For example

Last week I was invited to attend a medical health check on behalf of my local GP surgery, a facility I hold in great respect partly because of  the fact that 2 of the doctors are older than me and seem to have no intention to retire.They are also sufficiently caring without being over intrusive. Since they thought the medical  was a good idea, I went along to the village hall of nearby Hixon to face the inquisition.

I arrived at a deserted hall, with few direction signs and even fewer signs of life, so a rather anxious search of the building began. Having applied my "just in time " approach to the appointment there were only a couple of minutes to spare. A white coated young enthusiast suddenly appeared and ushered me into the end room where I was invited to multi-task. This involved answering his verbal questions for computer input whilst completing  a complicated little form  by hand "for the medical record".

Having used his first 2 minutes productively he announced he was going to take my blood pressure.

I had the usual sinking feeling. He was going to get a high reading - then I was going to be told about the problems caused by high blood pressure; he wasn't going to be interested in my "take" on the reading and I would be referred to my GP.

So having applied the elasticated tourniquet to my left arm, without rolling up my sleeve, he announced the result.

"Always happens like that" I said," especially when I haven't had chance to sit still and relax for 5 minutes. It's just 1 sample. If you tried again in 5 minutes I bet it would be lower." So he tried again, immediately, then again within a minute of the second, despite my comments and maintained that the reading was still high and that I should seek guidance from my GP. I didn't bother to explain that I regularly monitor my blood pressure at the surgery.

Then we moved on to the Body Mass Index - another statistic that doesn't suit my short heavy boned, heavy muscled body. Another terse lesson, this time on the dangers of obesity and a deaf ear to my diet which includes five portions of vegetables or fruit a day, a frequent consumption of oily fish on my multi-grained bread for the lunch time sandwich (as an alternative to my home-made, home grown vegetable soup) and no take-aways.

Exercise questions came next - how much exercise the previous day (a cold, rainy, dark winter's day)? The walk wasn't long enough and wasn't there some other exercise I could take?

Dark winter days are for brain exercise - suduko puzzles; codeword puzzles; kindle reading; keeping the village hall accounts up to date or practising my choral part with the help of the excellent John Fletcher web-site. I think I would rather keep my brain active in winter than risk a physical accident caused by digging frozen ground or falling over whilst jogging. Jogging!! The very thought fills me with horror.  The only alternative to a brisk power walk would be a bike ride and I'm not sure I wish to be associated with what has become a rather aggressive 2 wheeled tribe.

If only the Wellness Foundation had chosen to take their sample in summer. I was working 4 to 6 hours a day in the garden. My diet was extremely healthy and I had plenty of time to get to appointments. Why, I could even have cycled to Hixon.

Just to illustrate the point here is a photo I took this afternoon on the shortest day of the year whilst out for a power walk.

Sheep and a canal. Not just any sheep, these happen to be Jacob sheep and they are not typical of the area. The canal in the background is not just any canal - it's the equivalent of the M6/M5 motorway junction. The Trent and Mersey canal runs across the picture and it is joined by the Staffordshire and Worcester canal under the bridge. So from here - most parts of England and Wales that lie near canals and navigable rivers can be reached. A picture of this scene 250 years ago may well have had the same breed of sheep but there would have been a lot more traffic on the water.

When I took a picture of the same canal in January 2013 - this is how it looked :

Snow, obviously, and a layer of ice upon the surface. So when I took the picture is critical to any conclusions I can draw from this sample of the Trent and Mersey canal.

I try hard to remember this "sampling " point whenever I hear about UKIP (based on one or two results); or football manager performance (often based on the latest results only) or women bishops; Alternative energy, or views of Mars. Samples are exactly what they are.

I am however persuaded that the Greenland Ice cap is melting and that the earth's climate is changing because enough samples have been taken in enough places at enough times to make a convincing argument.

I'm thinking about where olive trees might grow........for example.

What day is it?

One of the minor irritations of older age is the inability to remember simple items. We have a daily game of "hunt the glasses" or "hunt the wallet" for example.

The day of the week is a particular case in point. Dates? No chance - unless there is a special event which has been entered on the large print large calendar hanging in the kitchen. But days? - there ought to be a fighting chance to get this right (well 1 in 7 anyway).

This summer the July sheet was absolutely stuffed with events - some of which stretched over several days and involved an arrow to mark start and end. Our arrival at the first stop of our West Country holiday proved to be a day premature - much to the amusement of the holiday camp owners who, being at work, had no problem at all in knowing which day it was. They didn't seem convinced about my story concerning overlapping arrows on a busy calendar. Their turn will come, I just know it. Thankfully they extended the start of our stay at no great extra cost. And the owners of the second campsite, in Somerset, were very helpful by allowing us to arrive one day earlier at their site as a consequence.

Actually we are no strangers to the Somerset caravan site. They have become used to our curious ways. Spring visits see the ritual washing away of winter grime - an activity helped by having use of the campsite adjustable ladder. Officially they can't lend me the ladder for "health and safety" reasons. So I have to walk past the owner, carrying the ladder, waiting to be challenged about theft. It never happens. Other guests on the site appear to use the mobile caravan washing service, which I am sort of expected to use on account of my age. Where's the fun in that? And it costs..

Speaking of unwanted help, we were returning from a late season (cheap) holiday last week and  had reached the stage of boarding the train from the bus station link to the airport. This was after a kind lady from the station buffet had run after us with my wife's handbag. I narrowly missed the overhead luggage rack with my first attempt to swing up a heavy piece of hand-luggage . Almost immediately a "helpful" guy offered to lift the luggage for me with the comment "Not implying you are too old or anything." I hope my grumpy old man expression was sufficient reprimand for his cheek. 

So, after a relatively safe return home with limbs and luggage intact we decamped into the spare bedroom. I went to check the mansion and estate grounds whilst my wife got the plum job of sorting the clothing items for the washing machine. It didn't take her too long because, as usual, we only used about a quarter of what we had taken. I was delighted to find that even in early November I still had ripe tomatoes on the vine in the green house. Nothing had been blown over; the grass was not overlong and apart from leaf accumulations all seemed well.

Upstairs however I began to sense that all was not well. A damp patch could be seen on the wall adjoining the downstairs bedroom of the bungalow and the upstairs wall of the bathroom in the roof extension.

In the bathroom I discovered the joys of "capillary rise". That's the one that allows water to defy gravity. It seems that my wife's dislike of spiders had caused her to leave the plug in the bath.Now if you add a faintly dripping tap to a towel draped over the side of the bath I can tell you that water will be absorbed by the towel before it starts to spill through the overflow. Water will rise through the absorbent towel, creep over the side of the bath then migrate freely with all the enthusiasm of toddlers in a play barn, rushing around the bathroom floor looking for new places to saturate (so to speak).

We had just spent over three weeks with absolutely no need to acknowledge which day it was. Kindle reading; strolls on the beach; sunbathing (with a hat, and factor 95 sun tan lotion of course) and people watching make for a very relaxing time. The only mild stress came when we forgot to put our watches back an hour and we turned up early for lunch. 

Suddenly we were back and the name of the day mattered! A Sunday is not a good day for emergency call outs. Monday is a cold calling day when someone with an unusual way of speaking English wants to conduct a survey. Tuesday is catch-up on TV missed whilst on holiday day. Wednesday is a day to play bridge and sing. The week-end starts on Friday morning with a visit to see grandchildren. That only leaves Thursday to sort out the damp spots. 

Now if only I could remember where to find the hair drier...

Happy Valentine's Day

So...in my mind I had planned the perfect Valentine's Day meal to celebrate my wife's return home. I had even got as far as laying out the single red rose in a  vase as centre piece on the dining table and stored all the ingredients for a fine meal in the fridge.

Sometimes events just conspire against the best laid plans. February rain and floods played a major role in the conspiracy. The weather forecast promised the worst weather yet for the day my wife was preparing to return from rain swept soggy Hereford. 

So why had the visit been made in the first place? 

Think slippery muddy ground, a testosterone driven cockerel determined to assert himself against a nervous daughter-in-law and a broken leg from a sudden turn. Apparently the cockerel then gave a triumphant crow and returned to his perch in the hen coup (oblivious to the fact that would make for a very easy transfer to a chopping board and a hot oven...)

The return home from Hospital had needed a good deal of preparation in the way of cleaning, furniture removal, stocking up on sundries etc and extra help had been welcomed.

On the day of the return train journey my role was to act as taxi from the local station home. Cleverly (I thought) during the journey I scanned each of the station arrival boards on the Internet looking for early signs of disruption. The main outcome of this was a decision to provide the lift from one of the connecting stations to compensate for late running and the exhaustion of lugging a  heavy case up and down staircases at stations with no lifts.

The train was due, I was about to set off from home when a visitor arrived on a mission. During the pause for breath after 10 minutes I managed to make my apologies and drove off a great speed to the station. Joy of joys - on a busy uphill stretch of the main road - with wind and rain building nicely - the camshaft drive belt chose to snap. The car ground to a halt and heavy lorries began a swerving tactic as they attacked the hill.

2 hours later a nice breakdown  man arrived and I began to thaw out a little after spending a fraught time in the car watching the battery run down (hazard warning lights) and making text messages on a mobile phone that was also running down its battery.That was when I developed the heavy cold and cough that has plagued me for a fortnight now. 

My wife arranged her own lift with friends and had the grace to thank me for the red roses decorating the table on her return. Needless to say the meal was put on hold until we had recovered, physically and mentally.

 Eventually I suppose we will see the funny side of all this - but currently it's about as funny as the moment when super glue escapes from the repair and trickles onto as many fingers as possible creating a need for instant decisions about where to place the repair and how to stop the fingers from joining together. (I could have just bought a new watch strap I suppose.)

Next year Valentine's Day really will be a celebration - oh how we will gloat as we gorge ourselves on Capon for a change..

You tek the high road and I'll tek the low road.

We spent a summer  on a coach based holiday to Scotland - a decision when I was still recovering from a DVT  and uncertain about flying.

I'd forgotten the realities of 2 previous coach holidays - one to Spain about 25 years ago and one to Austria and Switzerland about 10 years ago. Within 5  minutes of boarding the coach the memories came flooding back. We were to be at the mercy of the coach drivers and other passengers for the next 6 days.

Worse still, there was a daily seat change tradition  to share out the joy of viewing through the front window or being slightly coach sick from the motion of the rear of the coach. Good in principle except that the way it worked, everyone had to move back 2 rows. Thus there was no way on escaping the rasping cough of the elderly lady tasked with sitting behind us. Add to the cough one of those loud voices that never seemed capable of saying anything quietly, including comments on the driver, and I became rapidly resigned to clutching at straws, such as toilet breaks, lunch stops, "freedom to explore days" and any other activity that broke Cruella's stranglehold on my quality of life.

The organiser of the holiday proved to be a genuine megalomaniac .(viz my coaches, my hotels, my choice of what you eat, my treat of herding everyone into a community hall in order to experience Scottish music and Gaelic songs - without sub-titles). So on the 'free-day' we chose to take a train from Lower Tyndrum to Oban.

On the map this route looks idyllic. A single track railway meandering through glens and forest stopping occasionally at country halts to allow hikers and bikers on board. We were really looking forward to this.
Imagine our joy when the train arrived full to overflowing with London based hearties who had travelled north overnight in order to do a charity bike ride. Two hours later we stumbled off the train in search of black coffee and a quiet Oban bench overlooking the sea. Not only did we find a bench but also the best crab sandwich stall in the world!

Time passed,the DVT treatment ended and to my joy I discovered that the extra insurance premium for declaring a DVT is a mere 3 pounds. Scotland will vote later in the year about becoming independent - in  which event I will probably cancel the long term plan to have another coach trip when I am in my 80's - provided my hearing is failing; my mobility limited and my memory such that every instruction will have to be repeated at least 3 times.

Revenge will be sweet I think...

The Lost Chord

Although there have been moments when I have been more than happy with my own company I have to say the best moments in life have been, and still are, when I have been part of a "team".

These days the team most often takes the form of a choir. Last year the Rolling Stones performed live at Glastonbury for the first time. I say live despite the fact that some of the less flattering camera shots gave the impression of animated corpses using up energy rapidly at first and gradually slowing as the energy wound down. Proof positive that ageing baby boomers (a group of which I happen to be a member..) can continue to perform despite the passage of time. So, 2 or 3 times a week I find myself standing alongside compatriots trying hard to absorb a new tenor line.

Fortunately in the local choral Society there are some excellent singers who have been with the choir for a good number of years. Amongst the tenors are a 70 something and an 80 something, both of whom can still hit notes clearly, and with a repertoire between them that is impressive. So the tactic is to manoeuvre into a place in front of one of these maestros to pick up on awkward notes and tricky leads, especially when the tenor line is exposed (i.e. the only part singing).

Our last performance of Handel’s Messiah in the local church involved a final practice at 5.45 p.m. ready for the 7.15 start. Many of the loyal audience who turn out every year to listen to us have realised the value of turning up at 5.45 as well. They get a real insight into what is likely to go wrong, and a rich shared experience a few hours later as they check how well we fare.

This year, the soloists worked through a number of lines to get used to the ad hoc orchestra that gathers for the event. By 6.50, one of the four soloists had not arrived; the conductor seemed pre-occupied with the orchestra and it was left to the choir to speculate on how the performance would go, without a Contralto soloist. Needless to say there was a growing anxiety amongst a section of the ladies and, it seemed, a certain amount of speculation amongst the other 3 soloists. How could the part be shared out??

Fortunately, at 6.55, to considerable applause the final soloist arrived. Problem solved. Meanwhile amongst the tenor section I was having my own private misgivings. One of the two stalwarts was ill. The other stalwart was sitting so far back that front row dependants couldn’t hear him! This led to a frantic chair shuffling session in the few minutes between rehearsal and performance. One tenor arrived just as the opening chorus was about to start (having been held up o the M25), we took a deep breath and began what was to be a memorable sing – inspired no doubt by the level of adrenalin now flowing through our veins.

To hit a note at the moment you are supposed to hit it - accurately - and, to quote a well-known phrase "with one voice", is a moment to share. The hair does tingle on the back of the neck (just as well because hair seems to have deserted the rest of my head). To miss a lead, to lose a note here and there does not seem to matter, since the "team voice" keeps the music going and it’s great to experience the "team spirit" that invades any group activity when that activity is done well. A crisis does seem to help produce that team spirit.

I was once part of a 14 strong crew on a small "tall ship" sailing across the North Sea from Middleberg, Holland to the Thames estuary. As we left through the Dutch storm barrier winds started to pick up, a small rope snagged on a sail and skipper was rewarded with a wellington boot full of seawater as he freed the knot. Halfway across we were being treated to very large waves, force 9 gusts and a wind direction that pushed us north to Lowestoft. Next day we had to sail the extra stretch of East Coast, wet and tired, and yet the team spirit that banded everyone together was palpable. Singing, silly jokes, shared food all took on a different dimension.

Life can be especially rewarding when we have to struggle hard for a while – when we have to rediscover that "lost chord" of mutual dependence and rely on each other to succeed.

A banal conclusion I guess – true, neverless..

Stand in line please

Queues. Queues at the bar. Queues at the checkout. Queues at the security check. Do I have a unique inner talent that both guides me to the queue with the imminent problem, whilst  transmitting my intentions to all and sundry? And why do I attract taxi-drivers with a lifetime of sob-stories which they need to share with passengers?

We have just returned from a splendid holiday in Turkey. Weather was great; food was good; company was excellent and the activities generally taxing enough to be satisfying without being unduly tiring. 

There was just this irritating queueing problem that kept catching me out. 

We had just recovered from a 20 minute monologue about the problems of a divorced single overweight red-bull intoxicated cabbie and got our way through the airport obstacles of bag drop and security check. I lost the plot for a split second and offered to go and buy a paper (mainly for the puzzle page to keep my mind active during the flight). 

Getting the paper was easy. Paying for it via the "scan-it-yourself-pay-and sort-the problems-out-yourself" checkouts was almost impossible. In desperation about not missing flights I saw frantic tourists throwing £20 notes into an honesty basket to pay for a Daily Mirror. In my case I had stupidly tried to buy a bottle of water to replace one confiscated at the security check so I just had to wait for the one slow, harassed assistant to serve me.

Hey ho - off to the plane, which departed on time (despite having me on board). The fact that we were almost the last to board mattered not. It meant less time thinking about the physics underlying the problems of getting a very heavy metal weight into the air. However I really didn't think enough about what to have from the hot snacks menu. My wife had thought it through and calmly chose a hot bacon baguette which miraculously managed to appear within 3 minutes. Needless to say, my cheese and ham toastie took a full half an hour.

Realising the power of my latent "rent-a-crowd" talent I began to focus on an expedition to the toilet - an expedition that would clearly have "timing issues" (to quote a popular misconstrued phrase). No need for further details....just think extreme discomfort.

And so it continued throughout the holiday. Almost every time I headed for the drinks bar I would arrive no higher than 10th as 2 or three lines of customers glided into the queue formation. The queues behind me were almost always non-existent (after all it was much more fun to arrive just before me rather than just after). On the rare occasions when I got there first, the drink had just run out (coffee, coke, tango, orange) or the beer barrel needed changing. 

In the self-service buffets of the all-inclusive guests, diners in front of me would help themselves to just the right amount of pancakes/ fried eggs/ beefburgers to leave...nothing. I could have lived with this had I not noticed, time and again platefuls of uneaten meat and eggs littering the table tops. Maybe the sight of so much food was just too strong a temptation - which I suppose is a harder issue to deal with than queues.

For the most part, several days passed without problem (or perhaps I had moved to a denial phase).

Then came the thunderous climax - the grand finale - the mother and father of "rentacrowd" problems - checking in at the airport for the return flight. 

Wickedly, Bodrum airport actually has 2 security check-ins. The first one is a "total baggage" check which takes place just after the departures entrance and comes at a moment when thoughts about passports and airline tickets are uppermost. So I struggled to get all the baggage onto the moving rack without slowing down the queue too much, whilst removing my metal buckled belt with one hand and getting small coins into the plastic box with the other hand. The red alarm light flashed as I went trough the scanner - and the guard gleefully found a mobile phone at the bottom of  a deep pocket (the usual place for my wallet). Place small mobile into large plastic box and go around again. 

As I came out the second time, conscious of trouser slippage, I was confronted by 2 security guards - despite getting a green light from the scanner. "Open bag.!" in a tone and expression that left little room for negotiation. So clutching my trousers with one hand (having only managed to get the belt through 1 loop) I opened my rucksack to reveal 3 spherical objects - which to an x-ray machine could just about have been home-made bombs or baked hand grenades - but which were in fact 2 apples and an orange.

The disappointed trigger happy guards (with back -up hovering within metres) scowled and sent me on my way - doing up belt and re-arranging hand luggage contents whilst walking in the wrong direction for the check-in desks. 10 minutes later, just as we reached the front of the baggage drop queue I heard the public announcement about a mobile phone left in a plastic box at security.

When I finally left the hard-to-convince guards, clutching my ancient "bottom-of-the-range" nokia mobile, I swear I sensed a communal "high-five" going on in the background. But at least the problems couldn't get any worse I thought. I was now mentally prepared for the wrong choice of snack on the plane and a customs queue at the domestic airport. 

I just wasn't prepared for a booked taxi which arrived an hour late at the pick-up point. It just wasn't fair on my friends.

Great holiday, really great. In fact it's difficult to remember when I enjoyed a holiday as much as this one - 
..just a shame about my "rentacrowd" effect...

Gather ye rosebuds..

Every so often we make an effort to treat ourselves taking advantage of discount fares on the trains (senior railcards), sales, last minute offers and bus passes. We have become accustomed to discovering like minded ageing enthusiasts on these adventures.

Having scrounged a lift to the train station from friends (the bus timing didn't fit) it was no surprise to find the train south only partially full. Inevitably we had hit the carriage with our compatriots - in this case a rambling group heading, we guessed, for Welsh hills - judging by the profusion of anoraks, heavy sensible walking boots, walking poles, small rucksacks and safety equipment. No-one purchased from the refreshments trolley. No-one had a lap-top - and no-one seemed preoccupied with updating status on Facebook.

Amazingly, these people were talking to each other - a trait of the older generation perhaps. In the next carriage a younger generation of thirty somethings was staring fixedly at ipads/ipods; used, it appeared, for playing computer games or watching videos, with earphones as a must.There seemed to be obligatory coffee cartons everywhere.

Great excitement - a change of trains at Birmingham - which has been recently refurbished. Needing to find a vital platform I came across a wall-mounted touch screen offering all the information I could want about arrivals,departures delays and so on. I rapidly worked out the next stage in a tenth of the time it had taken my wife to buy one cup of coffee from a coffee stall, fully equipped with coffee, cups and machines, but run by a teenager faced with the stress of 2 people in the queue.

On to the connecting train, having run a gauntlet of "eager-to please" rail staff all very concerned to make sure their new station arrangements were not too taxing or confusing. There was brief moment as I held up a queue of passengers, wondering why an intervening door would not open for me despite my hand gestures across the door sensor. For information - if the door is already open - then the door will not respond as expected. So much for the "senior moment".

Lunch involved pre-prepared sandwiches wrapped in foil (needless to say) with sensible fruit to follow . Three half-completed suduko puzzles later, we arrived at a station ready for a final change of train/company/personnel. This last train actually contained a ticket inspector who gave our tickets and travel cards the merest of glimpses - clearly fearing yet another unwanted long conversation with a pair 60 somethings that would involve questions he couldn't answer and simply delay his progress through the carriage.(I would have thought the chance to share thoughts about the weather; expected arrival times; behaviour of other passengers and the length of his shift would have been seized upon.)

We arrived early at Portsmouth and tried to guess the way to the port, dragging a suitcase. No luck with an immediate route, but fortunately a Morrison's supermarket gave chance for a shared cup of tea and use of customer facilities. A cunning plan emerged. A £1 coin was needed for a large trolley - and subversive loading of the trolley with suitcase and bags took place. To our delight we then discovered that the trolley would fit inside a wooden "cupboard" for use of another £1 coin. As luck would have it, I found a £1 coin left by the previous user (probably a stressed young mum trying to deal with shopping trolley and frantic children). So having solved a "where do we leave the luggage" problem we set off to research routes, buses and other attractions unhampered.

We can recommend a trip to the Gunwharf Quays in Portsmouth - there is a fascinating variety of ships; a modern retail outlet (including one of those Marks and Spencer Places where unwanted lines are sold off cheap), and a magnificent new tower called the "Spinnaker".Clearly it was sufficiently photogenic to attract an Australian film crew making a documentary about a character who had been shipped to Australia in the late 19th Century. There only seemed to be one spoken line in the "take" - but a succession of ships horns; delivery vans; refuse removal and interested onlookers was enough for the scene to take 20 minutes. They were obviously aware of our presence (suppressed giggling probably gave us away), so much so that the presenter and producer made a beeline for us after filming to see how we rated the set-up!

Back to Morrison's and several enthusiastic questions from a youth asking "Are you alright there?" as we tried to smuggle the suitcases out of the cupboard having retrieved the invested £1 coins. Guilt overtook us so we decided to share a pot of tea and toasted sandwich bought at the youth's cafe counter. On, via bus (free bus pass) to the port; through the customs (where, unsurprisingly we were not chosen for luggage inspection) and onto the magnificent Britanny Ferries car ferry. We had taken advantage of a discounted 2  night "gourmet cruise" to St Malo - inclusive of cabin on successive night crossings, 4 course dinner; 4 star lunch in St Malo at a highly rated restaurant, with continental breakfast on return.

The dinner was overwhelming in quality. Inevitably by the end our stomachs were filled to capacity. Probably  our senses had also been slightly dulled by the bottle of wine. Cabin bunk beds proved more than a slight challenge! Early next morning as the ship's announcements boomed into the subconscious, we realised that French time was 1 hour ahead of  English time. Rising at 6.30 am was a work habit, long since abandoned.

So in what for us was the early morning, we found ourselves walking the walls of the fine ancient pirate city of St Malo, dodging the early morning joggers and enjoying the clear fresh air. The tide was in, streets were sparsely populated and the main tourists appeared to be English couples of a certain age moving slowly through the streets in search of a cafe or places of interest. The French have a certain style about them - a refreshing support for family life; distinctive style of dress and great flair with their food. Lunch in a gourmet restaurant was therefore an enjoyable time as we tried oysters; cockerel, gravelax, creme brulee and splendid ice-creams. But the real icing on the cake was the conversation flowing around the tables of  the restaurant. 

Good for the pirates we thought. What a splendid place to have founded. Just perfect for those of us who have the time and energy to go harvesting the roses. Sometimes we find what we were looking for; often we have unexpected bonuses along the way - it makes the effort of getting out of the house worthwhile.

Views mentioned in the account - can you place them?

Give us a clue

Recently four of us had lunch in the town centre. Being an unusually warm spring day we had walked for 15 minutes from the house. After the meal K decided he would call in at the chemist to pick up his prescription before returning home. The choice of whether to wait for him outside the chemist or to browse adjoining shops was a no brainer, and the other 3 members of the group disappeared into charity shops and a hardware store "just for a moment".

Sometimes freak timings operate don't they? In this case, in the 30 seconds that all three were browsing, K came out of the chemists to find no-one waiting. Being of a methodical mind he returned to the restaurant to check we had in fact left - rather than sneaking back for an extra course/drink/coffee. "No - definitely left" was the message.What to do? Use mobile phone. Ah. Mobile phone was at home charging batteries. No alternative but to set off retracing earlier steps in order to catch us up. The only access to the house were the keys in K's pocket, so fearing a threefold wrath from "locked out"  family and guests, speed was of the essence in K's opinion.

By sheer chance a passing neighbour offered a lift. Result! K was nicely installed in the house just 8 minutes after leaving the chemist.

Meanwhile.....back at the Chemist three detectives were piecing together clues of K's location. Three separate checks on visible customers and an enquiry to the prescriptions counter were enough to prove he had left. A check on nearby shops (looking for us perhaps) drew a blank. Finally a mobile phone call was made - and a one sided conversation with a message system took place as a prelude to the walk home. Conversation ranged from topics like  responsibilities; relative walking paces;other evidence of previous disappearances to possible reprisals and repercussions

We were greeted by a calm, unconcerned  K. This was suspicious.Claims and counter claims about the uses of mobile phones followed. Under close questioning he cracked - and admitted to having had a lift home.  A promise to do lots of clearing away and washing up seemed like an acceptable recompense. (At least, I think that was the deal..)

This episode had unnerving similarities to a mystery that faced us 2 weeks ago. We arrived home, after a brief visit to friends, to find :

a conservatory door key in the middle of the lounge floor
the key to the other conservatory entrance on the kitchen table
2 grand-daughters locked in the conservatory with no means of escape performing antics we had last seen on a visit to the monkeys at the zoo, with lots of jumping up and down accompanied by loud shrieking noises.

Needless to say, elder sibling had her "blackberry" with her - so by the time we arrived the world knew of their predicament, and a rightly concerned mum phoned just as we had unlocked the doors.

So, what had happened?

Leaving out our long and tortuous list of possibilities that we presented, we were given the following explanation.

Younger sibling had been watching a children's cartoon programme in which - I am told - the character is locked in a cupboard (?)......... and another cartoon character mysteriously comes to the rescue. They then have an adventure............

Doh!.. this doesn't happen in real life!

In both cases there was an unplanned event with a trail of evidence to piece together what had happened.

I think in fact we have played too much "Cluedo" recently. 
Nevertheless next time we have certain visitors they may have to solve the puzzle of a front door bell that doesn't work; locked gates; an absence of cars on the drive; drawn curtains and  a phone system that is sorry it can't take a call. 

( Only joking....honest....love you lots really..monsters..and don't be surprised if mobile phone signals get jammed by the new electronic force field I have invented.... or the ground gives way in the garden causing you to fall into a deep pit....full of crawly creatures..and soundproofing on the walls..with only a frayed rope as a possible means of escape..and scarey out of tune singing and snorting noises echoing round the walls..and pictures of fanged trolls glaring out..with only lettuce and a nearly empty jar of nutella to keep you going.. and a half empty bottle of water that you have to share... )

Car knows best

l really like my 10 year old Golf. Over the years we've shared many pleasant experiences and I just get the feeling that many of my idiosyncrasies are now well understood.

The key to this is sheer mechanical intuition. When I'm trying to reverse into a barrier I am alerted by a loud bleep reminding me that reverse gear has been selected and that I had better wake up because " we don't want a repeat performance or reversing into a post do we?". So as I get nearer and nearer to the wall, bank or another vehicle (especially in the supermarket car park) the bleeping intensifies, building up to an exasperated continuous blast that would awaken the dead. Often I then find myself losing confidence and selecting a forward gear, even with a foot or so to spare.

The same happens if I try to walk away from the parked car having left sidelights on or an indicator on the "on" position. I get reminded with a sudden alarmist burst of bleeping. The dashboard itself is in cahoots with the noise brigade. "Engine workshop" screams a message when I occasionally stall the engine. "Service Due" crops up as a message some 2000 miles before the actual event needs to take place. 2000 miles for me is about 3 months driving so I'm a bit disappointed by the assumption it will take me 3 months to phone my mechanic and arrange a date.

Over the last 6 months the noise and message department has added a lethal weapon in the form of a "Tom-Tom" device. So now I am also bleeped (in a different musical key) whenever a speed camera is around. I am told, more often than I like, in a calm, clear voice to "turn around when possible" to get back onto the right track at the roundabout. I've become programmed into counting exits at roundabouts instead of using my eyes to read signs, and my memory to remember where I am going. Just occasionally I am left to my own devices - at crossroads for example when there is often a pregnant pause whilst I venture across, waiting for the demoralising "turn around" order.

However, I have to say that 2 days ago, in snowy conditions, the Golf really surpassed itself. Having spent the night in the Pennines town of Buxton I had to decide on a passable route to Holmes Chapel where our second night's hotel stay had been pre-booked and  pre-paid with no chance of a re-fund. Also a warm swimming pool; sauna; jacuzzi and steam bath , comfortable bed and quality 3 course meal awaited - all in all major incentives to arrive.

I made a choice - within 5 miles a sign warning of road closure blocked the way. I retraced the steps and tried a second route. On the long slow climb up the snowy road I repeatedly got a new sign flashing on the dashboard - basically a triangle warning me (as if I hadn't noticed) that we were skidding on the loose snow. I thought I needed to assert myself so I pressed the accelerator to gain power to climb the hill. Somehow - the engine just didn't respond. Slower and slower - ending in a final tired skid across the road into a well placed lay by. "I think the car wants to stay on the lower ground" declared my perceptive wife. So we turned around, headed back to the main trunk road and travelled without another incident a 30 mile detour along A roads and Motorways to arrive only an hour later than planned.

Until now I'd never thought of my car as a "he" or a "she" ....
.......................or even graced her with a name.

Just one handshake away

Yesterday was spent singing; being shown how to sing; listening to conductors talking about singing and talking to other singers. A choral-fest which lasted about 6 hours left me with about 3 thoughts that will stay with me for many years. It will probably come as a disappointment to the organisers of the ABCD day if they ever happen to read what the three thoughts are.

First memory - to get a proper note that does not get distorted by mouth shape, I have to open my mouth like a muppet (i.e.up and down not from side to side). Secondly, as a tenor, I was thanked just for turning up. Thirdly,the memory  that I shook hands with a man who was only 4 handshakes away from Beethoven and only 1 handshake away from Bill Clinton. (The historic link with Beethoven did include a bit of speculation on John Rutter's part, but the Clinton link seemed very plausible).
Anyway, it was worth shaking hands with the writer of a new piece for the last Royal Wedding Wedding and hearing about the background to his work. In answer to the traditional question, "Which comes first - the words or the tune?" apparently the real answer is "Actually it's a phone call". Therein lies the motivation to respond to a specific request for a specific occasion.

Earlier in the week I had spent a rather shorter period of time on a "Driver rehabilitation course". This was another rather intense course to which I had been invited as a result of an error in judgement on my part involving my car's speed and the local speed restrictions. Three thoughts stayed with me from that course as well. It may be that my mental facilities are in decline given that after a week I can only really remember 3 thoughts.
By coincidence I was thanked for taking part in the speed awareness course, which came as a pleasant surprise, having gone with the expectation of being chided about my driving errors. A little rhyme "Only a fool breaks the 2 second rule' ( a reference to distance between cars and stopping quickly)) has stuck, muppet like in my subconscious. And, I now have a better appreciation of repeater signs and how to recognise a speed limit in an area devoid of signs.

I suppose, if pushed I could remember a bit more from each course given enough incentive or perhaps being in a relevant situation. Next time I shake hands with someone new I can imagine my mind starting to speculate.." wonder if this person is in any way linked to the designer of speed cameras?"

Under pressure

I am fascinated by top quality sports players who can keep a cool head. The expression on top tennis player Roger Federer's face rarely changes regardless of his last shot - usually precise and well executed or occasionally a blunder. Either way Federer only shows a touch of emotion after a game as he effortlessly fields interviewer questions in a variety of European languages.

The England Rugby team have a new fly half who seems to be cast in the same unflappable mould. Owen Farrell has the ability to 'read' the international rugby game at lightening pace and make quick incisive decisions that boost England players and spectators. He concentrates impressively on kicking goals in front of huge crowds, come rain or shine. These are two outstanding performers under pressure.

Somewhere at the other extreme are us mere mortals. The mere hint of pressure has immediate implosive effects. A hard scrutinising stare from a customs officer is enough to convince me that I have unwittingly packed drink, cigarettes and drugs into my hand luggage. Somehow, despite a clear conscience, my brain then tells me to act normally - which is a ridiculous instruction to give really. How can you act normally by thinking about it?

When I think too hard about my driving, I find I crash the gears. When I deliberately try to think of my PIN number at a cash machine with a queue behind me, I get the numbers mixed up - then I have to pretend I am going somewhere to buy something and whilst thinking of what to buy I let my subconscious brain deal with the PIN number. Endless times I have shouted at the computer telling me I have entered the wrong password/login only to realise, after watching something on TV for a minute, that I have imploded through lack of concentration.

Currently our county chorus choir is rehearsing Verdi's Requiem. I find myself surrounded my people who have sung this piece many times - so much so that in one case at least the whole score is known by heart. This is not a piece of music that lends itself to sight reading; so I feel under considerable pressure to get the right notes at the right time using the right words. In these early practices I find I can confidently get about 1 note in 10 - which means singing little snatches of chorus hoping the conductor will not be too aware of my limited contribution. Unfortunately I suspect it is all too obvious. All singers who know a piece of music look at the conductor whilst others have their heads down looking at the music.

I suppose the real trick is to focus, mentally, on what I am trying to achieve and be absolutely convinced that the concentration effort will be worthwhile.

So the ticking clock, demands of a loved one or the opinions of friends and family are no longer pressure - just a spur to getting a particular job done, properly. Result!

Lang mae yer lum reek

Last week-end we gathered together friends and family under our roof as part of the annual village celebration of Burns Night. The village is decidedly English in terms of ethnic mix for amongst the long-standing resident Staffordshire population there is just a sprinkling of Scots, Irish and Welsh amongst the immigrant population from Yorkshire, Lancashire and North Eastern counties such as Northumberland and Durham. Nevertheless, Burns Night is one of the nights in the village year so we were pleased to attend the 4 and a half hour event.

It is possibly the focus on all basic good things that appeals to so many. " Long may your chimney have smoke" declared our Scottish friend having been asked for a translation of the title; or in other words if you have smoke coming out of your chimney you must have heat and so you must have warmth in the home and a source of heat for cooking. Basic needs fulfilled. Except that our chimney contains a wood stove converted to natural gas. Somehow the appeal of having gas fumes emitting from the house doesn't have the same poetic ring to it.

It was the same with the food. The watery Scottish broth certainly didn't need the expertise of a hairy biker or Michelin starred TV chef. Just heat up everyday vegetables such as turnips, onions,carrots and parsnip in a large cooking pot and mix in a liberal amount of barley then serve with a bread roll. Even the mighty plastic bag bound haggis didn't contain many sophisticated items, though something in it was deliciously spicy. Served with mashed potatoes, mashed turnips and carrots and gravy - this proved to be a very filling and delicious meal. Raspberries for the sweet course and tea or coffee - that was the feast.

But there was much more to it than that. The evening began with a tot of whisky and a toast to Robbie Burns. A Gurkha piper resplendent in kilt and Scottish plaid toured the room piping the haggis towards the top table where a ceremonial dirk was used to test the consistency of the haggis. At least I think that was the idea. There was a spell of Gaelic muttering and eulogising before the stabbing but I didn't understand that and anyway there was a good supply of wine on the table. I did think the dirk was a good idea because when it came to cutting the bag of haggis for our table it took some time to get through the plastic with a table knife.

Then when everyone had finished eating the drone of bagpipes started up again and the piper marched back around the tables to the sound of enthusiastic clapping. He was a very ghurka looking Ghurka if you know what I mean, very intent on doing the job properly and clearly not prepared to accept anything less than total commitment.

Two speeches followed (or maybe they came before the piping - the wine was very good). First the local vicar gave a speech that paid tribute to the "lassies" though it did appear that Robbie himself had been a bit of a lad from the variety of sources quoted in the speech. It also contained unintended humour in the form of the sound engineer who was staring down forlornly at his un-used roving microphone, wondering how the vicar was managing to produce so much volume unaided. We all toasted the lovely ladies present, and opened another bottle of wine on our table. A very resplendent Scottish speaking, Scottish clad lady then gave a very sweet reply on behalf of the lasses, using the microphone and saying how lucky they were to have us blokes around. (Well that was my take on it.)

Next came the party game of clearing tables and chairs to the side of the room to create enough space for the Caledonian Society to demonstrate some Highland Dances.It was interesting that occupants of some tables chose to line up their chairs with backs to the wall  and a good view of the floor across a defensive bank of tables in front. I think they already knew that after 3 dances the members of the Caledonian Society would then turn on the audience to 'persuade' more people to join their elegant hopping and skipping routines. What a great way to exercise! Most of those invited onto the floor lasted one dance before needing a rest. How amusing the scene must have been as confusion reigned for most dances. Choices had to be made about right and left; clockwise and anti-clockwise decisions were needed, then massively complicated manoeuvres called reels had to be attempted. I for one got a whole new insight into the term "reeling".

Simple food; simple dances but with good friends and family to share the experience. No wonder Burns Night is so successful - and our table even won the litre bottle of whisky in the raffle!

Sixth Sense

How well can you predict the future?

I don't mean the end of a story which predictably ends with the hero solving all the problems and living happily ever after. It's the route to the end that is enjoyable, especially with a good writer who provides unexpected twists and turns along the way. A writer like John Grisham is hard to predict, except for the conclusion which will almost always result in a victory for the lawyer in question.

Nor do I mean the end of a tea-time tv quiz show such as The Chase or Pointless. You just know that if there is any danger of money being won then either the questions will need a google type brain to have the answer, or the questions for the chaser will be along the lines of "what is 1 plus 1?". However, if it just happens to be a big occasion such as Christmas, then there is a very good chance that a competitor will win.

I can predict that whenever I hear my wife's car on the drive I will have to multi-task almost immediately. Specifically this will include making a cup of tea; carrying heavy bags of shopping from the car to the kitchen; re-organising the freezer in order to fill it again (twice); and generally making soothing noises about the stress of shopping, often applying balm in the shape of my credit card. 

Garden birds can easily predict my movements. The moment I reach for my camera in order to record a happy feeding scene for Facebook, the birds will disappear. Or, worse, the blue tits will arrive mob-handed and orchestrate a feeding frenzy which lasts until just before I press the shutter on my camera.

In my moments of black humour I sometimes think it would be useful to know my date of death. That would allow planning of travel, spending and saving accordingly. I would also have time to say the things I wanted and needed to say to friends and family, but which don't get said because I am "too busy" with everyday activities. On the other hand the day before DOD might not be that exciting - perhaps..

Inanimate objects can also predict the future. Essential items such as wallet, mobile phone, glasses and car keys all love to play hide and seek and in moments of stress (e.g. by being late) I can guarantee that hide and seek will have started.

By the far the best predictor is my lap-top. I am amazed at the predictive skill  of my lap-top. Recently I was  browsing the internet to find a supplier of small rugby balls, using sites such as Amazon or direct manufacturers. In the end I was overwhelmed by the choice, so bought nothing. However, over the next two days, by sheer coincidence I thought, I was amazed to see endless adverts for rugby balls of every size and shape, and in the end I made a purchase. Then I found that after researching a train journey, the adverts changed to offering low cost trips to London; train and hotel deals; offers on Eurostar and insurance for rail journeys. How did my laptop predict I would be interested in all these?!

This afternoon I intend to make life difficult for the cookie monsters hiding in my laptop. I'm going to google for elephant traps; organic compost; custard; toe nail varnish; minis and global warming - just to see what lap-top thinks I want to buy. 

If it really can predict the future I may have some interesting purchases ahead.

I dreamed a dream

Dreaming a dream - not a good start perhaps; there are few alternative actions other than living in one; chasing one; or trying to live in one I suppose.

I think dreams are vital to us. Sometimes I help myself to sleep by starting an adventure in my head then waiting for sleep to take over the story. I'm envious of a friend who is on a type of medication that allows him to take a comfort break in the middle of a dream, go back to bed and pick up the dream where he left off. In my case I have to start a different thread, usually a successful experience such as scoring a rugby try or sailing a long trip in a dinghy without falling over. On rare occasions a real event comes along which seems to echo a dream in an eerie sort of way - like seeing a "new" place and feeling I have seen it before.

Yesterday we went to see the film version of my favourite musical (by a long margin). Reading various critics of Les Miserables nearly put me off. Some of my highly skilled musician friends were also full of reasons why mere actors should be not be allowed to perform in such a highly rated film. The musical is of course a world phenomenon now - and yet the so called experts got it wrong at the start as well, predicting an early end to the stage show.

Well, I still love the musical - and the film has added hugely to my enjoyment of the stage performance. It certainly hasn't spoiled my dream. Instead of having to imagine what events were taking place from programme notes or brief text comments I now have a much clearer mental picture of the plot. Street conditions were portrayed vividly. Anguish and emotion were present in abundance. The escape through the sewer was horrifically vivid. And good though the landlord and landlady have been in the stage and video performances I have seen - Helena Bonham Carter's take was delightful, especially being paired with the often dubious Sasha Baron Cohen.

There were lots of dreams in the plot, and the songs around this theme are woven all through this epic story. It mattered little to me that very few of the performers could match the singing performance of their equivalents in the stage show - Russell Crowe's strained rendering of "Javert's" stern edicts are a prime example.

Hope; Forgiveness; Remorse; Second chances; Love; Dreams.. in my head all these themes of Les Mis are now much more clearly defined. If you haven't seen either the film or the stage performance - you are missing out.

Boxing Day recipe

Cooking Time : 18 hours

Ingredients : 1 mini i-pad thingy - very thin,small,in a slippery case - needs to slip easily down the cushions of an armchair

1 larger A5 sized I-pad with nice big symbols which either a 3 year old or a 60 something can see/read

1 blackberry with mini head-phones which can blot out any conversation, allowing the wearer to be present in body only - with mind in another universe where communication involves a lot of clicking and buzzing

2 sets of 40 something parents - one set just 2 weeks into their new business which has required all their financial, emotional and physical resources for the last 3 months.

2 sisters aged 7 and 12.

2 brothers aged 3 and 16 plus 1 sister of University/College age

1 over-affectionate cocker spaniel with a keen nose and an eye for an opportunity but with the ability to make his presence felt from time to time in a quiet, anti-social way (illegally consumed sprouts being the cause).

2 home owners each eligible for winter fuel allowance and directly or indirectly related to all the guests (other than the dog - who likes to be related to anyone with the ability to walk)

Half a stuffed 16 lb turkey

A lovingly prepared venison stew which has been so well marinated there is hardly any sense of venison present ( but it is a fact that deer are associated with Christmas, and reindeer, and a famous one was called Bambi....) 

A well-prepared ham

A delicious slice of salmon

Sea food

A choice of 8 cheeses

Every traditional Christmas vegetable 

Christmas cake

Trifles

Many more deserts

A wide range of alcoholic and slightly less alcoholic drinks

1 consumer who refuses to eat to eat any meat or fish - and cheese, because that has been the standby used for the previous 3 days.

! consumer who is growing so rapidly in his teen-age years he has lost the ability to speak or think and speaks in monosyllables - and also favours crisps or very plain sandwiches rather than anything exciting - like venison, or salmon, or sea food.....

1 highly active 3 year old who can operate i-pads of any size, the tv remote, dvd controls and taps with ease and has no problem in removing baubles from the Christmas tree (in secret pacts with dog, who is under instruction to hide things).

1 guest with the winter vomiting virus.

1 guest who is convinced she has the winter vomiting virus but nevertheless has an adult sized appetite

1 clever 7 year old who moves effortlessly from room to room without being seen, but who needs to be acknowledged - or else.

An unusual period of prolonged rain, creating unprecedented floods on the main access road from the north.

Preparation :

Spend 2 days preparing the range of foods that cannot be prepared in the 8 hours before guests arrive.

Arrange for the flood effect to strike at the end of a long journey - just at the moment when the winter virus vomit urge is strong; children are tired from the 3 hour 80 mph journey and everyone desperately needs the toilet.

Be on hand with alternative car routes.

Have ready
a.clean toilet and
b.bed

 - for one guest who can move like lightening from car to a. to b. not to be seen then for several hours ( including Christmas Dinner - which for the first time in 10 years he is not preparing himself). Hope there will be an appearance by Boxing Day.

Have stand - by transport available to find and ferry 16 year olds at short notice. (The notion of forward planning is antiquated and boring..)

Ply with drink, feed (with whatever weird combination works) and sit back to see what happens.

Result : an amazingly enjoyable day! Thanks to all involved.

P.S There was just the final incident the morning after when one of the wrinklies attempted to pick up his prescription from the doctor/chemist  whilst taking the dog for his pre-long drive walk. This was supposed to take 20 minutes, not an hour.

 It was the dogs fault. Why he (the dog)  felt the need to slip his new lead; visit the supermarket on his own; involve a shop owner and 3 customers in getting him back to the chemist; bark all the time it took the nervous dog-averse chemist to count the tablets; then relieve himself hugely 3 times along the river bank (so supplying one more helping than the number of bags available for clean-up) and finally find the muddiest path to follow all the way back to the car - I will never know.

Love my phobile moan

I once overheard a conversation from a motorist broken down on the motorway. He was trying to report a vehicle breakdown from a Motorway phone box and clearly under stress.

Operator : "Your location please?"

Driver : "In the roadworks just after junction 12 - there's loads of traffic and it's very close to us.."

Operator :" Be with you soon sir - can you give me a phone number just to keep you informed?"

Driver : " Ah!!!! Can't remember it - Tracey! Tracey!..what's my phobile moan number?.. Oh xxxx"

I use a limited number of functions on my mobile - just calls and slow texts really. That was before I was given a course of tablets to take for the next 6 months, every day at the same time. The trick to remembering tablets  is to use alarms when I'm at home - so I set the small radio signal driven clock for 6.00 pm - repeating every 10 minutes. As a back-up I also decided to set the alarm on my mobile phone using a carefully chosen tone which increased in volume until acknowledged, also repeating every 10 minutes unless switched off.

This has worked very well for me, but has triggered an unusually frantic reaction from my wife - who is often cooking around 6.00 and well within range of both phone and clock.

Things began to go "pear-shaped" when I lost my phone. Several days later I happened to be in a meeting and mentioned the loss. Two members of the choir committee looked at each other and asked for a description of a phone that had been going off repeatedly in church during a choir practice - a phone that had been switched off and left in the safe.

30 seconds before our Sunday concert performance, as we walked to our places I was handed my phone. I checked the credit but saw a message "Sim card failure". "Fine"  I thought, and switched off the phone.

About halfway through our rendition of "Sister Mary had but one child" a mobile phone alarm went off - getting increasingly louder. I looked at my neighbour pointedly and the row of ladies in front began to either glare or giggle. It took a good 10 seconds (or 5 lines of the carol) for the penny to drop - at which point I decided to bluff whilst singing with as straight a face as possible and carefully pressing buttons on the phone in my pocket.

We sat down at the end of the carol. Then I gave the game away. Having realised the alarm would repeat during the next carol - Silent Night - I decided to turn the alarm off completely.

Having switched on the phone I was rewarded by the familiar switch on Nokia theme tune - followed rapidly by a lot of accusing looks, and quite a few moans...

The lost art of letter writing

I have to confess that modern methods of communication have me foxed. There was a time when I could make a phone call to a family member. It was quite a simple system. I would dial the telephone number, the phone would be answered by a human being (often the person I had dialled) and we would have a telephone conversation. It worked the other way as well. People would ring me and I would pick up the phone and answer. Such an easy system. Everyone understood what to do.

When I make a phone call now a machine usually answers. Alternatively I hear a multiple choice option list which requires pressing another number followed by a long pause for repetitive music, and eventually a human voice if I'm lucky. Half the incoming calls are for people who used to live where I now live, or from a machine (which needs an eternity to think what to say) and perfectly timed to coincide with a meal time.

Skype needs all parties to be assembled together and gathered around a well-lit computer screen with a good internet connection. The excitement of a skype call when it works usually results in a close up of the most excitable/assertive small member of the family. Alas, this potentially brilliant system doesn't work for me either.

So - I decided to resort to another tried and tested method of communication dating from the 19th century in England. I wrote a letter to my 6 year old grand-daughter. This was carefully handwritten in large print on one side of A4 paper on the assumption that it could be read by a literate child with a spare 3 minutes. 

I was surprised to get a reply within 2 days. This itself beats replies to e-mails or messages left on ansaphones by a week. And, I can read and re-read the letter lots of times.

It's so good I've decided to share it on the basis that it speaks volumes of what impression I have made on her. I'm assuming that deep down I appear to her to be a very busy person. I could be wrong. Perhaps I'm the closest thing to a slimy sea-creature that she has met on land...

Waste not, want not

In my disorganised garage occasionally I come across tools which I guess date from my grand-dad's time. Trowels, chisels, lump hammers and an implement for pulling thread through leather all feature. It seems to be part of the family tradition not to throw anything away until all possible uses have been explored. So there are obvious ones like the recycling of supermarket plastic bags for holding  the various kitchen waste piles; curtains becoming dust covers when decorating and padded envelopes which criss-cross the country several times.

My father used my school leather satchel for about 40 years as a source of leather for a variety of patches in his recycling projects. Old wellington boots were another source of "raw material" usually being stitched with waxed leather thread to create a replacement slipper sole for example (so inventing his version of outdoor slippers). It didn't surprise me too much when my engineering orientated brother designed and made a wellington stand for his daughter's family:

 Spot the old stair banister rail, poles from a windbreak, bits of pallet ?

 ( Wellies are new)

The downside of this mentality is what my wife describes as junk or clutter arranged in what appear to be random piles in the garage. Where I see raw materials - she sees junk, except for the old bedroom carpet on the garage floor which serves to keep down the dust. Also acceptable are the large flattened cardboard boxes that held the self-assembly furniture which now form good insulating layers underneath garage shelves and readily absorb liquid spills.

Using up portions of unwanted vegetables in my own home-made soup concoctions seems to go down well; and the new upper fence woven out of branches thinned from the willow tree seems to have approval as a view.

If only the vegetable peelings would rot down more quickly without producing the foul smelling black liquid that oozes from the plastic container. What I need is some sort of leak proof container that is easy to pick up and easy to pour from..and that needs little adaptation.

I'm staring at the photograph. No prizes for guessing the solution that is coming to mind...

Whollop whot a picture

A picture is worth a thousand words, apparently. I think I would need more than a thousand words to describe some of the photos seen lately on facebook or photobox. My daughter-in-law was presented with a new camera last Christmas and having fine photographers in her family is clearly an advantage. Some of her recent scenes and family photos are stunning.

I use my digital camera in a different way I think. In an attempt to get a natural pose I tend to fire off shots without warning the subjects, hoping that 1 in 20 photos will be worth keeping. I do get a lot of slightly blurred shots with shadows in the wrong place, red eye, closed eyes, winks, incomplete bodies and an excess of sky or water. But every so often there will be a gem that I will enjoy for several years.

Tiny "exploration" cameras are a whole new world, discovered last week during a visit to the dentist. His examination of the many constructions and restoration works I carry around produced the usual factual word list summarising the present state of decline. Usually I try to pre-empt dental comments with a sorry tale of how sweets and sugar in the 1950's were viewed as treats at the time, rather than the delayed action teeth rot agents they proved to be. Most dentists I see nowadays cannot relate to this and respond with one of those smiles you reserve for stories beyond your experience - I have such a smile for mobile "apps" and "i-phone" users.

So, with dental word list examination complete, x-rays followed then a long and detailed explanation of  the black, grey and white bits - having pointed out which areas of the x-ray were the actual teeth. Then, just for re-inforcement came a series of photos of teeth and gums taken with said exploration camera. Something primeval is going on in my mouth. All the photos appeared on a large computer screen in front of my face - scenes reminiscent of dormant volcanoes sitting in a sea of lava. (Not quite the mid-ocean ridge, but certainly an active seismic region). There were fault lines running across teeth and fillings; bubbling spots of irritation on the gums waiting to erupt; extinct metallic lava flows within teeth; a dark expanse surrounding a fractured root - and more, much more than I can describe no matter how many words I use.

There was quiet satisfaction in the dentist's tone as he finally decided on a treatment plan, and on reading the list I decided a visit to the optician would come next. 

The estimated bill was making my eyes water..

Drop 'em and Cough

There is often a corporate nervousness when strangers gather for a common purpose. The airport departures lounge is such a place, especially if there is a delay in the departure time. Nervousness shows in different ways. The well-seasoned travellers smile knowingly and reach for the book or playing cards. Travellers with young families react badly as stressed children get a sixth sense of how to pile pressure onto parents by demanding toilet trips/sweets/drinks or the freedom to explore the airport knowing that a parental refusal can be countered by a loud noise.

 Some travellers will move towards the check-out desk demanding explanations - in the naive hopes that they will be told the truth, and that passenger pressure can help. Nine times out of ten the broadcast reason for the delay will be described as a "technical problem" .This seems to be a blanket phrase covering anything from a replacement engine needed (as happened when we tried to fly from Manchester to Cuba), a need for a replacement light bulb (in the emergency floor lighting) to a crew shortage (pilot; or tractor driver to tow the plane out). Eventually passengers will board and the corporate passenger spirit will lift instantly.

Yesterday I arrived at a hospital as an out-patient ready to donate yet another blood sample from one of my bruised arms. The surgery opened at 09.00 so I was surprised to find a small queue at 08.30. Taking the small  paper ticket number 83 to the back row of chairs I settled in for the brief wait. The room rapidly filled (what a lot of blood letting in prospect!). Nine o'clock chimed and there was a corporate expectant hush. Number 80 please! No-one moved. Silence and a lot of sidelong looks. Who on earth was 80? Should 81 make a move? Would a latecomer call everyone's bluff and jump the queue?

A nurse appeared, confirmed that 80 was a leftover from the previous night, and called for 81. "Bingo!" quipped an "old hand" and he was rewarded with a corporate chuckle. On my left an elderly gentleman declared that the wait reminded him of Army medicals." Just one instruction - drop 'em and cough!" was the comment. At that point I queried whether I was in the right queue. I managed to suppress a question about how coughing without any trousers could be used in military action.

82 flashed up, followed rapidly by 83. Looked like the race was on  between the 2 blood nurses to see who could fill the barrel first so I charged into the vampire's lair.

I was out by 09.10, feeling slightly light-headed and bearing yet another rapidly forming bruise on my inner arm - a sort of corporate badge to be shown off for effect and evidence that I had indeed joined the right queue.