will ever attain a level with which I am satisfied. A lot of rewriting happens, even of these letters. I continue to practice.

When I came back from Portugal, I went to night school for two years to study Creative Writing and attended a few residential weekends around the country too, although, to be fair, these were more an excuse for a weekend break. Both brought new friends, advice about the art of writing and, in the main, gentle criticism of the unarguably amateurish writing style of those beginnings.

It was chastening to read or hear the work of fellow students, many of whom wrote with natural elegance and appeal. My sister has that gift but writes all too rarely. Next time you see her, ask for a copy of her account of Jury Service. For someone with no training in writing disciplines, she turns out an easy, engaging article.

On the reading side, I am clattering through books at a goodly pace. Stocks are high as every trip for a weekend here or there, sees me come home with half a dozen more from Used Book stalls in that town’s markets or from its charity shops. The study brims and the Kindle has a few hundred books, ranging from the illuminating but rarely-touched treatises of Seneca, Pluto et al on Philosophy to the easier reads of James Patterson, Sam Bourne, My Family And Other Animals by Gerald Durrell, with a fair few Terry Pratchetts in the mix as I am a big fan of his style.

Talking of which, strangely in an X-files sort of way, my friend Bill Groves wrote a book about people moving between alternative universes. An engaging piece that I  finished last week and if you lean towards sci-fi based on a bit of Quantum Physics, I’d recommend it. It’s called The Dream Beacons - and is available in e-Book form, I believe. But you must pay attention; this is not Jilly Cooper (also recommended for The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous, Polo, Riders etc.).

This is hard-core sci-fi on multiple universes. Afterwards, Bill and I chewed the fat on its background: “What gave him the idea?”, “How did he handle tech descriptions?”, and so forth.

All this just a week ago. So, imagine my surprise on discovering the Terry Pratchett that I started today - The Long Earth, written in collaboration with sci-fi genius Stephen Baxter, uses exactly the same premise. Spooky eh? I wonder who had the idea first? Seems like a battle for the courts. On the bright side, Bill wrote his unaided. Pratchett needed help. Points to Bill, I think.

Currently, my own writing focuses on two stories. One is a rewrite of Heads & Hearts, which is dragging its heels. I enjoy rewriting it and it’s growing. It’s three times bigger than the original. The other though, the story of a Lottery winner, is more compelling in its attraction. It comprises  several short stories, complete and independent, all of which link neatly (?) at the end. His win is not the humble £3-6 million that the ‘National Lottery’ offers. Oh no. It’s a multi-rollover of Euro millions vulgarity; £140 million, far more than anyone of humble origins would ever need.

Seriously, if you or I won this kind of money, after the first ten or twenty million blown on houses, cars and fabulous holidays, what would we do with the rest - apart from hire an army of guards to stop our kids, grandkids and other family members getting kidnapped for the ransom?

This (happily fictional) Lottery Winner intends to give the remaining £100 million or so away. Not to charities or the standard good causes, both of which he doesn’t trust to be well run, but to individuals who struggle to live ordinary lives. Single mums whose exes can’t or won’t pay the maintenance. Divorced and separated dads whose exes are milking them for maintenance more out of spite than need and obstructing access to the kids - both of which happen today as a matter of course. And people willing but unable to work for whatever reason.

With each case needing investigation as to its merit or potential for fraud, he hires hackers, private investigators, researchers and analysts, accountants and lawyers and whoever else he needs, to test their veracity. Concurrently, using these resources to investigate politicians, bankers and businessmen to expose their wrong-doings and indiscretions. Police and journalists are bribed (what’s new?), to assist in this Robin Hood exercise. The findings are offered to journalists to expose corruption and bad behaviour. Being fiction, it can be as sensational as I choose to make it.

This collection of experts also defends him and his beneficiaries in court as he insists on paying in cash, deliberately leaving the minimum trail for HMRC. This is to help the less fortunate to live - and to circulate money in the economy. He prefers this to contributing to badly-made tax laws that favour tax-savvy corporations while penalising individuals that can’t afford tax advisers, so are easy prey.

In reality, it’ll never happen of course. If I win Euro millions that’s the last you’ll hear of me. No more Letters from Lincs. No more visits to Essex. As for ‘Give It Away’ - are you kidding? I’ll be rubbing shoulders with David Beckham and Wayne Rooney. Won’t have time for you lot.

The story begins with the winner advising the journalists at his press conference of the last item on his Wish List, i.e. to get away with murder. This seems to happen easily enough in real life. The UK murder rate is between 550 and 750 per year depending on whose stats you use. As for the success rate in solving them, it is about half to two thirds, with, in the main, parents or step-parents being responsible for killing children and partners or ex-partners killing adults. With these ‘in-house’ murders helping identification of the culprit, it is the killing of ‘apparent’ strangers that will be used in the story. People will be killed for some crime that the investigations uncover. Yes, the Lottery Winner will be setting himself up as judge, jury and executioner - eventually making a mistake and killing an innocent person. Filled with remorse, he’ll arrange his own death. Now you know how it ends, there’s no need to buy the book.

The clear-out of the study has uncovered a number of music DVDs, some not yet watched. Clapton’s Crossroads concerts, George Harrison’s Tribute concert, Mark, Knopfler and Emmylou Roadrunning, Chicago, Joe Bonamassa, The Shadows, Gracelands and others. These, plus TV recordings on the Freesat and Freeview boxes keep me entertained in the evenings, when I’m too lazy to read or play guitar. The TV recordings fall into three broad categories.

Firstly, the music history programmes of BBC4 on a Friday night. These include the lives of Squeeze, the Beatles, Brian Epstein, Queen, Freddie Mercury, Marvin Gaye, The Beach Boys, Paul Carrack, Mark Knopfler with Dire Straits and on his own - plus many, many more.

Just a short while back, The History of The Eagles - Parts 1 & 2 was on BBC2 one weekend. What great TV! I stayed up to watch the three hours that this took - via two episodes. Apart from the music, it was very frank. No punches were pulled in talking about drug habits or in airing the reasons that led to the break up(s). If you missed it, that’s a pity. I’m sure it will be on again.

The second category leans towards documentaries on science, principally psychology, the brain, intuition, intelligence and astronomy. The one on Intuition was illuminating. Most people tend to dismiss Intuition as it can’t be easily explained. Apparently, it can. In assessing a situation, your brain recognises signals - patterns like gestures, tone of voice, body language or storyline, in a situation, and associates those signals with your life experiences. You won’t recall those incidents specifically but the brain does and relates them to what it’s seeing. So, when you don’t know why you trust or distrust someone - or a situation, go with your instinct. The brain has done your analysis. See what happened there? I condensed a one hour programme on years of research by thousands of scientist - into three sentences. The writing’s clearly getting better.

Lastly, my favourite light viewing is drama, mainly crime series. CSI, Castle, NCIS, Body of Proof, Person of Interest, Luther, Silent Witness, Good Cop, Line of Duty etc. Light TV like Once Upon A Time, Revenge, the Good Wife and Nashville is also on the menu. Although, to maintain sanity, I watch some comedy every day. Comedy like the eye-watering Mrs Brown’s Boys and Would I Lie To You? Also, Happy Endings, New Girl, Big Bang Theory, Mock The Week, Have I Got News For You?, Bluestone and QI all feature. You must wonder how I find the time. Me too.

The garden has hardly had a mention although I have been out there, pruning and cutting back the growth from last summer’s rain. Last summer didn’t permit much time in the garden. It rained so much that the trees and shrubs just grew wild and bushy. That took me back. While this summer has arrived (sort of), the most flowers I’ve seen, were at the Spalding Flower Festival at the start of May, reviving memories of Basildon’s carnivals in the 50s.

 

 

As you see, now the storm clouds have cleared, life is kind once more offering pleasure from gardening, reading, writing, golf, watching TV and visiting stately homes and their elegant gardens - with a camera. Well, that’s a quick catch up since Feb. Such is the life of an OAP.