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.