tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-368351792511537472024-03-13T03:32:50.604+00:00Canary IslanderUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger44125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36835179251153747.post-51366237784804082322013-10-12T22:08:00.000+01:002013-10-12T22:25:40.215+01:00Happy Wedding AnniversaryYippee!
I think I've remembered an anniversary for a change !
(but I'm not sure) ...
:-)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36835179251153747.post-81035514439913710032013-09-23T23:01:00.000+01:002013-09-23T23:01:51.625+01:00Why Earth is feeling Poorly<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MLiLwtChwd8/UkC6F5PMQtI/AAAAAAAAAVM/YWtSsjVq3X4/s1600/SICK+EARTH.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MLiLwtChwd8/UkC6F5PMQtI/AAAAAAAAAVM/YWtSsjVq3X4/s400/SICK+EARTH.jpg" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36835179251153747.post-39388337175233406672013-09-17T23:43:00.001+01:002013-09-18T00:14:24.032+01:00Dreaming - One step, two step, three ...<b>#1.<br />
It was a dream that began with a growing realisation there was a problem – but what?</b><br />
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<b>#2.<br />Then a hazy vista of the world unfolded before me …</b> (you can click on this hazy vista if you like)<br />
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<b>#3.<br />
After which there was a final vision, and clarity …</b><br />
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:-)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36835179251153747.post-33450592755369714242013-06-10T23:24:00.000+01:002013-06-10T23:47:28.696+01:00WorkspaceThis blog begins with a photograph of my workspace in Kent, followed by the opening lines of one of England's finest poems.
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0l1DcpcWQ8I/UbTc-5oQdII/AAAAAAAAATU/xy_WfwW6mdU/s1600/MySpace2.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0l1DcpcWQ8I/UbTc-5oQdII/AAAAAAAAATU/xy_WfwW6mdU/s320/MySpace2.jpg" /></a><br />
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<i>When I have fears that I may cease to be</i><br />
<i>Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,</i><br />
<i>Before high piled books, in charact'ry,</i><br />
<i>Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;</i><br />
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As you can see, John Keats was a romantic poet who was worried about his pen, because it couldn't keep up with his brain. Well, if he was worried, I've been going absolutely frantic, because my pen stopped doing any gleaning several months ago. And, truth be told, the brain hasn't been up to much teeming either...<br />
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Alas, the photo could have been a self-portrait, if only I had been my unusual prolific self, hammering away at the keyboard. But that was not to be.<br />
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Instead, what we see in my workspace is a total absence of any meaningful blogging activity. Yes, someone has switched on the table lamp and the computer has been powered up. But that's it, that's all - zilch, nix, nada, nowt else - a complete waste of electricity, you might say.<br />
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Well, I may be unseen in the photograph, but I am standing nearby, with camera still in hand, and I'm gazing out of the window up at the night sky...<br />
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<i>When I behold, upon the night’s starr’d face,</i><br />
<i>Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,</i><br />
<i>And think that I may never live to trace</i><br />
<i>Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;</i><br />
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I was pondering these plaintive words as dawn broke, and I watched an incoming North Sea tide rolling up the Thames Estuary. It was then that the bulb in the table lamp expired. It was as if it knew its services were no longer required.<br />
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So I replaced the old bulb with a new one. And I distinctly recollect my absent-mindedly tapping a few words on the computer keyboard before resuming my position by the window. Luckily, I still had the camera in hand to catch that moment in time.<br />
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<i>And when I feel, fair creature of an hour!</i><br />
<i>That I shall never look upon thee more,</i><br />
<i>Never have relish in the faery power</i><br />
<i>Of unreflecting love!—then on the shore</i><br />
<i>Of the wide world I stand alone, and think</i><br />
<i>Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.</i><br />
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And that's the bit I've never quite understood - why is there a faery power in unreflecting love? And do you think the fake bougaenvillea looks a bit naff in my Kentish workspace?<i><br /></i><br />
:-) Unknownnoreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36835179251153747.post-36067942265691588992013-01-23T16:15:00.000+00:002013-01-23T21:54:51.862+00:00CASINO<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The upper sixth formers at my school were expected to enrol into the SES.<br />
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Alas, the acronym SES (not SAS) stood for <i>School Essay Society</i>. Those of us who were studying science subjects like maths, physics, or chemistry felt somewhat aggrieved by this requirement to enrol. It seemed like a punishment designed by artists and theocrats who believed that a study of their stuff was perhaps more important than ours.<br />
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My assigned project for the SES was to prepare an essay and a supporting speech on Russian Literature.<br />
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So in addition to my science reading material, I had to plough through novels by Pushkin, Tolstoy, Chekhov, Lermontov and Dostoevsky (Nabokov was just too new –abhorred by the theocrats, and therefore not on the official reading list).<br />
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But the novel that totally immersed me was <i>Crime and Punishment</i> by Fyodor Dostoevsky. It is the only book that I have read from cover to cover, and then again from cover to cover without interruption. Ever since, I have believed it to be the greatest novel ever.<br />
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And now, over fifty years later, after a search on the Internet, I know why I found that novel to be so absorbing. In an extract of a letter written to his brother in 1866 (see below), I learned that Dostoevsky had been addicted to gambling, and I was reminded I had also read his book titled <i>The Gambler</i>:<br />
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<i><b>“And I believed in my system. <u>I won 600 francs in fifteen minutes</u>. This whetted my appetite. Suddenly I started to lose. I couldn't control myself and lost everything. So I left to get my very last money, and went back to play. I risked 35 Napoleons and lost them all. I had only 6 Napoleons left to pay the landlady and for the journey. In Geneva I pawned my watch.”</b></i><br />
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You see, I’d grown up with the ruffle of cards, the clink of chips, and the spin of a roulette wheel. As a child I learnt every card game, and how to play chess, courtesy of a very kind and sympathetic bartender.<br />
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Those were the post war days in a Czech Club in London. Everyone was poor, and I remember the club couldn’t even afford a roulette wheel and baize. Instead, they had old playing cards stuck onto a large cardboard base, and the players would place their bets on those cards, after which they would await a shuffle and cut followed by the slow turn of a set number of cards from one of two dealer packs to see who (if anybody) had won. I remember the game was called “Gottesleben”, which even today makes no sense to me, because it translates from German (and not from Czech) to “The Life of God”.<br />
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The Czechs and other East Europeans who joined the club had no love of Germans (or Russians for that matter). My heroes were the Czechs and the Poles and the Hungarians who would tell me gripping tales of their war experiences.<br />
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I grew up in those communities, and that led me to work my way through school and university in continental restaurants, betting shops, and in a company that provided for the catering needs of the top London casinos. Yes, I washed dishes, waited tables, bounced bad customers, took bets, settled bets, collected from Covent Garden and Smithfield markets and delivered to casinos, restaurants and private customers. In my late teens and early twenties I was on first name terms with the catering managements at many London Casinos and private gaming clubs.<br />
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In later years, when I escorted my Mother for a birthday evening at a casino – something that was still a big pleasure for her – I never gambled a penny of the money I had earned. I just watched, even when my Mother had her very small flutter on the roulette. And on those occasions when she won, she’d pass me some of her winning chips to look after, to be cashed in on our way home. Like everyone, she loved to play with casino money, not with her money, and she was emphatic about “being grateful” for a big win. For her, “being grateful” entailed leaving her original small stake on a number that had won for her - to see if it would win again - and tipping the croupier when she left the table with a win.<br />
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As I said, these were rare evenings, because her husband – my second stepfather – had committed suicide because of his gambling debts. I was nineteen years old, and all for working full time. My Mother insisted I continue as a student, work part-time, and get a university degree. And she was right. Times were tough, but we survived and I graduated with a degree in Physics.<br />
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So what has all this to do with Dostoevsky?<br />
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Well, as I said earlier, I’d never gambled in a casino. But I’d watched, and was familiar with the intense focus of the gamblers on a turn of a card and the bounce of the ball along a spinning roulette wheel. I was fascinated by their compulsive, obsessive and superstitious behaviour. And I believe that Dostoevsky had the same insights into these facets of human behaviour as I had.<br />
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There were times when I imagined a starting stake of my own and played that through in my mind as the reality unfolded. Of course, I always lost my imaginary money. But on the last time I went to a casino with my Mother, I placed two imaginary bets on the same number for two successive spins of the wheel. And in reality, that <b>was</b> the winning number, <b>twice</b> in succession. I guess that sort of crazy luck may have been experienced by Dostoevsky, but in his case it was with real money, and he became addicted.<br />
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Well, I’ve just celebrated my 70th birthday by doing some island-hopping around the Canary Islands. I stayed in a well-known hotel in Las Palmas de Gran Canaria. I learned that the hotel had provided a home for the city casino until two years ago, when it moved into more modern premises in the dockland area. Well, I hadn't visted a casino for twenty years, so I decided to pay this one a visit. And for the first time ever, and in rememberence of my mother, I decided to have a flutter on the roulette.<br />
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For my first bet, I put chips on 8, 18, and 28. The wheel spun, and the ball fell into the number 18 slot.<br />
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I was mindful of my Mother’s dictum to “be grateful”, so I left my winning stake on number 18, but with a difference. I quadrupled that original stake. And number 18 won again.<br />
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And I remembered my Mother’s second dictum about “being grateful”. I gave a sizable tip to the croupier before collecting my winning chips, cashing in, and walking out. My visit to the casino had lasted for precisely two spins of a roulette wheel<br />.
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Bless you Mum. I very much doubt I’ll ever visit a casino to play again. If there ever was the slightest trace of a gambling addiction in me – well, I’ve certainly buried it in style, haven’t I?<br />
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:-)<br />
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:-)<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36835179251153747.post-12568032211021939462012-12-17T11:36:00.000+00:002012-12-25T21:10:14.591+00:00Five steps down to Heaven....
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My Mum screamed when she raised the hinged pinewood lid up from the bath to lean it back against the kitchen wall. There was a rat in the bath, but it didn’t move. It was dead. I don’t know why, but even now, so many years later, that simple scene from my childhood remains a vivid and enduring image for me.<br />
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At that time, the worst of the Blitz was over – or so it was thought – and we’d returned to London to live in rooms high up on the third floor of a terrace house in Notting Hill. The terrace was similar in design to that shown in the above photo, except the front door was sheltered by a large porch that was supported by two impressive columns. And there were exactly five steps leading down from the porch to the street.<br />
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I’ve had a look at the house as it is now on Google Street View. Nothing much has changed over the past 70 years, except for the outside paintwork that I remember as a dull flaking grey but is now a smart white, and today there are far prettier curtains and modern blinds in the windows. It looks positively cheerful and upmarket now. All the same, I’m glad I’m not there anymore. Too many bad memories, I suppose, like waking up and crying because of “Bobbies”. That was my name for the doodlebugs.<br />
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But I digress. It wasn’t the flaky paintwork, the blackout curtains or the war that made the house such a depressing place. It was the ogress, our landlady at the time, who was far more frightening. She was very much older than my young Mum, and shorter, and quite bent with a dowager’s hump that made her turn her head sideways to look at people. Her hair was unkempt, grey and straggly, and she always wore a black woollen shawl that was thrown over her shoulders and tied into a fierce double knot at the front.<br />
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She lived alone in the basement flat, but spent most of her days sat in a spindly wooden chair just outside the main front door on the porchway. This enabled her to monitor the comings and goings of all her tenants and their visitors. There was no alternative route for the tenants – we all had to use the porchway, and that’s where the weekly rents in advance were paid.<br />
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The landlady wasn’t nice. She’d bare her teeth and snarl at me when my Mum wasn’t looking, and there was one time when I was sure she deliberately tried to trip me up with her walking cane.<br />
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One day, my Mum gave the landlady her money in the rent book, just like every week. But the landlady gave the rent book back unsigned. My Mum didn’t notice until we were all the way up to the top of the house, and she rushed back downstairs. I followed, but by the time I’d navigated our three flights of narrow stairs down to the front door, both my Mum and the landlady were arguing.<br />
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The landlady was getting up up from her chair just as I arrived and the worst happened. I tripped over the front door threshold, which sent me stumbling onto the porch and into the back of the chair, knocking it forward so that the seat hit the landlady behind her knees. That’s when the landlady fell all the way down the steps, cracking her head on the side railings and again on the pavement below. And the chair followed, careering down the steps to land on top of her.<br />
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Mum was kneeling next to the landlady, trying to use the shawl to stem the blood flowing from the landlady’s head, and was shouting for help as I picked up the landlady’s purse. As more and more people arrived, I gave the purse to my friend Miffy for safe-keeping.<br />
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We never saw the landlady again. It was several weeks later, just before Christmas and just after the landlady’s son had given all the tenants formal notice to leave, that my Mum received a small and anonymous parcel through the post. It contained the huge sum of fifty-five pounds, eleven shillings and three pence.<br />
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I’m sure I recognised Miffy’s handwriting on the outside of the parcel. And I should have mentioned, if I haven’t before, that Miffy (that is his nickname – from his initials MIF) lived with me and my Mum at the time.<br />
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He was My Imaginary Friend then, just as he is today.<br />
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:-) Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36835179251153747.post-17483924682666047762012-09-10T00:48:00.000+01:002012-09-10T00:49:34.841+01:00Just a week or so...Just a week or so, back in Tenerife...
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So, here's a song for us all...
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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bpbuqh12oj4Unknownnoreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36835179251153747.post-11120958624546556982012-08-29T19:55:00.001+01:002012-08-30T17:20:45.956+01:00Mr B Keeper?<br />
We had no map to guide us, but we knew where to find his house because we'd been told it was down in Kent.
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The roads were busy and for some reason, possibly connected with the opening day of the London Paralympics, both the M20 and the M26 were at a standstill.
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But why care about time? We were in no hurry, and our route avoided both motorways. Instead, we'd quite naturally selected the country lanes, including some that were among the narrowest lanes in England, with precious few wide spots to allow two cars to pass in opposite directions.
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Alas, there was no Beagle to welcome us when we arrived, but we found the great man sitting by his favourite window...
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It was while walking in the grounds that I managed to capture this photograph of one of his wonderful specimens...
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And I couldn't resist taking this snapshot of the house from the garden...
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Of course, he wasn't a bee keeper, although he did study bees for a period. He was interested in all forms of life. Can you guess who I am talking about?
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:-)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36835179251153747.post-21997215069035411382012-07-07T14:07:00.000+01:002012-07-09T10:35:00.362+01:00Another Kent WalkaboutWe visted another seaside town in Kent. Very picturesque! I get very absent-minded nowadays, but I did remember to take three photographs...
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<i>1. A Notice carved in a passage by the Town Hall...</i>
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<i>2. A Cottage just outside the church on the hill...</i>
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<i>3. A Metal Thingy in the pavement by my left foot...</i>
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<i>4. But here is a better-known feature of the town...</i>
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<i>5. And here is another...!</i>
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:-)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36835179251153747.post-26788623223562860782012-06-26T23:00:00.000+01:002012-06-27T18:42:43.525+01:00The Dan MysteryOn one of my recent walkabouts I noticed a mysterious footprint in an alleyway near my home. The footprint was set in concrete, and pointed slightly south of east, as seen in the photograph below. It seemed to me that the footprint had been made by a right shoe, so I compared it with the right shoe that I was wearing. There was no doubt - the footprint was exactly the same shape and length as mine. This meant the footprint had been made by someone wearing a UK size 9 shoe (or European size 43).<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UIi5WPFnsSk/T-n0emEJBvI/AAAAAAAAAMU/i617be-n8gQ/s1600/Evo+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UIi5WPFnsSk/T-n0emEJBvI/AAAAAAAAAMU/i617be-n8gQ/s320/Evo+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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A cursory inspection of the surrounding area confirmed that this was a solitary footprint. Or was it? I decided to conduct a fingertip search along the alleyway, whilst moving in a slightly south of easterly direction. My problem was that dusk was barely an hour away, and there was no street lighting in that section of the alley. So I had to stop when it became too dark to see. I used a chalk that I carry with me for such occasions to mark the spot where I temporarily abandoned the search. I knew I was onto something and was resolved to resume the search on the following day.<br />
<br />
Shortly after dawn next day, my perseverance paid off. I encountered a strange grouping of 6 paw marks in a further section of concrete. The photo below shows these paw marks quite clearly, including the toe of my own left shoe. I was so startled by this unexpected discovery that I dropped my chalk. The white dot that the chalk made in the concrete is also visible in the photo. <br />
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Well, I continued my fingertip search on my hands and knees for a further two hours, and halted when I emerged from the alleyway at the point where it met the local High Street. I was quite thirsty, but luckily there was a bountiful supply of water at hand. I chose the last of the four available sources shown in the three photos below.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-c9FlfchB4zI/T-omGq6y7xI/AAAAAAAAANA/vN5-4HfhvRc/s1600/Water+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-c9FlfchB4zI/T-omGq6y7xI/AAAAAAAAANA/vN5-4HfhvRc/s320/Water+3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Of course it isn't easy to get a small quantity of water from such a highly pressurised source, so some water in excess of my immediate needs ran across the pavement and spilled over the edge of the kerb into the High Street gutter. That's when I saw the writing in the concrete kerbstone. You can see the writing in the photo below. <br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XcQt3jtjyFk/T-n0zOHkVlI/AAAAAAAAAMk/kDmryXxhI24/s1600/Evo+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XcQt3jtjyFk/T-n0zOHkVlI/AAAAAAAAAMk/kDmryXxhI24/s320/Evo+3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I quite like this final photo, because it proves I didn't waste too much water, and you can see a little more of my left shoe...<br />
:-)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36835179251153747.post-79255208534994701122012-05-24T22:05:00.000+01:002012-05-24T22:05:41.202+01:00Why all this anker?It's been ages and ages since we cavorted merrily together with Ceri Radford on the DT. Alas, when Ceri stopped writing about Constance Harding, I retreated to the Finance Section. <br />
<br />
Here's a little MyT blog about what I found in the Finance Section....<br />
:-)<br /><br />
--------<br />
<br />
The character string <i><b>anker</b></i> has become popular in comments that appear on the main Telegraph website. In fact, <i><b>anker</b></i> appears most frequently in discussions about the Financial Crisis.<br />
<br />
It is noticeable that people who use <i><b>anker</b></i> in their comments like to draw attention to what they are saying, by prefacing the string with an asterisk so that it appears as <i><b>*anker</b></i>.<br />
<br />
There are also variations of <i><b>*anker</b></i>, notably the plural form <i><b>*ankers</b></i> and the abbreviated form <i><b>*ank</b></i>. For added emphasis, these variations are often followed by an exclamation mark, as in <i><b>*ankers!</b></i> <br />
<br />
Now you may well be puzzled by all this.<br />
But I truly believe I'm beginning to see the light. <br />
The more I see <i><b>*anker</b></i> in DT comments, the more I think of it as a <i><b>canker</b></i>.<br />
<br />
What's your opinion?<br />
<br />
:-)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36835179251153747.post-17944028694981367172012-04-23T05:04:00.002+01:002012-05-05T22:46:09.296+01:00Fled to Wed in ScotlandIn 1974, they changed many of the county boundaries in England and Wales. They did the same to Scotland in 1975. Sadly, many county names became defunct.<br />
<br />
Alas, poor Westmorland! And
alas, poor Cumberland! Both of these fine old English counties became
part of a new and larger county named <b>Cumbria</b>. However, the
residents of the small town of Appleby did manage to preserve their link
with the past by the simple expedient of changing their town name to
Appleby-in-Westmorland.<br />
<br />
And would you believe it? For a while, all the postal addresses in
the small town of Gretna (which is in Scotland) were altered to include
the town name Carlisle and the new county name Cumbria (both of which
are in England). However, Royal Mail did eventually see sense and
removed these English place names from Gretna postal addresses,
replacing them with the new Scottish county name Dumfriesshire. <br />
<br />
But that small bit of bureaucratic nonsense didn’t stop many English
teenagers from running away to get married in Gretna – sometimes with
irate parents in hot pursuit. Scottish law permits young people aged 16
or 17 to marry without parental consent, whilst English law sets the bar
higher at eighteen years. Gretna still conducts over 5000 marriages
each year, and all of them are conducted over a blacksmith’s anvil.<br />
<br />
Hoorah for Bonny Scotland..! <br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OLYzJDBFTm4/T5kEFGd2cwI/AAAAAAAAAMI/Maw-EwWu0r4/s1600/220px-Gretna_Green.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OLYzJDBFTm4/T5kEFGd2cwI/AAAAAAAAAMI/Maw-EwWu0r4/s1600/220px-Gretna_Green.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i>“How far, how far to Gretna? ‘Tis years and years away,<br />
And chaise and four will nevermore fling dust across the day;<br />
But as I ride the Carlisle road, where life and love have been,<br />
I hear again the beating hooves go through to Gretna Green.”</i></span><br />
<br />
<img alt=":-)" class="wp-smiley" src="http://my.telegraph.co.uk/tweet/wp-includes/images/smilies/icon_smile.gif" />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36835179251153747.post-68435725640029768522012-04-01T20:29:00.014+01:002012-04-05T20:57:29.827+01:00Message to JW from Expat<span style="font-weight:bold;">From Expat:</span><br /><br /><i>JW said he would like to see my paperweights, and since I can’t post on the blogs, perhaps you could. It might give him a smile. Some of them are Scottish, from Caithness. What you see is about 2/3 of my collection.</i><br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zFnHJ_svswA/T3iwC97b45I/AAAAAAAAALo/wqQuMplUUG4/s1600/232323232%257Ffp635_6_nu%253D764%253B_%253B54_258_WSNRCG%253D34_43%253B7449349nu0mrj.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zFnHJ_svswA/T3iwC97b45I/AAAAAAAAALo/wqQuMplUUG4/s320/232323232%257Ffp635_6_nu%253D764%253B_%253B54_258_WSNRCG%253D34_43%253B7449349nu0mrj.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5726520491231667090" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-x-96tTrb9ug/T3iuFE6VlgI/AAAAAAAAALc/VhakT6hIkx0/s1600/232323232%257Ffp7343%253B_nu%253D764%253B_%253B54_258_WSNRCG%253D34_442%253B2_%253B349nu0mrj.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-x-96tTrb9ug/T3iuFE6VlgI/AAAAAAAAALc/VhakT6hIkx0/s320/232323232%257Ffp7343%253B_nu%253D764%253B_%253B54_258_WSNRCG%253D34_442%253B2_%253B349nu0mrj.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5726518328442590722" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I guess you know to click on the photos to enlarge them. They are brilliant!<br />:-)<br /><br /><b>Important postscript:</b><br />We've made some <span class="st"><em>Pâté Sardinas de la Expat.</em></span><br /><br />The first photo is a bit fuzzy.<br />(We are always a bit fuzzy when trying a new recipe for the first time). But you can see more if you click on the photo to enlarge.<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3dXzfi_IyUo/T33RUARVlwI/AAAAAAAAAL0/-L8YpElwgYk/s1600/Photo-0045.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3dXzfi_IyUo/T33RUARVlwI/AAAAAAAAAL0/-L8YpElwgYk/s320/Photo-0045.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727964442685445890" border="0" /></a><br />And below is a photo of the finished sardine <span class="st"><em>pâté</em></span>, ready for munching whilst blogging. Thanks for the recipe, Expat!<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ILGBrsHL84I/T33R2EXG8AI/AAAAAAAAAMA/3akru6_sMlI/s1600/Photo-0046w.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ILGBrsHL84I/T33R2EXG8AI/AAAAAAAAAMA/3akru6_sMlI/s320/Photo-0046w.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727965027898945538" border="0" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36835179251153747.post-3036945197887550762012-03-22T02:12:00.007+00:002012-03-25T10:29:13.005+01:00Rugby<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:relyonvml/> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif][if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves/> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> 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Grid 3 Accent 6"> <w:lsdexception locked="false" priority="70" semihidden="false" unhidewhenused="false" name="Dark List Accent 6"> <w:lsdexception locked="false" priority="71" semihidden="false" unhidewhenused="false" name="Colorful Shading Accent 6"> <w:lsdexception locked="false" priority="72" semihidden="false" unhidewhenused="false" name="Colorful List Accent 6"> <w:lsdexception locked="false" priority="73" semihidden="false" unhidewhenused="false" name="Colorful Grid Accent 6"> <w:lsdexception locked="false" priority="19" semihidden="false" unhidewhenused="false" qformat="true" name="Subtle Emphasis"> <w:lsdexception locked="false" priority="21" semihidden="false" unhidewhenused="false" qformat="true" name="Intense Emphasis"> <w:lsdexception locked="false" priority="31" semihidden="false" unhidewhenused="false" qformat="true" name="Subtle Reference"> <w:lsdexception locked="false" priority="32" semihidden="false" unhidewhenused="false" qformat="true" name="Intense Reference"> <w:lsdexception locked="false" priority="33" semihidden="false" unhidewhenused="false" qformat="true" name="Book Title"> <w:lsdexception locked="false" priority="37" name="Bibliography"> <w:lsdexception locked="false" priority="39" qformat="true" name="TOC Heading"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif][if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0cm; mso-para-margin-right:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0cm; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <p><i>I never had a parent<br />to cheer me on from the touchline</i></p><i> <p>I never had a parent to watch me play.</p> <p>I never had a father<br />to see me trial for England.</p></i><p><i>And he never saw me play.</i></p><span style="line-height:115%;font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast;mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;mso-fareast-language:EN-GB;mso-bidi-language:AR-SAfont-family:";font-size:11.0pt;" >.</span><br /><br />OK,<br />Perhaps not as well as in the link below.<br />But please open it and enjoy!<br /><br />http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZMd7PQavavw<br /><br />:-)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36835179251153747.post-3847874750253449992012-01-09T21:39:00.005+00:002012-01-09T22:17:12.065+00:00Freedom - at last!.<br />As I approach my 69th birthday, I hear a voice declare that he is being released from shackles that have, for over half a century, chained him to a sex-maniac.<br /><br />Yippee!<br />Happy New Year!<br /><br />: -)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36835179251153747.post-17598472652809223712011-11-01T14:38:00.009+00:002011-11-01T15:42:40.694+00:00The New Baby<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zY5-7nLBBjA/TrAF2e96zRI/AAAAAAAAAKg/kcpfHr8_rV8/s1600/P1040739.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zY5-7nLBBjA/TrAF2e96zRI/AAAAAAAAAKg/kcpfHr8_rV8/s320/P1040739.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670038364443299090" border="0" /></a><br />Yes, they laughed at me. Everybody laughed at me. And I dare say that you would have laughed at me too, during all those months when I remained steadfast in my forecast that the new baby would be a boy, and would be given a strong, virile, dynamic, forename like IAN.<br /><br />Well, I was proved right. As you can see, Kathy’s new grandson has all the attributes of a fine wing forward - 21.3 inches tall and weighing in at over 9lb.<br /><br />The proud parents had already agreed on a name for a baby girl, but they hadn’t quite settled on a name for a baby boy. And so the matter remained undecided for the next few weeks, whilst all sorts of alternative male names were successively mooted and then discarded.<br /><br />And occasionally, I would chip in with my halfpennyworth: <i>“How about a name like IAN?”</i> I would suggest, helpfully.<br /><br />So I was delighted when they settled on JACK.<br /><br />You see, IAN is the Scottish for John, and a common nickname for John is JACK. Moreover, the first letters in IAN and JACK (I and J) are alphabetically consecutive, and both names share the same second letter (A).<br /><br />And if we consider each letter in the alphabet to be represented by its sequence number (A=1, B=2, C=3 and so on), we find that the C plus K in JACK is equal to the N in IAN.<br /><br />So the two names are virtually identical :-)<br /><br />But the really exciting outcome is this: the letters J,A,C,K equate to 10,1,3,11 which multiply up to 330, and these digits sum to <b>SIX</b>, whilst the letters I,A,N equate to 9,1,14 which multiply up to 126, and these digits sum to <b>NINE</b>.<br /><br />The answer is always 69.<br /><br />Apart from the baby, what can possibly be more perfect than that?<br />: - )<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-85xF1PKvBv8/TrATHcMU4BI/AAAAAAAAAKs/PYbQHASszME/s1600/P1040737.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-85xF1PKvBv8/TrATHcMU4BI/AAAAAAAAAKs/PYbQHASszME/s320/P1040737.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670052949407358994" border="0" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36835179251153747.post-29966323841840343272011-09-08T15:40:00.004+01:002011-09-08T20:57:13.043+01:00Six out of EightProgressively, over several weeks, a great feeling of lassitude had slowly and insidiously come over me. I felt that little bit weaker by the day, and more and more disinclined to exercise or otherwise exert myself.<br /><br />I spent much more time than usual reading the financial press and watching the financial crisis unfold on Television, and I became increasingly angry at the state of the world.<br /><br />My angers were followed by bouts of anxiety.<br /><br />Then over the weekend, while walking with my daughters around the ponds at Alexandra Palace, I twice found myself losing my balance, to the extent of nearly falling into the water.<br /><br />By Sunday evening, when back at home, the events of the weekend seemed to fade and become fuzzy in my memory, and I was losing track of conversation.<br /><br />And I only just made it to bed before crashing into a deep sleep.<br /><br />------<br /><br />Next day Kathy joked that I had <i>"Galloping Alzheimer's"</i>. But she was very worried when she showed me the small print on the leaflet that was tucked inside the packet of pills which my doctor had prescribed for me 5 weeks beforehand.<br /> <br /><i><b>Tell your doctor if you notice any of the following side effects:</b><br />1. Muscle weakness<br />2. Excitement<br />3. Agitation <br />4. ‘Spinning sensation’<br />5. Confusion <br />6. Loss of consciousness<br />7. Coma<br />8. Death.</i><br /><br />How someone with the latter symptoms is supposed to contact their doctor is beyond me! <br /><br />I’m hugely better now, because I didn’t finish the prescribed course. <br /><br />But six out of eight ain’t bad, is it?<br /><br />:-)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36835179251153747.post-9506443920812538042011-07-05T09:50:00.005+01:002011-07-05T10:41:21.907+01:00Coincidences! I love them!!I know I’ve previously written a blog about an amazing sequence of coincidences that happened to me, but something new has happened recently that makes me write again.<br /><br />I lived in Moorhouse Road up until the age of six, and at the age of eleven I went to a school that had a “House” system. I became a member of Moor House at that school. Many years afterwards, I left college to begin a six-month residential training course at a building by the name of Moor House.<br /> <br />Yes, I know that all this would hardly be considered as the most amazing sequence of coincidences, but please bear with me...<br /> <br />Two weeks ago, an old colleague of mine, David, whom I had last seen twenty years ago, made contact with me again via Skype. We’d worked together for many years as software developers for a firm of international chartered accountants. During our conversation he happened to mention that his son had followed in our footsteps and was now working as a software developer for an international bank.<br /> <br />That certainly sparked my interest, because my son also works as a software developer for a bank. And would you believe it - it emerged that both our sons work for the <b>same</b> bank, in the <b>same</b> building in London!<br /><br />The building where our sons work is in Canary Wharf. And later in our conversation it transpired that David had recently returned from a holiday in the Canary Islands. And as you know, I live in the Canary Islands, and unbeknown to either of us, we had visited the same island, and been in the same building, at the same time last December.<br /><br />I really must return that Skype telephone call soon.<br /> <br />You see, I’m wondering if my friend David Moorhouse and I have even more in common than we already know… <br />:-)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36835179251153747.post-22978834611144846642011-06-12T23:28:00.002+01:002011-06-12T23:32:27.178+01:00The Lost Blog...Once upon a time...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36835179251153747.post-78747151156131018122011-06-08T11:11:00.019+01:002011-06-11T09:36:48.960+01:00Hoot<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FnWUo0CEXBs/Te9LTLlwf0I/AAAAAAAAAKY/sR2d5Cz1SKI/s1600/BARN%2BOWL%2BTyto_alba.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FnWUo0CEXBs/Te9LTLlwf0I/AAAAAAAAAKY/sR2d5Cz1SKI/s320/BARN%2BOWL%2BTyto_alba.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615790053255053122" /></a><br />My mother was a great storyteller, and one of her favourite stories was about me when I was a little boy. She had taken me to visit a friend of hers who lived in a house with a large garden. It being a sunny day, she’d allowed me to play in the garden and after a while she and her friend had looked out to see me sitting on the lawn, surrounded by birds.<br /><br />And it appeared as if I was holding court, engaging the birds in earnest conversation as they took turns to fly up and land on my outstretched fingers.<br /> <br />I’ve no memory of that incident today, but I’m sure my mother wasn’t exaggerating. I’ve had a lifelong interest in birds, and for my sins, I can still do a very good imitation of many different birdsongs today. I suppose that’s reflected in my choice of a Canary as my blog avatar, and why I spend so much time in the Canary Islands, where there is an astonishing variety of exotic birdlife.<br /><br />I’m mentioning all this because Kathy and I are now back in the UK for a brief visit, and in the evenings I’ve been busy making friends with a tawny owl. I haven’t actually seen the owl yet, but we’ve exchanged hoots.<br /><br />Barn owls in the UK tend to hoot, while those in the Canary Islands are mainly screech owls. I’ve become quite good at imitating the characteristic <i>“Scree!”</i> of the screech owl, which is absolutely ear-shattering at close range. So you can imagine my delight at the opportunity to practice my tawny owl <i>“Hoo!”</i> while I’m back in the UK. And Kathy is quite pleased too, because she seems to like my hooting much more than my screeching.<br /><br />Anyway, I’ve been out in the garden every night waiting for the tawny owl to hoot. And I’ve not been disappointed, because it has made its presence known at around 11pm each evening. On the first evening, we only exchanged a brief <i>“Hoo-Hoo!”</i>, after which it fell silent. I’m sure that like me, it was being a little cautious. Tawny owls are extremely territorial, and one has to exercise a great deal of patience over many evenings before they will accept the presence of another owl in their vicinity.<br /><br />But we’ve now got to the stage where we can exchange a full range of friendly hoots. I was up last night until 2am, teaching the owl to count, by replying to each single hoot with a double hoot, and then replying to each double hoot with a triple hoot. We got as far as six hoots, after which we ended the conversation by slowly counting down back to one.<br /><br />But the really amazing thing is this. Kathy tells me she has just met the lady who recently moved into the house next door. And would you believe it? That lady’s husband is also a keen bird-fancier, and he spends a lot of time in their garden in the late evenings, just like me.<br /><br />I can't wait to meet him...<br />:-)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36835179251153747.post-48964168102681822852011-05-24T12:05:00.013+01:002011-05-25T22:32:36.059+01:00Ashen Faced.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-r76LjtQqNL0/TduSRU4LGzI/AAAAAAAAAKM/XV3fBLdhyK8/s1600/volcano-wide_1902583c.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-r76LjtQqNL0/TduSRU4LGzI/AAAAAAAAAKM/XV3fBLdhyK8/s320/volcano-wide_1902583c.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5610238587179834162" /></a><br />Well, here we are in Tenerife, with our flight to Gatwick booked for the coming Saturday, and this happens. A volcano erupts in Iceland, again.<br /><br />So we've been busy going over our various Plan B's, just in case...<br /><br />The Plan B that I really, really like involves booking into the opulent 5 star hotel just down the road and reclaiming the costs from our nice benevolent airline. Yes, I know I wouldn't get away with it, but I can dream, can't I? <br /><br />But seriously, the claims procedure does seem to be very complicated nowdays. I've just read an article in today's Telegraph which tells me what to say to the airline if our flight is cancelled. <br /><br />Here's the advice given by the Telegraph:<br /><br /><i>"You should tell them that under Regulation (EC) 2004/261 Article 5 you are entitled to be reimbursed or re-routed under Article 8 and also offered assistance, including accommodation, meals and transport under Article 9.<br /><br />You should also state that under Article 5, airlines are able to not pay compensation in accordance with article 7 in the case of 'extraordinary circumstances', but crucially that this extraordinary circumstances clause does not apply to the entitlement to assistance under Article 9."</i><br /><br />Blimey! I turned quite pale at the thought of saying all that. But then I realised my bigger problem.<br /><br />How could I say it with a straight face?<br />:-)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36835179251153747.post-77357794514976000322011-05-20T21:09:00.002+01:002011-05-20T21:18:55.599+01:00Another book nearly finished....<br />The final page in the book I began on 9th October 2006 will soon be writ. It will be the ninth book that I’ve written.<br /><br />I began writing in 1966. That was 45 years ago, so on average, I’ve managed to complete one book every five years. That’s an indication of my character; if nothing else, I’m a painstakingly methodical researcher and writer.<br /> <br />1966 was the year of my first marriage, to a childhood sweetheart whom I’d known since I was twelve years old. Gosh, that was a happy year. Both families were ecstatic that we’d decided to tie the knot. And there was a mood of joy and elation in the general population, although that might have been more to do with England winning the World Cup.<br /><br />It was my marriage, that hugely important step forward in adult life, which prompted me to begin writing. I was acutely aware of my lack of worldly experience – I’d been in my first proper job for less than a year since leaving university - and I desperately wanted to prove myself.<br /><br />Most young writers that I knew at the time (remember, this was the height of the Swinging Sixties) were writing about sex, feminism, the Vietnam War, or something called “New Wave” culture. I wanted to do something radically different. After careful thought, I decided to write a journal that reflected life as it really was for a young married couple.<br /> <br />So I began. And the book was a huge success, because it covered the realities, the detailed minutia of everyday life. And the book became truly great because it helped predict the future.<br /><br />I’ve got a photograph of my current book, which you can see below. <br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XsR7oGqH2kA/TcpRdr2VRYI/AAAAAAAAAJ0/pR2-b0dN8s8/s1600/CASHBOOK.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XsR7oGqH2kA/TcpRdr2VRYI/AAAAAAAAAJ0/pR2-b0dN8s8/s320/CASHBOOK.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5605382256644670850" /></a><br /><br />Each entry in the book shows a date, a shop name or an item purchased, the cash paid, and a running balance of the cash I have in hand to last me for the rest of the month. You can see some recent entries below (a bit out of focus - sorry!).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-39XuUNkB58g/TcpRt9VkDfI/AAAAAAAAAJ8/TijQKKTQ-fA/s1600/CASHPAGE.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-39XuUNkB58g/TcpRt9VkDfI/AAAAAAAAAJ8/TijQKKTQ-fA/s320/CASHPAGE.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5605382536216972786" /></a><br /><br />And guess what? I've never gone into the red!<br />:-)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36835179251153747.post-51067493841040091482011-05-07T14:15:00.010+01:002011-05-09T23:53:54.469+01:00SCARAMOUCH<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QVHnZOkAepY/TcVGfr7trcI/AAAAAAAAAJs/GIaMzJT-vBE/s1600/SCAR.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QVHnZOkAepY/TcVGfr7trcI/AAAAAAAAAJs/GIaMzJT-vBE/s320/SCAR.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5603962821515521474" /></a><br /><br />Here's a self-portrait of my famous Rugby scar. The scar runs down from the collar bone to just below the mole on my chest. It is majestic, isn't it?<br /><br />I took the photo on my balcony, and you can see my favourite plant, a Dipladenia (or Brazilian jasmine vine), behind me. It is an energetic climber and flowers from late Spring through to the end of Autumn.<br /><br />For proof positive that the scar is mine, you can click on the photo to enlarge it. And click on it again if you really, really like! Just above the balcony wall you can see the back of the sign above the infamous STARCO complex in Las Americas.<br /><br />I've titled this blog Scaramouch because I'm a very boastful but cowardly person. Whenever I fear attack, I tear off my shirt to reveal the scar, and I scream. This sometimes frightens my attackers off. If that doesn't work, I start reminiscing about my time in Special Forces in Vietnam. If that doesn't work either, I launch into my pre-prepared speech about my open-heart surgery which had gone wrong because they'd operated on the wrong side of my chest. Otherwise I leg it.<br /><br />But the really, really wonderful thing about my scar is that Kathy likes to run her finger along it.<br />:-)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36835179251153747.post-25795446023551425362011-04-24T23:09:00.003+01:002011-04-29T08:56:15.651+01:00Bijou Property for sale<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FkGH8mA8H54/TbSfuv9A8iI/AAAAAAAAAJk/Wn87XIwFaUE/s1600/GarageSmiley.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FkGH8mA8H54/TbSfuv9A8iI/AAAAAAAAAJk/Wn87XIwFaUE/s320/GarageSmiley.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599275862223548962" /></a><br /><br />How could I resist sharing this photo with you? It appears on the website of a North Kent estate agent, and depicts a garage that is available for sale at an advertised price of £7,500.<br /><br />Did it make you smile, too?<br />:-)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36835179251153747.post-64789739460363949292011-04-10T08:22:00.011+01:002011-04-13T11:17:54.054+01:00Carwash SolutionHello again!<br /><br />After my previous blog we went back to the carwash and tried again, with great success.<br /><br />See below!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2zwlBm2YC3c/TaFbFDSny9I/AAAAAAAAAJE/vPY3ePV4gdE/s1600/014.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2zwlBm2YC3c/TaFbFDSny9I/AAAAAAAAAJE/vPY3ePV4gdE/s320/014.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593852354511752146" border="0" /></a><br /><br />And then we drove off to the local opticians...<br />:-(<br /><br />PS Now we can see what an upside-down ticket really looks like!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qHdxhB-zjGo/TaV0Qsad9vI/AAAAAAAAAJc/Vx0ce8NExA8/s1600/Carwash3.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qHdxhB-zjGo/TaV0Qsad9vI/AAAAAAAAAJc/Vx0ce8NExA8/s320/Carwash3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595005942226614002" border="0" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7