My version of the question in the BBC programme tiled 'Who Do you Think You Are?' Several years ago my wife was becoming increasingly curious as to her past family because she knew almost nothing about her ancestors even as recently as her grandparents. In most families of our generation family relationships and many other things were certainly not discussed with children as they are today. Again, like many others, it has been in later life that a desire for knowledge has grown with the almost inevitable situation that most of those able to explain matters are no longer here. Thus it was in our case and made all the harder because we had by this time moved from the UK to live in France.
One really useful tool today is the Internet and the World Wide Web where all manner of information may be found with relative ease. Having signed up with a well known genealogy website the search began using newfound knowledge to build a family tree. That is a relatively simple matter for the living generations, then there came the first difficulty. There is much info on the Web with many government records readily available, such as Censuses up to 1911 and much more. The problem was, and is, that there is a gap of roughly one hundred years from the last available Censuses until the present day. Yes there are birth marriage and death records available but they can be expensive to access and do not always have much useful information.
It was decided to go back in time from around 1900 and fairly soon relatives from the late eighteenth century were uncovered. There is always the slight question on the mind as to potentially famous ancestors as well as the frisson that skeletons in cupboards may be found. Probably the most interesting link for my wife that she is related to a number of the Tolpuddle Martyrs, founders of the trades union movement. To date her earliest family dates to the early seventeenth century.
Naturally I became curious about my family too, nothing remarkable there except that I have positive links to a French count born in 1010 AD who was part of William the Conqueror's invasion force.
What began as mild curiousity has blossomed into a major interest which now the winter days are here passes many hours of discovery. It's a bit like a treasure hunt in some ways, instead of corners to turn there are web pages and just the next one could unlock whole new chapters!
An occasional rambling of unrelated events, thoughts and trivia ... Please feel free to leave comments as you wish!
Monday, 8 November 2010
Sunday, 7 November 2010
'Ello, 'ello, 'ello ...
... what's goin' on 'ere? That's a very traditional constabulary question that you may be asking! Simply this ramble is a little reminiscence for an old friend when we were both special constables in the Met.
It began for me with a series of interviews to assess my suitability as a special followed by a medical and references being taken up. All proved satisfactory so a warm May evening found me at Scotland Yard for a swearing-in to office and attestation ceremony followed by measuring for uniform.
Well, that's it, so far. Next was thirteen weeks part-time classroom training and then my first duty as an SC at YE, known to all as Edmonton Police Station. Naturally there was a longish probationary period part of which was being 'puppy walked', that is on duty with an experienced officer to show me the ropes and the area as well as how things were done. Towards the end of that year I was deemed to be sufficiently safe to be let loose on the streets on my own, although often we patrolled the streets in pairs.
Enough of the background and now to narrate a few tales. One SC decided to launch his own war on road users with defective lighting without seeking official blessing from our skipper (sergeant) who was quite an amiable sort of bloke. This particular evening he targeted London Transport buses because our sharp eyed sleuth had noticed that the vast majority of local buses were showing only one headlight at night and saw this as a potential haul of brownie points. It is only right to point out that these one eyed monsters were in fact totally legal because the headlight system was not double dipping as on cars as each headlight had only a single filament bulb. The nearside light was focused in a dipped beam and when the main beam switch in the bus was operated the nearside lamp went out and the other came on acting as a main beam. This lighting oddity was also enshrined in a specific piece of legislation ...
Our 'hero' having been on a lone patrol returned to the station just before midnight and was totally chuffed with himself having bagged more than a dozen buses for this single offence, proudly proclaiming to all in the special's office his deeds then sat to sort out a mountain of paperwork. Some while after the skipper returned and enquired as to the paper mountain whereupon he was given chapter and verse. A short silence ensued followed by an almighty explosion and a tirade most of which cannot be repeated in polite company. In short the errant SC had issued a HORTI1 to each driver requiring production within seven days of assorted documents including insurance details, telling each hapless victim that an offence would be reported for further consideration. Well, the mayhem that followed was unbelievable, bus garage managers were complaining to senior police officers, Head Office at 55 Broadway were doing likewise to Scotland Yard, our skipper was getting it in the neck from regular senior officers, whilst anyone unconnected with the affair was keeping a very low profile. After some weeks, suitable reprimands and advice given to certain officers the whole thing died down.
One regular duty for Met specials was to police the annual Armistice Day ceremony at Whitehall and the surrounding area. The day began very early at local stations where serials were formed, detailed and bussed to St James's Park. From about seven o'clock everyone was take in separate units for breakfast, usually at Knighstbridge Barracks where the general fare was a standard issue full English breakfast with gallons of tea. One particular we arrived at the mess and noticed a somewhat odd smell for breakfast time, not of bacon and eggs but a distinctive aroma of curry. It turned out that breakfast was indeed curry and rice as that was also the the mid-day menu and saved on cooking and kitchen staff. Now I can eat most things at most times of the day but curry for breakfast was not one of those things. The only possible contingent of specials that may have not objected were a few from the Hanwell and Southall areas of London ...
One evening in late summer my regular mate and I were out on patrol when a radio message asked for our location. This was given and instructions made to remain there. A few minutes after the area van arrived with twos and blues going, we were ordered into the van and away we went picking up other officers on the way. There had been a call from several officers in Tottenham for urgent assistance in Bruce Grove just on the edge of the soon to be notorious Broadwater Farm estate.
Several minutes later the van skidded to a halt in the middle of Bruce Grove, we alighted and a local inspector briefly explained what was happening and what needed to be done. The whole area looked like a battle zone with some forty or so officers including some from Traffic Division were trying to contain a much larger number of mainly black youths who were determined to cause violence. First thing I noticed was that a number of them were lobbing glass bottles of soft drink at the police looted from a nearby chip shop. All manner of scuffles were going on with arrests being made where possible despite the arresting officers being attacked and threatened. The disturbance was eventually contained after about thirty minutes, there were casualties sitting and lying in the road and on the pavements. Ambulances were summoned and injured take to hospital whilst a fleet of police vans were taking arrestees to various local police stations for processing.
We accompanied several other officers with three detainees to north London station and the charge room looked like a casualty clearing station. Eventually we were returned to our won nick and a decent cuppa ensued as well as the inevitable admin resulting from the evening.
The casualty total for that little encounter was thirteen officers injured, some of whom were off work as a result for some weeks, twenty odd arrests and a number of injuries amongst the rioters. What we did not know at the time was that a similar incident of much larger proportions would take place nearby in just a few short years resulting in the murder of PC Keith Blakelock.
Enough for the moment. Yes I largely enjoyed my years as a Special Constable and made some good friends as a result. Often I'm asked would I do the same thing again today, my answer is a very assertive 'No' because things are just so more dangerous and unpredictable now.
It began for me with a series of interviews to assess my suitability as a special followed by a medical and references being taken up. All proved satisfactory so a warm May evening found me at Scotland Yard for a swearing-in to office and attestation ceremony followed by measuring for uniform.
Well, that's it, so far. Next was thirteen weeks part-time classroom training and then my first duty as an SC at YE, known to all as Edmonton Police Station. Naturally there was a longish probationary period part of which was being 'puppy walked', that is on duty with an experienced officer to show me the ropes and the area as well as how things were done. Towards the end of that year I was deemed to be sufficiently safe to be let loose on the streets on my own, although often we patrolled the streets in pairs.
Enough of the background and now to narrate a few tales. One SC decided to launch his own war on road users with defective lighting without seeking official blessing from our skipper (sergeant) who was quite an amiable sort of bloke. This particular evening he targeted London Transport buses because our sharp eyed sleuth had noticed that the vast majority of local buses were showing only one headlight at night and saw this as a potential haul of brownie points. It is only right to point out that these one eyed monsters were in fact totally legal because the headlight system was not double dipping as on cars as each headlight had only a single filament bulb. The nearside light was focused in a dipped beam and when the main beam switch in the bus was operated the nearside lamp went out and the other came on acting as a main beam. This lighting oddity was also enshrined in a specific piece of legislation ...
Our 'hero' having been on a lone patrol returned to the station just before midnight and was totally chuffed with himself having bagged more than a dozen buses for this single offence, proudly proclaiming to all in the special's office his deeds then sat to sort out a mountain of paperwork. Some while after the skipper returned and enquired as to the paper mountain whereupon he was given chapter and verse. A short silence ensued followed by an almighty explosion and a tirade most of which cannot be repeated in polite company. In short the errant SC had issued a HORTI1 to each driver requiring production within seven days of assorted documents including insurance details, telling each hapless victim that an offence would be reported for further consideration. Well, the mayhem that followed was unbelievable, bus garage managers were complaining to senior police officers, Head Office at 55 Broadway were doing likewise to Scotland Yard, our skipper was getting it in the neck from regular senior officers, whilst anyone unconnected with the affair was keeping a very low profile. After some weeks, suitable reprimands and advice given to certain officers the whole thing died down.
One regular duty for Met specials was to police the annual Armistice Day ceremony at Whitehall and the surrounding area. The day began very early at local stations where serials were formed, detailed and bussed to St James's Park. From about seven o'clock everyone was take in separate units for breakfast, usually at Knighstbridge Barracks where the general fare was a standard issue full English breakfast with gallons of tea. One particular we arrived at the mess and noticed a somewhat odd smell for breakfast time, not of bacon and eggs but a distinctive aroma of curry. It turned out that breakfast was indeed curry and rice as that was also the the mid-day menu and saved on cooking and kitchen staff. Now I can eat most things at most times of the day but curry for breakfast was not one of those things. The only possible contingent of specials that may have not objected were a few from the Hanwell and Southall areas of London ...
One evening in late summer my regular mate and I were out on patrol when a radio message asked for our location. This was given and instructions made to remain there. A few minutes after the area van arrived with twos and blues going, we were ordered into the van and away we went picking up other officers on the way. There had been a call from several officers in Tottenham for urgent assistance in Bruce Grove just on the edge of the soon to be notorious Broadwater Farm estate.
Several minutes later the van skidded to a halt in the middle of Bruce Grove, we alighted and a local inspector briefly explained what was happening and what needed to be done. The whole area looked like a battle zone with some forty or so officers including some from Traffic Division were trying to contain a much larger number of mainly black youths who were determined to cause violence. First thing I noticed was that a number of them were lobbing glass bottles of soft drink at the police looted from a nearby chip shop. All manner of scuffles were going on with arrests being made where possible despite the arresting officers being attacked and threatened. The disturbance was eventually contained after about thirty minutes, there were casualties sitting and lying in the road and on the pavements. Ambulances were summoned and injured take to hospital whilst a fleet of police vans were taking arrestees to various local police stations for processing.
We accompanied several other officers with three detainees to north London station and the charge room looked like a casualty clearing station. Eventually we were returned to our won nick and a decent cuppa ensued as well as the inevitable admin resulting from the evening.
The casualty total for that little encounter was thirteen officers injured, some of whom were off work as a result for some weeks, twenty odd arrests and a number of injuries amongst the rioters. What we did not know at the time was that a similar incident of much larger proportions would take place nearby in just a few short years resulting in the murder of PC Keith Blakelock.
Enough for the moment. Yes I largely enjoyed my years as a Special Constable and made some good friends as a result. Often I'm asked would I do the same thing again today, my answer is a very assertive 'No' because things are just so more dangerous and unpredictable now.
Tuesday, 2 November 2010
Manners & Rudeness
Recently I went to a party with around one hundred guests a mixture of British and French, all very informal at a friends house. One thing struck me very forcibly and that was the vast difference in manners between the two nationalities.
When French folk arrived they greeted other guests as they went in, just the usual smile and 'Bonjour'. The British however just walked past with not so much as a glance let alone a polite greeting to anyone except those people that they knew - everyone else just seemed not to exist. This to me is rude and bad mannered but exception could be made for those newly arrived here but none were newcomers, all had lived here at least several years.
One would like to think that even simple contact with local people such as shopping that some basic idea of how things are done and said might have permeated even to the slightest degree but no sign of that was apparent.
The French guests were chatting with both others born here and some expats as one does at a social gathering. The colonials however were gathered in their own very exclusive cliques and any non-member was given a very cold shoulder.
What French people think of this insular and ignorant attitude is best left to conjecture but I know many expats are seen as rude and impolite. Lord only knows why my fellow countrymen and women behave in this way because it creates a very poor impression of British citizenry. When in Rome, the dictum says, do as the Romans do, this surely equally applies wherever in the world you find yourself. I've found that this policy works and have met some great people here by adopting even the simple basic niceties of life.
Quite in what light the insular colonial attitude portrays my fellow countrymen I do not like to venture but it is little wonder that the British as a whole have a poor reputation abroad.
When French folk arrived they greeted other guests as they went in, just the usual smile and 'Bonjour'. The British however just walked past with not so much as a glance let alone a polite greeting to anyone except those people that they knew - everyone else just seemed not to exist. This to me is rude and bad mannered but exception could be made for those newly arrived here but none were newcomers, all had lived here at least several years.
One would like to think that even simple contact with local people such as shopping that some basic idea of how things are done and said might have permeated even to the slightest degree but no sign of that was apparent.
The French guests were chatting with both others born here and some expats as one does at a social gathering. The colonials however were gathered in their own very exclusive cliques and any non-member was given a very cold shoulder.
What French people think of this insular and ignorant attitude is best left to conjecture but I know many expats are seen as rude and impolite. Lord only knows why my fellow countrymen and women behave in this way because it creates a very poor impression of British citizenry. When in Rome, the dictum says, do as the Romans do, this surely equally applies wherever in the world you find yourself. I've found that this policy works and have met some great people here by adopting even the simple basic niceties of life.
Quite in what light the insular colonial attitude portrays my fellow countrymen I do not like to venture but it is little wonder that the British as a whole have a poor reputation abroad.
Sunday, 31 October 2010
Messing about with the clocks
It's that time of year again, time to mess about with the clocks, going back an hour this time and forward again in the spring. Each time the clocks change the same tired and dreary arguments are dragged out repeatedly of either it's dark in the evening or it's dark in the morning. Master's in stating the bleedin' obvious in my opinion; it's always been dark at either end of the day, unless there is a remote chance that someone knows differently or lives above the Arctic Circle.
Some object to schoolchildren going to school in the dark yet hardly anyone objects to older children returning home in the dark. Seems illogical ...
In the middle of winter it does not get light here until almost nine o'clock in the morning. Children start school at 0830hrs and many have a journey of more than an hour to their respective schools, mostly in the dark. Even the youngest children children at the end of the day do not finish school each day until 1630hrs, the older ones at 1730hrs, all still have to travel to reach home. There are no annual debates here as to the merits or otherwise of 'daylight saving time', it is just accepted without comment. Life goes on, farmers farm, workers work, children learn all without apparent detriment to their wellbeing.
It seems that there is one conveniently ignored factor by those who are pro 'daylight saving time', in fact it is the elephant in the room - there is, at any given date in the calendar, a finite amount of daylight. Has been like that for ever as far as it is generally understood and that no matter the wit of modern man it will remain that way. Immutable, immovable, unyielding, unchanging, just like death and taxes.
Some object to schoolchildren going to school in the dark yet hardly anyone objects to older children returning home in the dark. Seems illogical ...
In the middle of winter it does not get light here until almost nine o'clock in the morning. Children start school at 0830hrs and many have a journey of more than an hour to their respective schools, mostly in the dark. Even the youngest children children at the end of the day do not finish school each day until 1630hrs, the older ones at 1730hrs, all still have to travel to reach home. There are no annual debates here as to the merits or otherwise of 'daylight saving time', it is just accepted without comment. Life goes on, farmers farm, workers work, children learn all without apparent detriment to their wellbeing.
It seems that there is one conveniently ignored factor by those who are pro 'daylight saving time', in fact it is the elephant in the room - there is, at any given date in the calendar, a finite amount of daylight. Has been like that for ever as far as it is generally understood and that no matter the wit of modern man it will remain that way. Immutable, immovable, unyielding, unchanging, just like death and taxes.
Saturday, 30 October 2010
May we introduce ourselves, please ...
Hello everyone, we are Tigger and Fudge the latest additions to Ramblingoiseu's household. I'm Tigger a ginger tabby kitten, three months old and I'm here with my brother Fudge who is a grey tabby.
We arrived here yesterday afternoon after a three hour car journey from our old home in north Dordogne. Back there we had just settled down for our mid-day snooze when we were gently awoken, told that we gong to a new home and gently placed in a carrying cage which was promptly secured shut. The cage was comfortable with a nice soft fleecy mat and we could see out quite well. Oh well, nothing for it but to wait and see what happens ...
Our new owners were very thoughtful, placing us on the back seat of their car then securing our cage with a seat belt, so off we went. The journey was somewhat boring because we could not see out, only up and much of the time was spent watching the tops of trees rushing past. Eventually we both dozed off, only awakening when the noise of the car stopped and a door opened and we were told that we were at our new home. The cage was gently picked up and taken indoors where we were left for a few minutes to absorb the atmosphere before being let out. Our hosts kindly showed us the important facilities first such as the litter tray and the dining area where a late lunch was served with an excellent Whiskas Cat Milk and water.
Time to explore, in the kitchen there are some wonderful ancient oak doorposts just made for sharpening claws and a superb open style staircase to run up and down, peep through he banisters and play pat-a-cake with my brother through the stairs themselves. The sitting room is a heavenly place to play with just so many pieces of furniture to dive under, go behind and sleep on, very considerate of our hosts! There is a floor level room heater with a special fleece cat mat to snooze on, dive underneath and to toss about. A liberal supply of toys is also provided for our entertainment and enjoyment.
Despite provision of a de luxe cat bed we spent most of the night asleep under the settee with food supplies nearby in case of night starvation.
All in all a superb new residence with very attentive staff tending our every possible need and requirement, in fact we rate it as a five mouse establishment. Think that we may get to like it here ...
We arrived here yesterday afternoon after a three hour car journey from our old home in north Dordogne. Back there we had just settled down for our mid-day snooze when we were gently awoken, told that we gong to a new home and gently placed in a carrying cage which was promptly secured shut. The cage was comfortable with a nice soft fleecy mat and we could see out quite well. Oh well, nothing for it but to wait and see what happens ...
Our new owners were very thoughtful, placing us on the back seat of their car then securing our cage with a seat belt, so off we went. The journey was somewhat boring because we could not see out, only up and much of the time was spent watching the tops of trees rushing past. Eventually we both dozed off, only awakening when the noise of the car stopped and a door opened and we were told that we were at our new home. The cage was gently picked up and taken indoors where we were left for a few minutes to absorb the atmosphere before being let out. Our hosts kindly showed us the important facilities first such as the litter tray and the dining area where a late lunch was served with an excellent Whiskas Cat Milk and water.
Time to explore, in the kitchen there are some wonderful ancient oak doorposts just made for sharpening claws and a superb open style staircase to run up and down, peep through he banisters and play pat-a-cake with my brother through the stairs themselves. The sitting room is a heavenly place to play with just so many pieces of furniture to dive under, go behind and sleep on, very considerate of our hosts! There is a floor level room heater with a special fleece cat mat to snooze on, dive underneath and to toss about. A liberal supply of toys is also provided for our entertainment and enjoyment.
Despite provision of a de luxe cat bed we spent most of the night asleep under the settee with food supplies nearby in case of night starvation.
All in all a superb new residence with very attentive staff tending our every possible need and requirement, in fact we rate it as a five mouse establishment. Think that we may get to like it here ...
Thursday, 28 October 2010
Praise where due
The general strike here today has again affected much of the country and no doubt will be featured on UK television news bulletins this evening as well as French news. Certainly the disruption caused affects many people trying to go about their daily lives whether workwise, socially or just ordinary, everyday getting on with life. What will feature prominently will undoubtedly be scenes of violent clashes with police and the semi traditional car burnings. These high profile actions are very minimal in number compared to the total number of strikers out on the streets today, the vast majority of whom are orderly and well behaved if albeit somewhat vociferous in their protestations. A degree of praise is due for the way they conduct themselves in what are potentially tense situations.
Because of the strike today transport was very badly affected, many people had travel plans disrupted if not totally abandoned. I was one of those hapless souls, my flight to England was cancelled, I had planned to be there specifically for this weekend. RyanAir, with whom I should have flown, emailed on Tuesday evening informing of the cancellation, stating that rebooking facilities would be available. Unfortunately that was not a personal option as the next flight from our local airport was on Tuesday, the day we were returning home.
Despite much searching on the internet no alternative could be found to get me to England by Friday evening, the TGV had no seats left as did other airlines except at many hundreds of pounds and a drive of eleven hours to a ferry port did not appeal remotely. Finally today a refund claim was made online.
Less than an hour after this claim was made there was a phone call from a very pleasant Dutch lady from RyanAir telling me that an extra was to be laid on this coming Sunday and would I like to transfer. Again this was of no use because it was too late for the weekend. Asked if my claim still stood I said yes. Very politely and in a friendly manner she said that my claim would be processed immediately and the re'und would be in my bank account in about ten days time. Customer service at it"s very best I believe.
It is almsot fashionable today to knock budget airlines for whatever reason or excuse may be summoned. In all of my dealings with RyanAir I have been treated courteously by their staff and found them to be helpful when needed. Agreed that the normal airline extras are largely absent with them but they provide a no-frills, low cost means of transport efficiently.
What more can I say but "Well done RyanAir in a difficult time for the company."
Because of the strike today transport was very badly affected, many people had travel plans disrupted if not totally abandoned. I was one of those hapless souls, my flight to England was cancelled, I had planned to be there specifically for this weekend. RyanAir, with whom I should have flown, emailed on Tuesday evening informing of the cancellation, stating that rebooking facilities would be available. Unfortunately that was not a personal option as the next flight from our local airport was on Tuesday, the day we were returning home.
Despite much searching on the internet no alternative could be found to get me to England by Friday evening, the TGV had no seats left as did other airlines except at many hundreds of pounds and a drive of eleven hours to a ferry port did not appeal remotely. Finally today a refund claim was made online.
Less than an hour after this claim was made there was a phone call from a very pleasant Dutch lady from RyanAir telling me that an extra was to be laid on this coming Sunday and would I like to transfer. Again this was of no use because it was too late for the weekend. Asked if my claim still stood I said yes. Very politely and in a friendly manner she said that my claim would be processed immediately and the re'und would be in my bank account in about ten days time. Customer service at it"s very best I believe.
It is almsot fashionable today to knock budget airlines for whatever reason or excuse may be summoned. In all of my dealings with RyanAir I have been treated courteously by their staff and found them to be helpful when needed. Agreed that the normal airline extras are largely absent with them but they provide a no-frills, low cost means of transport efficiently.
What more can I say but "Well done RyanAir in a difficult time for the company."
Tuesday, 26 October 2010
Very hacked off ...
One of the things that I love I knew would more or less be sacrificed once we left the UK for good. That one thing has been a fervent passion for more than fifty years now, the love of sidecar racing. It began as a spectator in the 50s, then continued as a marshal at race meetings. Even better was when I raced as a passenger for a number of seasons, that was an unbelievable experience. Later I owned my own sidecar and drove for a while, that was even better than being a passenger. It was such a buzz, a high that is impossible to describe.
Latterly I retired from racing but helped with a famous club in organising meetings and as the club sidecar rep. Work commitments eventually stopped active involvement but my interest, nay passion, still burned. Circumstances eventually changed for the better and I was able to get to a good many meetings each season.
Came the move from England to the beautiful southwest of France, only some two huundred miles from the Spanish border. Chances now to get to meetings were, and still are, few because the majority of circuits are in held in the mid and northern part of the country which would involve considerable driving and expense. Not all doom and gloom, however because A point was made each year of attending a specific and big end of season meeting in England.
Flights for this were booked some months ago and friends offerd to put us up, great! Then followed days of anticipation and quite excitement, not only at seeing and hearing sidecar racing again but also meeting with many friends both old and new.
We were due to fly out in forty eight hours time with RyanAir from Bergerac airport to London Stansted. Mid evening there was an email from our carrier with the message that our flight had been canceled due to an air traffic controllers strike on that day. The next available flight is not an option as during the winter period there are only two flights a week between Stansted and here, the next one being on Tuesday, the day we were due to return; It is not the fault of RyanAir but the the French traffic controllers protesting in unison with millions of others about proposed retirement age changes and pensions.
To say that I am disappointed, annoyed, upset and deeply hacked off is an understatement. The only positive is that there is always next year ...
Latterly I retired from racing but helped with a famous club in organising meetings and as the club sidecar rep. Work commitments eventually stopped active involvement but my interest, nay passion, still burned. Circumstances eventually changed for the better and I was able to get to a good many meetings each season.
Came the move from England to the beautiful southwest of France, only some two huundred miles from the Spanish border. Chances now to get to meetings were, and still are, few because the majority of circuits are in held in the mid and northern part of the country which would involve considerable driving and expense. Not all doom and gloom, however because A point was made each year of attending a specific and big end of season meeting in England.
Flights for this were booked some months ago and friends offerd to put us up, great! Then followed days of anticipation and quite excitement, not only at seeing and hearing sidecar racing again but also meeting with many friends both old and new.
We were due to fly out in forty eight hours time with RyanAir from Bergerac airport to London Stansted. Mid evening there was an email from our carrier with the message that our flight had been canceled due to an air traffic controllers strike on that day. The next available flight is not an option as during the winter period there are only two flights a week between Stansted and here, the next one being on Tuesday, the day we were due to return; It is not the fault of RyanAir but the the French traffic controllers protesting in unison with millions of others about proposed retirement age changes and pensions.
To say that I am disappointed, annoyed, upset and deeply hacked off is an understatement. The only positive is that there is always next year ...
Monday, 25 October 2010
Halloween
Oh yes, that night of the year is approaching with all that creepiness and spookery. Years ago when I was a sproglet the only places that Halloween was mentioned was usually in comics and it was invariably slightly frightening. So different today when it seems to almost to be a national festival of greed or malicious 'tricks'. Yet another American influence to be thankful for or not, depending on age and viewpoint really.
An earlier blog narrates my principal experience on Halloween and that was slightly unnerving and eerie whereas generally today it is almost a social occasion.
Several years ago a friend had become somewhat weary of the annual round of 'trick or treaters' at his door so he devised a cunning plan to wreak his revenge. He was sitting quietly indoors on All Saint's Eve when the doorbell rang. When he opened the door there were several children dressed in an array of allegedly frightening garb who promptly demanded 'Trick or Treat, mister'. Gathered on the pavement at the end of the front path to the house there were assorted parents of the callers, obviously concerned for the safety of their offspring.
'Just a moment' said our hero disappearing into the house and shutting the door. A few moments later he emerged from the side gate of the house clad in a very large white bedsheet, waving his arms aloft heading towards the children and making loud, deep 'Whooo, whoo' noises and rattling a length of chain concealed beneath his costume. Some of the children began to edge away and others fled down the path to comforting parental security.
Emboldened by their retreat the householder then began to run towards the youngsters with ever louder sound effects. Suddenly he tripped on the sheet which was touching the path all around him, falling flat as he did so. the assembled adults and children began laughing and making somewhat disparaging they moved on to the next victims.
Meanwhile our hero, endeavouring to regain some most dignity got to his feet only to emit a loud almost blood curdling scream and fell again; pitching headfirst into a bed of rose bushes. The sound of his distress bought his good lady wife rushing to the scene whereupon she helped him to his feet assisted him back indoors all accompanied by assorted cries of pain.
It was soon obvious to his wife that some degree of physical had been occasioned as one ankle was visibly very swollen. She decided that it might be sensible to go to A&E at the local hospital so she tried to help to the car in the driveway. This move was greeted by even louder cries of discomfort, reluctantly she abandoned the proposed journey returning her spouse to the warmth and comfort of their home.
"Hello, emergency, which service do you require?"
"Ambulance please."
The emergency controller once equipped with the necessary knowledge of the accident despatched an ambulance to take the victim to hospital.
Some while later, surrounded by the usual paraphernalia of an A&E department, a doctor came and spoke to my friend bearing bad tidings. The outcome of his bright idea was that he had a severely broken ankle which would require surgery to reset it properly and that he was likely to off work for at least two months!
Is there a moral on this tale? Well, there is and I think it too obvious for me to labour the point!
An earlier blog narrates my principal experience on Halloween and that was slightly unnerving and eerie whereas generally today it is almost a social occasion.
Several years ago a friend had become somewhat weary of the annual round of 'trick or treaters' at his door so he devised a cunning plan to wreak his revenge. He was sitting quietly indoors on All Saint's Eve when the doorbell rang. When he opened the door there were several children dressed in an array of allegedly frightening garb who promptly demanded 'Trick or Treat, mister'. Gathered on the pavement at the end of the front path to the house there were assorted parents of the callers, obviously concerned for the safety of their offspring.
'Just a moment' said our hero disappearing into the house and shutting the door. A few moments later he emerged from the side gate of the house clad in a very large white bedsheet, waving his arms aloft heading towards the children and making loud, deep 'Whooo, whoo' noises and rattling a length of chain concealed beneath his costume. Some of the children began to edge away and others fled down the path to comforting parental security.
Emboldened by their retreat the householder then began to run towards the youngsters with ever louder sound effects. Suddenly he tripped on the sheet which was touching the path all around him, falling flat as he did so. the assembled adults and children began laughing and making somewhat disparaging they moved on to the next victims.
Meanwhile our hero, endeavouring to regain some most dignity got to his feet only to emit a loud almost blood curdling scream and fell again; pitching headfirst into a bed of rose bushes. The sound of his distress bought his good lady wife rushing to the scene whereupon she helped him to his feet assisted him back indoors all accompanied by assorted cries of pain.
It was soon obvious to his wife that some degree of physical had been occasioned as one ankle was visibly very swollen. She decided that it might be sensible to go to A&E at the local hospital so she tried to help to the car in the driveway. This move was greeted by even louder cries of discomfort, reluctantly she abandoned the proposed journey returning her spouse to the warmth and comfort of their home.
"Hello, emergency, which service do you require?"
"Ambulance please."
The emergency controller once equipped with the necessary knowledge of the accident despatched an ambulance to take the victim to hospital.
Some while later, surrounded by the usual paraphernalia of an A&E department, a doctor came and spoke to my friend bearing bad tidings. The outcome of his bright idea was that he had a severely broken ankle which would require surgery to reset it properly and that he was likely to off work for at least two months!
Is there a moral on this tale? Well, there is and I think it too obvious for me to labour the point!
Saturday, 23 October 2010
Childhood Games
There is an immense difference in games that children currently play and those played when I was a child. Obviously technology plays a not inconsiderable part in all walks of life today including children's games. Obviously there are things like Xbox, Nintendo etc but even simple games such a Battleships is now controlled by a little electronic chip. Back when I was a kid there was no such thing as chips unless they came from the local chippy at 3d a bag - that about 1.5p in today's terms!
So what sort of games did we play? Most were very simple and required a minimum of things for the players to acquire. The simplest were sometimes the best and could be played impromptu because all they required was just some other kids! One such was a great favourite of mine, British Bulldog. For those unfamiliar with the game it required no set number of players and just some open space either outdoors or in a lrge indoor area such as a school hall. One player was initially selected to be the bulldog with object of catching one of the others as they all attempted to run past. Any caught player then joined the initial bulldog until all had been caught then it started again ad infinitum, usually until most of the players were called home by their parents or there was an excess of casualties to render ant further paly impossible. Needless to say most participants often bore some evidence of having played this boisterous game in the form of assorted grazes, bruises or torn clothing!
Ice hockey was very popular post-war with quite a few professional teams in Britain. Naturally many youngsters liked ice hockey even if they had never seen it and wanted to play their own version. One inherent problem was the obvious lack of a suitably frozen area for the majority of the year especially in the long school summer break. The next ideal place was a school playground but they were mostly out of bounds outside school hours and also invariably with locked gates. Nothing else for it but to play in the street then. Equipment was simple, most had roller skates, not of the rubber wheeled variety which were a luxury and only for rich kids but of the steel wheeled kind which were very noisy on any hard surface.
The other essentials included a stick which was generally a domestic broom unless your Dad made one for you from an old broom handle and a piece of wood for the blade. The final necessity was a puck which inevitably was a round two ounce tobacco tin which were always fairly esaily available.
The teams would be picked and play would begin, in my case on the road outside where I lived. The goals were in the ubiquitous form of two coats placed some feet apart at either end of the deemed playing area. A referee never figured in the game, decisions being made by popular opinion according to local rules. The reader is best left to imagine the amount of noise generated by some dozen or more pairs of steel wheeled skates; an empty tin being whacked around sliding on the road surface and the inevitable yelling and shouting that accompanied play. The duration of the game was often determined by the noise level tolerance of those who lived either side of the pitch!
Games involving a tennis ball were perennially popular because the basic equipment need could be carried about in a pocket. Dancing Dollies was quite popular if there was a blank wall available, preferably not the end of house otherwise play could well be foreshortened by the irate inhabitants. One player was selected as the thrower, the rest lined up against the wall. When play was signaled those against started dancing about with the object of avoiding being hit by the ball from the thrower. Those hit withdrew until that game was over until there was only one left against the wall, that player then became the thrower and play recommenced.
An all to obvious game to which I shall briefly allude was football using a tennis ball wit the advantage that it could be played almost anywhere. Not liking football I was never involved thankfully!
There was a hybrid game of football and cricket that I enjoyed, again requiring just a tennis ball, some players and again a blank wall. A crude representation of cricket stumps would be chalked on the wall and a bowling crease at a pre-determined distance. Despite shortages of many things and rationing still in force there never seemed to be a hint of a chalk shortage. Two teams were picked and tossed to determine which side would bat, often the toss was not made with a coin as most if not all of us would not have such a thing so a cigarette card would suffice. The 'batsman' stood in front of the wicket, when the ball was bowled the idea was to try to kick the ball away and make runs between the wicket and the bowling crease. Again, umpiring decisions were made by popular opinion and local custom. The innings was ended when the last man was out then the erstwhile bowling side would bat. Game was over when local residents had had enough, too few players being left due to having been called home or a more interesting attraction appealed, often a steam lorry delivering coal, the dustmen or a motor car which were quite uncommon then.
Another favourite was a local version of tennis, the game being known due to one or two households in the street having the luxury of a television set and their kids having seen Wimbledon on it. The street again was the favoured playing area and the only equipment needed was a tennis ball and a skipping rope, the latter usually being begged, stolen or borrowed from one of the player's sisters. The rope was used to denote the net when laid across the road between the kerbs. Court boundaries were the kerbs and twitems of clothing placed on the kerbs at either end. Hands were used as bats, play started and points awarded for your opponent failing to return the ball or hitting same out of play. The official tennis coring system was an utter mystery to all of us so we scored on the basis of table tennis to twenty one points.
In our particular street new sewers had been recently laid in the centre of the road with nice new tarmac laid to cover the trenches and interspersed at regular intervals by big, shiny, round manhole covers. Shortly after completion of these works it was obvious that not only had new sewers been laid but also our very own race circuit à la Ben Hur so the first races were naturally enough roller skates again. When local intolerance to the noise became too great we retrieved our bicycles and tricycles and hod our very own cycle speedway track.
Another game was particularly popular during winter and short daylight hours, that of Knock Down Ginger. For those unfamiliar with the concept one the gang would knock on a door, run away and hide with rest and observe the hapless house owner's reaction. Greater sport was to be had by knocking on the same dorr a number of times but there was the hazard of increased possible retribution.
It is quite sad that many of these games are no longer played for reasons of security of youngsters playing out in the street or safety considerations by various authorities. A sad indictment of modern times when was had in very simplistic ways.
So what sort of games did we play? Most were very simple and required a minimum of things for the players to acquire. The simplest were sometimes the best and could be played impromptu because all they required was just some other kids! One such was a great favourite of mine, British Bulldog. For those unfamiliar with the game it required no set number of players and just some open space either outdoors or in a lrge indoor area such as a school hall. One player was initially selected to be the bulldog with object of catching one of the others as they all attempted to run past. Any caught player then joined the initial bulldog until all had been caught then it started again ad infinitum, usually until most of the players were called home by their parents or there was an excess of casualties to render ant further paly impossible. Needless to say most participants often bore some evidence of having played this boisterous game in the form of assorted grazes, bruises or torn clothing!
Ice hockey was very popular post-war with quite a few professional teams in Britain. Naturally many youngsters liked ice hockey even if they had never seen it and wanted to play their own version. One inherent problem was the obvious lack of a suitably frozen area for the majority of the year especially in the long school summer break. The next ideal place was a school playground but they were mostly out of bounds outside school hours and also invariably with locked gates. Nothing else for it but to play in the street then. Equipment was simple, most had roller skates, not of the rubber wheeled variety which were a luxury and only for rich kids but of the steel wheeled kind which were very noisy on any hard surface.
The other essentials included a stick which was generally a domestic broom unless your Dad made one for you from an old broom handle and a piece of wood for the blade. The final necessity was a puck which inevitably was a round two ounce tobacco tin which were always fairly esaily available.
The teams would be picked and play would begin, in my case on the road outside where I lived. The goals were in the ubiquitous form of two coats placed some feet apart at either end of the deemed playing area. A referee never figured in the game, decisions being made by popular opinion according to local rules. The reader is best left to imagine the amount of noise generated by some dozen or more pairs of steel wheeled skates; an empty tin being whacked around sliding on the road surface and the inevitable yelling and shouting that accompanied play. The duration of the game was often determined by the noise level tolerance of those who lived either side of the pitch!
Games involving a tennis ball were perennially popular because the basic equipment need could be carried about in a pocket. Dancing Dollies was quite popular if there was a blank wall available, preferably not the end of house otherwise play could well be foreshortened by the irate inhabitants. One player was selected as the thrower, the rest lined up against the wall. When play was signaled those against started dancing about with the object of avoiding being hit by the ball from the thrower. Those hit withdrew until that game was over until there was only one left against the wall, that player then became the thrower and play recommenced.
An all to obvious game to which I shall briefly allude was football using a tennis ball wit the advantage that it could be played almost anywhere. Not liking football I was never involved thankfully!
There was a hybrid game of football and cricket that I enjoyed, again requiring just a tennis ball, some players and again a blank wall. A crude representation of cricket stumps would be chalked on the wall and a bowling crease at a pre-determined distance. Despite shortages of many things and rationing still in force there never seemed to be a hint of a chalk shortage. Two teams were picked and tossed to determine which side would bat, often the toss was not made with a coin as most if not all of us would not have such a thing so a cigarette card would suffice. The 'batsman' stood in front of the wicket, when the ball was bowled the idea was to try to kick the ball away and make runs between the wicket and the bowling crease. Again, umpiring decisions were made by popular opinion and local custom. The innings was ended when the last man was out then the erstwhile bowling side would bat. Game was over when local residents had had enough, too few players being left due to having been called home or a more interesting attraction appealed, often a steam lorry delivering coal, the dustmen or a motor car which were quite uncommon then.
Another favourite was a local version of tennis, the game being known due to one or two households in the street having the luxury of a television set and their kids having seen Wimbledon on it. The street again was the favoured playing area and the only equipment needed was a tennis ball and a skipping rope, the latter usually being begged, stolen or borrowed from one of the player's sisters. The rope was used to denote the net when laid across the road between the kerbs. Court boundaries were the kerbs and twitems of clothing placed on the kerbs at either end. Hands were used as bats, play started and points awarded for your opponent failing to return the ball or hitting same out of play. The official tennis coring system was an utter mystery to all of us so we scored on the basis of table tennis to twenty one points.
In our particular street new sewers had been recently laid in the centre of the road with nice new tarmac laid to cover the trenches and interspersed at regular intervals by big, shiny, round manhole covers. Shortly after completion of these works it was obvious that not only had new sewers been laid but also our very own race circuit à la Ben Hur so the first races were naturally enough roller skates again. When local intolerance to the noise became too great we retrieved our bicycles and tricycles and hod our very own cycle speedway track.
Another game was particularly popular during winter and short daylight hours, that of Knock Down Ginger. For those unfamiliar with the concept one the gang would knock on a door, run away and hide with rest and observe the hapless house owner's reaction. Greater sport was to be had by knocking on the same dorr a number of times but there was the hazard of increased possible retribution.
It is quite sad that many of these games are no longer played for reasons of security of youngsters playing out in the street or safety considerations by various authorities. A sad indictment of modern times when was had in very simplistic ways.
Friday, 22 October 2010
Hold very tight please ...
In a previous blog there has been mention of a conductor who would do anything to avoid doing a full days duty, well, here's another classic from Douggie's fertile yet devious imagination.
Two thirds the way through our duty for this day Douggie decides he doesn't fancy doing all of the last trip. En route we should pass our change over point where we will be relieved on our return, the journey beyond and return is only about thirty minutes in total. It's a nice easy run from Stamford Hill to Finsbury Park and back. Douggie's latest devious scheme is unknown to me as we ease away from Aldgate bus station on the edge of the City of London towards north London.
W've pulled up at the stop outside the Case is Altered pub in the Whitechapel Road, almost opposite the renowned London Hospital. As I glance into the nearside mirror I see my conductor alight and head towards shops adjacent to the pub, I assume that he has gone to buy essential supplies in the form of twenty Embassy cigarettes. A minute or so later he returns leaving me waiting for the double bell start signal.
Whilst waiting I have a quick look in the nearside mirror again and see passengers alighting from the platform, not just a few but every single one as a glance through the bus shows. 'Here we go again' I thought wondering what was happening this time. Said conductor appeared at the front of the bus and leaned on the bonnet, I opened the cab window and was told that we shall have to wait here until all of our passengers have been transferred to another bus as ours is unfit for service due to vomit on the stairs.
A peremptory inspection of the stairs showed indeed that that the great British traveling public could not ride on our bus. Shortly all passengers had been transferred so my conductor wandered off to phone our home garage to appraise them of the potential delight awaiting the cleaning crew on our return. During his trip to the phone box a Revenue Inspector from another bus came up and asked waht was the problem. He seemed reluctant to accept my version and just had to go and check for himself. My scheming crewmate returned to find the Revenue man throwing up on the stairs saying that our instructions were to take the bus to Ash Grove garage, about halfway between our location and our home garage at Stamford Hill.
Having arrived at Ash Grove our next task is to find the cleaning crew or anyone on the inside staff for that matter, not easy seeing as it is now their official meal relief. Having been told in various ways, polite or otherwise, to go away and wait for about half an hour there was only one thing to be done - retire to the canteen for a cuppa.
Thirty minutes or so elapsed and the inside staff drifted back into the garage. The shift foreman came to assess our problem and stated in no uncertain terms that his men would not clean the offending mess oon the stairs as it was not one of their buses and that we were to return to our home garage. Thus we did as bid and set off on the road again.
Our arrival at Stamford Hill garage was greeted with an air of total indifference by the inside staff who were adamant that the matter of cleaning should be reported to the garage foreman. Eventually this lofty representative of engineering authority was located and acquainted with our dilemma whereupon we were instructed to retire to the canteen and would be told when the vehicle was again fit for service.
Some twenty or so minutes nd yet another cup of tea later the message came that we should return tour bus and continue on our way. So, we dparted from the garage and drove to Stamford Hill Broadway which was the nearest inspector's point to the garage where we needed to seek his decision as to the remainder of our duty. We were now almost an hour late of our scheduled finishing time so were instructed to return to the garage and find the crew due to take over this vehicle which we duly did.
The outcome of Douggie's little scheme was not that we finished early but an hour late. Naturally this extra hour was overtime so we happily took the proffered overtime docket payable at time and a half and handed it iin to the traffic office. End of another interesting day ...
Not the end of the tale however. Just before I went to my car in the car park my mate let me in on a secret. When he had alighted in the Whitechapel Road to purchase what I assumed to be cigarettes was not in fact so. What he had actually bought was a jar of Heinz Vegetables in Gravy baby food and ditributed the contents over the stairs!
Two thirds the way through our duty for this day Douggie decides he doesn't fancy doing all of the last trip. En route we should pass our change over point where we will be relieved on our return, the journey beyond and return is only about thirty minutes in total. It's a nice easy run from Stamford Hill to Finsbury Park and back. Douggie's latest devious scheme is unknown to me as we ease away from Aldgate bus station on the edge of the City of London towards north London.
W've pulled up at the stop outside the Case is Altered pub in the Whitechapel Road, almost opposite the renowned London Hospital. As I glance into the nearside mirror I see my conductor alight and head towards shops adjacent to the pub, I assume that he has gone to buy essential supplies in the form of twenty Embassy cigarettes. A minute or so later he returns leaving me waiting for the double bell start signal.
Whilst waiting I have a quick look in the nearside mirror again and see passengers alighting from the platform, not just a few but every single one as a glance through the bus shows. 'Here we go again' I thought wondering what was happening this time. Said conductor appeared at the front of the bus and leaned on the bonnet, I opened the cab window and was told that we shall have to wait here until all of our passengers have been transferred to another bus as ours is unfit for service due to vomit on the stairs.
A peremptory inspection of the stairs showed indeed that that the great British traveling public could not ride on our bus. Shortly all passengers had been transferred so my conductor wandered off to phone our home garage to appraise them of the potential delight awaiting the cleaning crew on our return. During his trip to the phone box a Revenue Inspector from another bus came up and asked waht was the problem. He seemed reluctant to accept my version and just had to go and check for himself. My scheming crewmate returned to find the Revenue man throwing up on the stairs saying that our instructions were to take the bus to Ash Grove garage, about halfway between our location and our home garage at Stamford Hill.
Having arrived at Ash Grove our next task is to find the cleaning crew or anyone on the inside staff for that matter, not easy seeing as it is now their official meal relief. Having been told in various ways, polite or otherwise, to go away and wait for about half an hour there was only one thing to be done - retire to the canteen for a cuppa.
Thirty minutes or so elapsed and the inside staff drifted back into the garage. The shift foreman came to assess our problem and stated in no uncertain terms that his men would not clean the offending mess oon the stairs as it was not one of their buses and that we were to return to our home garage. Thus we did as bid and set off on the road again.
Our arrival at Stamford Hill garage was greeted with an air of total indifference by the inside staff who were adamant that the matter of cleaning should be reported to the garage foreman. Eventually this lofty representative of engineering authority was located and acquainted with our dilemma whereupon we were instructed to retire to the canteen and would be told when the vehicle was again fit for service.
Some twenty or so minutes nd yet another cup of tea later the message came that we should return tour bus and continue on our way. So, we dparted from the garage and drove to Stamford Hill Broadway which was the nearest inspector's point to the garage where we needed to seek his decision as to the remainder of our duty. We were now almost an hour late of our scheduled finishing time so were instructed to return to the garage and find the crew due to take over this vehicle which we duly did.
The outcome of Douggie's little scheme was not that we finished early but an hour late. Naturally this extra hour was overtime so we happily took the proffered overtime docket payable at time and a half and handed it iin to the traffic office. End of another interesting day ...
Not the end of the tale however. Just before I went to my car in the car park my mate let me in on a secret. When he had alighted in the Whitechapel Road to purchase what I assumed to be cigarettes was not in fact so. What he had actually bought was a jar of Heinz Vegetables in Gravy baby food and ditributed the contents over the stairs!
Wednesday, 20 October 2010
Problems ...
It seems that Britain is not the only country suffering domestic difficulties in these financially austere days. The ministerial statement in the mother of parliaments today seems not to have quelled potential disquiet in various sections of the electorate.
There is a similar situation currently here in France and for a somewhat similar reason, the government wishes to raise the retirement age by two years, yes, two whole years! This has brought about a series of fairly devastating one day strikes each week since the beginning of September as yet to little avail. Naturally, as is the way with such things when a lack of progress is made, the strikes and protests escalate. During the past couple of weeks fuel supply depots have been targeted throughout the whole of the country with the inevitable fuel shortages resulting. Currently some forty per cent of all filling stations are reported as having run out of supplies. Thankfully, as I write, our region has barely felt the effects so far.
The government have decided that blockading supplies is not on so have sent in the CRS, that's the French police heavy mob, to persuade the picketers to desist from their chosen action. Yesterday three fuel depots were recipients of the attention from the CRS, all three depots resumed supplying retailers.
Will the government eventually cave in over the proposed changes? Possibly as historically there is not a one hundred per cent record of forcing change when faced with protest and civil unrest. I suspect that that government hesitancy owes not a little to the events of 1789, the time of the French Revolution.
There is also a supply problem with other carbon fuels, particularly heating oil something which is commonly used for central heating systems due to a fairly sparse national gas network. The further north in country is obviously a little colder than here in the southwest and its citizens are naturally feeling the combined effects of winter's onset and a lack of fuel. Gallic people are not without resourcefulness and solve this lack of warmth by going out onto the streets. Surely that defeats the object of attempting to stay warm, does it not? No, is the answer. The simple solution is to gather in neighbourly groups and stand around a nice blazing fire in the middle of the road created by setting fire to the odd car or two!
Who knows how and where this present dispute will end, my euro is not on the side of the government.
There is a similar situation currently here in France and for a somewhat similar reason, the government wishes to raise the retirement age by two years, yes, two whole years! This has brought about a series of fairly devastating one day strikes each week since the beginning of September as yet to little avail. Naturally, as is the way with such things when a lack of progress is made, the strikes and protests escalate. During the past couple of weeks fuel supply depots have been targeted throughout the whole of the country with the inevitable fuel shortages resulting. Currently some forty per cent of all filling stations are reported as having run out of supplies. Thankfully, as I write, our region has barely felt the effects so far.
The government have decided that blockading supplies is not on so have sent in the CRS, that's the French police heavy mob, to persuade the picketers to desist from their chosen action. Yesterday three fuel depots were recipients of the attention from the CRS, all three depots resumed supplying retailers.
Will the government eventually cave in over the proposed changes? Possibly as historically there is not a one hundred per cent record of forcing change when faced with protest and civil unrest. I suspect that that government hesitancy owes not a little to the events of 1789, the time of the French Revolution.
There is also a supply problem with other carbon fuels, particularly heating oil something which is commonly used for central heating systems due to a fairly sparse national gas network. The further north in country is obviously a little colder than here in the southwest and its citizens are naturally feeling the combined effects of winter's onset and a lack of fuel. Gallic people are not without resourcefulness and solve this lack of warmth by going out onto the streets. Surely that defeats the object of attempting to stay warm, does it not? No, is the answer. The simple solution is to gather in neighbourly groups and stand around a nice blazing fire in the middle of the road created by setting fire to the odd car or two!
Who knows how and where this present dispute will end, my euro is not on the side of the government.
Tuesday, 19 October 2010
Useless
Just fell to wondering how many useless things there are around.
A farmer friend many years ago would express a useless item thus "'Bout as much use as udders on a bull!". Very fair comment methinks.
Of course there are the more common allegories alluding to assorted chocolate items including teapots, teacups and fireguards. Another is suggesting that an ashtray on a motorcycle is somewhat redundant, always assuming that the rider is a smoker.
I've encountered a goodly number of useless things during my life. One that comes to mind was once actually very useful. When moved to France we brought all manner of things with us including a paste table. Very useful you may say but not in our current house. We live in a delightful, four hundred year old stone pigeonnier whose original purpose was to house homing pigeons. The only problem is that not only is the house of stone construction with walls some eighteen thick, very picturesque indeed but the interior walls are also stone of assorted sizes. Wallpaper? You must be joking!
Other useless impedimenta that I have purchased over the years includes quite a few kitchen items, I love cooking and am a sucker for kitchen gadgets. A few have proved very useful, some even indispensable but the majority have found their way to the dustbin.
Today I encountered another really useless item, well, two in fact. Quite costly too at some five billion pounds sterling for the two. The items in question are two new aircraft carriers for Her Majesty's Royal Navy neither of which will be equiooed with aircraft for at least ten years, in fact one will be mothballed as soon as it is completed.
Anyone want to buy an aircraft carrier, delivery mileage only, one careful owner Offers to Liam Fox, defence Secretary, Whitehall, London, SW1.
A farmer friend many years ago would express a useless item thus "'Bout as much use as udders on a bull!". Very fair comment methinks.
Of course there are the more common allegories alluding to assorted chocolate items including teapots, teacups and fireguards. Another is suggesting that an ashtray on a motorcycle is somewhat redundant, always assuming that the rider is a smoker.
I've encountered a goodly number of useless things during my life. One that comes to mind was once actually very useful. When moved to France we brought all manner of things with us including a paste table. Very useful you may say but not in our current house. We live in a delightful, four hundred year old stone pigeonnier whose original purpose was to house homing pigeons. The only problem is that not only is the house of stone construction with walls some eighteen thick, very picturesque indeed but the interior walls are also stone of assorted sizes. Wallpaper? You must be joking!
Other useless impedimenta that I have purchased over the years includes quite a few kitchen items, I love cooking and am a sucker for kitchen gadgets. A few have proved very useful, some even indispensable but the majority have found their way to the dustbin.
Today I encountered another really useless item, well, two in fact. Quite costly too at some five billion pounds sterling for the two. The items in question are two new aircraft carriers for Her Majesty's Royal Navy neither of which will be equiooed with aircraft for at least ten years, in fact one will be mothballed as soon as it is completed.
Anyone want to buy an aircraft carrier, delivery mileage only, one careful owner Offers to Liam Fox, defence Secretary, Whitehall, London, SW1.
Monday, 18 October 2010
Lunch
After the family the next most important thing in France seems to be lunch. It is a quintessential component of everyday life, generally being taken as the main meal of the day rather than dinner later in the day.
Yesterday we had lunch in the village hall with our local Troisiéme Age which is our equivalent of the UK's University of the Third Age albeit with a more social aspect rather than learning one. There was a wonderful atmosphere right from the beginning with some hundred and twenty participants chatting with groups of friends. Socialising is an essential thing and although the do was scheduled for mid-day nobody was seated until an hour or so later.
Almost any sort of social function inevitably begins with an aperetif often of kir, a white wine with a dash of blackcurrant juice - if you have never tried it then please do, a subtle blend of two flavours that tickles the palate.
Starter was cream of asparagus soup, still have yet to discover where on earth asparagus is found at this time of the year because very little is imported and is in season only during the spring. I'm not a lover of that vegetable but in all fairness the soup was very pleasant, in fact I enjoyed it!
Second course was sole meuniére, that's poached dover sole in a lemon butter sauce. Since childhood I have never been a fish lover and passed on this offering despite being assured by all that it was excellent. The meat course of spit roasted veal followed accompanied by sauté potatoes and stuffed tomatoes, all superbly cooked and full of flavour. To my great surprise, and probably many others too, the ubiquitous french beans were not on offer!
Next to arrive was the cheese, brie, roquefort and chevre (a goat's cheese) with the usual lettuce in a vinaigrette. Dessert then followed, which is slightly cart about horse to British minds used to cheese to finish. The menu declared it to be Omelette Norvegiénne that translates literally as Norwegian Omelette which would seem a little odd for a dessert. The term norvegiénne usually indicates a fish dish often salmon in some form but neither fish nor omelette are involved, instead the nearest it can be likened to is an unrolled and flat Arctic Roll. Whatever it was it was delicious and not enough of it.
The final parts of the lunch were brandy and coffee. Forgot to mention that unstinting measures of wine was served throughout the meal, red and rosé.
There was entertainment between courses of a female singer with traditional French songs, she had a superb voice and was very well received. Finally we said farewells some five hours later, returning home well fed and content with the world at large. Oh, I forgot to mention the cost, it was an excessive €9!
Yesterday we had lunch in the village hall with our local Troisiéme Age which is our equivalent of the UK's University of the Third Age albeit with a more social aspect rather than learning one. There was a wonderful atmosphere right from the beginning with some hundred and twenty participants chatting with groups of friends. Socialising is an essential thing and although the do was scheduled for mid-day nobody was seated until an hour or so later.
Almost any sort of social function inevitably begins with an aperetif often of kir, a white wine with a dash of blackcurrant juice - if you have never tried it then please do, a subtle blend of two flavours that tickles the palate.
Starter was cream of asparagus soup, still have yet to discover where on earth asparagus is found at this time of the year because very little is imported and is in season only during the spring. I'm not a lover of that vegetable but in all fairness the soup was very pleasant, in fact I enjoyed it!
Second course was sole meuniére, that's poached dover sole in a lemon butter sauce. Since childhood I have never been a fish lover and passed on this offering despite being assured by all that it was excellent. The meat course of spit roasted veal followed accompanied by sauté potatoes and stuffed tomatoes, all superbly cooked and full of flavour. To my great surprise, and probably many others too, the ubiquitous french beans were not on offer!
Next to arrive was the cheese, brie, roquefort and chevre (a goat's cheese) with the usual lettuce in a vinaigrette. Dessert then followed, which is slightly cart about horse to British minds used to cheese to finish. The menu declared it to be Omelette Norvegiénne that translates literally as Norwegian Omelette which would seem a little odd for a dessert. The term norvegiénne usually indicates a fish dish often salmon in some form but neither fish nor omelette are involved, instead the nearest it can be likened to is an unrolled and flat Arctic Roll. Whatever it was it was delicious and not enough of it.
The final parts of the lunch were brandy and coffee. Forgot to mention that unstinting measures of wine was served throughout the meal, red and rosé.
There was entertainment between courses of a female singer with traditional French songs, she had a superb voice and was very well received. Finally we said farewells some five hours later, returning home well fed and content with the world at large. Oh, I forgot to mention the cost, it was an excessive €9!
Saturday, 16 October 2010
Honesty
To use a hackneyed cliché 'honesty is the best policy', oft quoted in my formative years by parents and family. As a child the truth in that phrase was obvious and just one of the many dictums with which I was brought up. that particular ethic was fine until one day found me in hot water at school, not with authority, but with some classmates because when asked of any knowledge of a particular incident I was honest. Much to my chagrin I was ostracised by a number of them for several days until the episode faded into relative oblivion.
Soon came the realisation that on occasion a half truth or a little white lie was a better option in avoiding potential conflict and given that no harm was caused by them then that was acceptable.
Many of the sports headlines today are about the Arsenal manager Arsene Venger who has publicly admitted lying about team matters. Apparently he has on aoccasion suggested that players have had minor injuries and are unable to play due to those injuries. Some of these statements he now admits were lies because he wanted to 'protect' players, presumably from unwanted media attention and speculation because they needed some personal space for purely private reasons.
This admission in itself is very honest and admirable and must surely be applauded because he is being truthful. The question is now will media opinion in particular turn against him for his honesty in telling the truth about lies?
What a dichotomy - the poor man has been castigated for lying and could now well be treated in the same undeserved manner for being honest and truthful. That is a grossly unfair way in which to treat anyone let alone someone who stands out as a well mannered and reasonable man amongst his peers.
Soon came the realisation that on occasion a half truth or a little white lie was a better option in avoiding potential conflict and given that no harm was caused by them then that was acceptable.
Many of the sports headlines today are about the Arsenal manager Arsene Venger who has publicly admitted lying about team matters. Apparently he has on aoccasion suggested that players have had minor injuries and are unable to play due to those injuries. Some of these statements he now admits were lies because he wanted to 'protect' players, presumably from unwanted media attention and speculation because they needed some personal space for purely private reasons.
This admission in itself is very honest and admirable and must surely be applauded because he is being truthful. The question is now will media opinion in particular turn against him for his honesty in telling the truth about lies?
What a dichotomy - the poor man has been castigated for lying and could now well be treated in the same undeserved manner for being honest and truthful. That is a grossly unfair way in which to treat anyone let alone someone who stands out as a well mannered and reasonable man amongst his peers.
Friday, 15 October 2010
Genealogy
Now that sounds dry and boring does it not? OK, let's call it something else - how about Family History instead, beginning to sound less uninteresting is it not? I used to think that genealogy was the dry stuff of academics and for royalty and toffs but my opinion has changed diametrically. The BBC series of WHo Do you Think You Are whilst interesting and some cases almost compelling has not really influenced my awakened interest in the subject. The awakening was brought about by my wife and curiosity about her parents and background. The most obvious facts and events were known as far back as her grandparents but there was an impenetrable veil beyond that generation.
The problem was where to begin, there is just so much advice on the Web which can be confusing to the novice. The first essential is to choose a suitable site that specialises in family history and research and allows the building of a family tree to record your research. Then begins the interesting bit, doing the actual research.
Generally it is much easier to trace a family tree backwards from the present time rather than the reverse. There is however a difficulty with uncovering facts from the last one hundred years or so. Agreed that records of births , marriages and deaths are readily available but the information gleaned from those sources may be a little sparse.
The most commonly used resource are UK national censuses which contain much useful information, unfortunately the latest available is the one conducted in 1911 as later censuses are still inaccessible due to the law restricting some information less than one hundred years old.
A good source of information is within the family itself from older relatives but with my wife's family there was very little forthcoming as like many families there was reluctance to talk about "things". SO it was down to searching online via census records.
We knew where her parents were born and when, although her mother had knocked ten years off her age which did not initially help! Within a few weeks we had managed to go back about six generations and unearthed all sorts of things. Distant relatives include several of the Tolpuddle Martyrs who stirred the beginnings of the Trades Union movement and were transported to Australia for their ideals. The earliest ancestors have been traced back to the early 1500s in the Dorset area, there is more to discover but the further back the reasearch the more difficult it becomes but that is the joy of the challenge.
As to my side of the family there were splits and schisms from the time of my parents going back several generations so little was known as one party did not talk to others and vice versa. Rumour abounded with dark hints of skeletal remains in cupboards, initially potential research looked difficult because there was little hard information as an actual starting point. After many false starts the right trail was finally discovered and although it is a very ordinary family the history is fascinating as there is a real insight as to many facets of ancestor's lives.
For quite a while there was a brick wall that seemed impossible to break through then suddenly there was contact from a fellow subscriber of a genealogy website. The actual information was not in itself earth shattering and seemed unimportant at the time. What I had actually been given was a metaphorical key to a door, all that remained was to find the door that the key fitted.
Some weeks later the door was found and the key fitted. As a result I have now definitively traced my blood ancestors back to the year 1010 AD living in Normandy, France backed by documentary evidence. This person was known as le Compte d'Oise and is recorded as having been part of William the Conqueror's invasion force in 1066.
More recent ancestors have largely lived in a small area of Suffolk until the mid-nineteenth century when there was a considerable population migration from the land to London due to the expansion of the railways and better paying work there.
Much more remains to be discovered and with the approach of winter it is a great way to spend time delving into the past.
The problem was where to begin, there is just so much advice on the Web which can be confusing to the novice. The first essential is to choose a suitable site that specialises in family history and research and allows the building of a family tree to record your research. Then begins the interesting bit, doing the actual research.
Generally it is much easier to trace a family tree backwards from the present time rather than the reverse. There is however a difficulty with uncovering facts from the last one hundred years or so. Agreed that records of births , marriages and deaths are readily available but the information gleaned from those sources may be a little sparse.
The most commonly used resource are UK national censuses which contain much useful information, unfortunately the latest available is the one conducted in 1911 as later censuses are still inaccessible due to the law restricting some information less than one hundred years old.
A good source of information is within the family itself from older relatives but with my wife's family there was very little forthcoming as like many families there was reluctance to talk about "things". SO it was down to searching online via census records.
We knew where her parents were born and when, although her mother had knocked ten years off her age which did not initially help! Within a few weeks we had managed to go back about six generations and unearthed all sorts of things. Distant relatives include several of the Tolpuddle Martyrs who stirred the beginnings of the Trades Union movement and were transported to Australia for their ideals. The earliest ancestors have been traced back to the early 1500s in the Dorset area, there is more to discover but the further back the reasearch the more difficult it becomes but that is the joy of the challenge.
As to my side of the family there were splits and schisms from the time of my parents going back several generations so little was known as one party did not talk to others and vice versa. Rumour abounded with dark hints of skeletal remains in cupboards, initially potential research looked difficult because there was little hard information as an actual starting point. After many false starts the right trail was finally discovered and although it is a very ordinary family the history is fascinating as there is a real insight as to many facets of ancestor's lives.
For quite a while there was a brick wall that seemed impossible to break through then suddenly there was contact from a fellow subscriber of a genealogy website. The actual information was not in itself earth shattering and seemed unimportant at the time. What I had actually been given was a metaphorical key to a door, all that remained was to find the door that the key fitted.
Some weeks later the door was found and the key fitted. As a result I have now definitively traced my blood ancestors back to the year 1010 AD living in Normandy, France backed by documentary evidence. This person was known as le Compte d'Oise and is recorded as having been part of William the Conqueror's invasion force in 1066.
More recent ancestors have largely lived in a small area of Suffolk until the mid-nineteenth century when there was a considerable population migration from the land to London due to the expansion of the railways and better paying work there.
Much more remains to be discovered and with the approach of winter it is a great way to spend time delving into the past.
Thursday, 14 October 2010
Soon
Earlier this year we had to to have our cat Socks put to sleep because of an inoperable tumour. She was fifteen years old, we'd had her since she was about a year old and was a sweet, affectionate cat with very much her own personality and character.
Almost a year ago our other cat Smudge went out late on afternoon, never to return. We searched for her, placed posters locally, all to no avail.
Both were and are very much missed as we both are very fond of cats because they are great company, amusing, sometimes annoying and almost part of the family.
Once various short trips away are over we shall be able to settle down for the winter. Then we shall be able to begin looking for two more cats, preferably kittens from the same litter so that they can grow up together with us. Those of you who have or appreciate cats will understand, those who do not just do not know what you are missing!
Almost a year ago our other cat Smudge went out late on afternoon, never to return. We searched for her, placed posters locally, all to no avail.
Both were and are very much missed as we both are very fond of cats because they are great company, amusing, sometimes annoying and almost part of the family.
Once various short trips away are over we shall be able to settle down for the winter. Then we shall be able to begin looking for two more cats, preferably kittens from the same litter so that they can grow up together with us. Those of you who have or appreciate cats will understand, those who do not just do not know what you are missing!
Tuesday, 12 October 2010
Universities and the current crisis
Not often that I commit thoughts of a vaguely political nature to the unsuspecting world at large but today is one of those occasions.
The opportunity for me to go to university arose almost unexpectedly when I was in my late forties thanks to a unique combination of circumstances, an opportunity for which I was very grateful. Albeit I was somewhat of a late starter as my school headmaster tried to persuade me not leave at the end of the lower sixth form. That as they say is history.
To come up up to date there is now a furore in full flow as to how higher education should be funded, should it be the taxpayer or the student are the only two realistic sources. Currently the talk is that future students might be faced with a university debt of anything up to sixty thousand pounds, not necessarily even on graduating because a number will drop out before the end of their studies.
How on earth did this crazy situation arise? Debate currently centres around the belief that there may be an excess of university aspirants causing the problem allied with a cut in state funding. SO far so good perhaps but the beginning of this fiasco lies a little further back in time. Tony Blair in his vision of equality for all decreed that at least fifty per cent of all school leavers should benefit from a university education, in itself a seemingly wonderful ideal. It does not, however, take much cerebral power to question this proposed golden future as to the viability of the 'one size fits all' approach. Prior to this pronouncement by the way only five percent of people in Britain were graduates, shortly to be superceded by half of the population.
The first and most obvious matter is the logistics of this utopia, how will it be funded, from where will the additional accommodation and staff magically appear. Given that this particular obstacle is successfully overcome then the next problem is where are all the jobs requiring a degree to be found or created, certainly not within the present and near future framework of the national economy.
A further and almost insurmountable problem is that because of a flood of graduates into the employment market potential employers will obviously be faced with better qualified candidates for all vacancies. No longer will applicants with several A Levels be considered for jobs as there are better qualified alternatives available. The domino effect is obvious for all to see. For example whereas once upon a time little if any qualification was required to stack tins in a supermarket there is a possibilty that many better educated folk will be doing that same job because the "better" jobs are not there for the asking. Competition for vacancies will increase and many will be disappointed eventually pondering whether the time and expense of gaining a degree was really worth the time, trouble, expense and effort.
SO why his specific current problem? Political expediency, short-termism and possibly self interest. What a way to run a country.
The opportunity for me to go to university arose almost unexpectedly when I was in my late forties thanks to a unique combination of circumstances, an opportunity for which I was very grateful. Albeit I was somewhat of a late starter as my school headmaster tried to persuade me not leave at the end of the lower sixth form. That as they say is history.
To come up up to date there is now a furore in full flow as to how higher education should be funded, should it be the taxpayer or the student are the only two realistic sources. Currently the talk is that future students might be faced with a university debt of anything up to sixty thousand pounds, not necessarily even on graduating because a number will drop out before the end of their studies.
How on earth did this crazy situation arise? Debate currently centres around the belief that there may be an excess of university aspirants causing the problem allied with a cut in state funding. SO far so good perhaps but the beginning of this fiasco lies a little further back in time. Tony Blair in his vision of equality for all decreed that at least fifty per cent of all school leavers should benefit from a university education, in itself a seemingly wonderful ideal. It does not, however, take much cerebral power to question this proposed golden future as to the viability of the 'one size fits all' approach. Prior to this pronouncement by the way only five percent of people in Britain were graduates, shortly to be superceded by half of the population.
The first and most obvious matter is the logistics of this utopia, how will it be funded, from where will the additional accommodation and staff magically appear. Given that this particular obstacle is successfully overcome then the next problem is where are all the jobs requiring a degree to be found or created, certainly not within the present and near future framework of the national economy.
A further and almost insurmountable problem is that because of a flood of graduates into the employment market potential employers will obviously be faced with better qualified candidates for all vacancies. No longer will applicants with several A Levels be considered for jobs as there are better qualified alternatives available. The domino effect is obvious for all to see. For example whereas once upon a time little if any qualification was required to stack tins in a supermarket there is a possibilty that many better educated folk will be doing that same job because the "better" jobs are not there for the asking. Competition for vacancies will increase and many will be disappointed eventually pondering whether the time and expense of gaining a degree was really worth the time, trouble, expense and effort.
SO why his specific current problem? Political expediency, short-termism and possibly self interest. What a way to run a country.
Monday, 11 October 2010
Hot from the grapevine
Well, actually from Bergerac, the airport that is rather than the grapevine. Read on because you just ain't gonna believe this ...
Bergerac airport is closed today for all flights. No, not because of the general, one day strike of civil servants protesting about possible retirement and pension changes, that' this coming Wednesday. This time it is an air traffic control dispute.
Bergerac airport has one, yes just one, air traffic controller. He decided this morning that he is withdrawing his labour due to a recently introduced flight landing at 0730 a.m. and is objecting to being forced to get up early because of this new arrival. As yet it is unclear as to the possible duration of this independent action, potentially could last days ...
Aha, I hear you cry! He is surely in breach of contract and therefore should be dismissed from his position. Good thinking Batman - unfortunately this guy is a fonctionaire, a civil servant, and as such dismissal is as likely as Ed Balls becoming Prime Minister tomorrow. Should dismissal occur then the possible wave of sympathy strikes is too awful to even contemplate virtually ensuring the lone strikers job security.
Of course there are and will be knock-on effects. A flight due in from Southampton at 1300 this afternoon has been diverted to Bordeaux airport some 120km west of Bergerac. Unfortunately there is not a landing slot available there until midnight tonight so coaches will be provided to transfer hapless passengers to Bergerac airport arriving there around 0130.
What a way to ru(i)n a country ...
Bergerac airport is closed today for all flights. No, not because of the general, one day strike of civil servants protesting about possible retirement and pension changes, that' this coming Wednesday. This time it is an air traffic control dispute.
Bergerac airport has one, yes just one, air traffic controller. He decided this morning that he is withdrawing his labour due to a recently introduced flight landing at 0730 a.m. and is objecting to being forced to get up early because of this new arrival. As yet it is unclear as to the possible duration of this independent action, potentially could last days ...
Aha, I hear you cry! He is surely in breach of contract and therefore should be dismissed from his position. Good thinking Batman - unfortunately this guy is a fonctionaire, a civil servant, and as such dismissal is as likely as Ed Balls becoming Prime Minister tomorrow. Should dismissal occur then the possible wave of sympathy strikes is too awful to even contemplate virtually ensuring the lone strikers job security.
Of course there are and will be knock-on effects. A flight due in from Southampton at 1300 this afternoon has been diverted to Bordeaux airport some 120km west of Bergerac. Unfortunately there is not a landing slot available there until midnight tonight so coaches will be provided to transfer hapless passengers to Bergerac airport arriving there around 0130.
What a way to ru(i)n a country ...
It's coming ...
... winter that is. Not yet but all the portents are here, trees and bushes turning from their summer greens into a wonderfully diverse palate of reds and browns that are truly magnificent. Makes a Dulux colour chart look almost monochrome by comparison.
Local farmers are harvesting the last of summer's crops particularly sunflowers and maize, much ploughing, harrowing and other activity is going on too with winter wheat and barley being sown. Some are preparing deep litter byres so that cattle will be sheltered from the worst of winter's elements, I shall miss seeing those wonderfully huge Aquitaine Blonde cows in their pastures.
Several species of birds have already migrated for warmer climes in particular the spectacular looking hoopoes with a red crest that looks something akin to a miniature Marigold glove. Others are returning to overwinter, already the robin that lives in our hedge is back as are some great, blue and coal tits. Must remember to stock up on fat balls for them, they enjoy pecking at them and we love watching them on the bird feeder.
Little furry things are also preparing for the cold season. There are fewer mole hills being thrown up around our house now, our neighbours cats are catching fewer mice, voles and shrews as they are getting winter quarters ready. It is also the time of year that edible dormice are seeking snug places to retreat into, they just love domestic roof spaces. Several have tried to lodge in our upper bedroom roof in the past week but we have managed to thwart them so far by leaving a radio playing loud French pop music all day in the room. They are nocturnal and hate being disturbed during the day and find any sort of noise particularly a nuisance. If the loud sound of the radio were to be insufficient in itself then French pop music will certainly have the desired effect - it is dire, seriously awful even by comparison to the Anglo-American fare.
The French government was recently very concerned at the state of their popular music industry because listeners and buyers express an overwhelming preference for non-domestic genres and issued a decree that every music radio station must play at least ten minutes music from the home industry every hour! Protectionism or desperation?
Time too to put away summer clothing for warmer things, put the carpet back down in the sitting room, winterize the rest of the house, start getting a supply of good books and jigsaw puzzles in which will all be in turn swapped amongst friends winter progresses.
The good thing is that winter does not really begin here until mid-late November and is usually done by the end of February. We live in a very rural and sparsely populated area where it is not only the wildlife that hibernates but the population as well except for the odd essential foray to the shops.
The final event that evidences the onset of winter is arriving hopefully tomorrow in the form of a farm wagon load of oak for our fuel store. There is nothing quite like a gorgeous, roaring and blazing log fire to make a person feel snug and contented along with a decent cuppa nd the odd medicinal brandy.
Happy winter everyone ...
Local farmers are harvesting the last of summer's crops particularly sunflowers and maize, much ploughing, harrowing and other activity is going on too with winter wheat and barley being sown. Some are preparing deep litter byres so that cattle will be sheltered from the worst of winter's elements, I shall miss seeing those wonderfully huge Aquitaine Blonde cows in their pastures.
Several species of birds have already migrated for warmer climes in particular the spectacular looking hoopoes with a red crest that looks something akin to a miniature Marigold glove. Others are returning to overwinter, already the robin that lives in our hedge is back as are some great, blue and coal tits. Must remember to stock up on fat balls for them, they enjoy pecking at them and we love watching them on the bird feeder.
Little furry things are also preparing for the cold season. There are fewer mole hills being thrown up around our house now, our neighbours cats are catching fewer mice, voles and shrews as they are getting winter quarters ready. It is also the time of year that edible dormice are seeking snug places to retreat into, they just love domestic roof spaces. Several have tried to lodge in our upper bedroom roof in the past week but we have managed to thwart them so far by leaving a radio playing loud French pop music all day in the room. They are nocturnal and hate being disturbed during the day and find any sort of noise particularly a nuisance. If the loud sound of the radio were to be insufficient in itself then French pop music will certainly have the desired effect - it is dire, seriously awful even by comparison to the Anglo-American fare.
The French government was recently very concerned at the state of their popular music industry because listeners and buyers express an overwhelming preference for non-domestic genres and issued a decree that every music radio station must play at least ten minutes music from the home industry every hour! Protectionism or desperation?
Time too to put away summer clothing for warmer things, put the carpet back down in the sitting room, winterize the rest of the house, start getting a supply of good books and jigsaw puzzles in which will all be in turn swapped amongst friends winter progresses.
The good thing is that winter does not really begin here until mid-late November and is usually done by the end of February. We live in a very rural and sparsely populated area where it is not only the wildlife that hibernates but the population as well except for the odd essential foray to the shops.
The final event that evidences the onset of winter is arriving hopefully tomorrow in the form of a farm wagon load of oak for our fuel store. There is nothing quite like a gorgeous, roaring and blazing log fire to make a person feel snug and contented along with a decent cuppa nd the odd medicinal brandy.
Happy winter everyone ...
Friday, 8 October 2010
Retirement, pensions et al ...
When I was a child the majority of boys, when asked what they would like to be said "An engine driver". It seemed so exciting that perhaps you could drive a huge, shiny monster engine like the famous Mallard. Sadly today the most common response to the same question is the ambition to be a celebrity or in common parlance 'a sleb' with a spaceman trailing a distant second. Presumably the overwhelming reason for the former choice is to lead what is seen as a glamourous and wealthy lifestyle.
Pose the same question here in France today and an overwhelming seventy nine per cent of youngsters want to be a civil servant - a fonctionaire. Why on earth would moat youngsters desire a civil service job? Simple answer really, retire at fifty five years of age with a superb indexed pension. That luxury not only includes the pen pushers but military and emergency services, health staff and professionals and local government employees as well. The number employed in these sectors is immense, currently just over twenty per cent of the working population.
There are rumblings of discontent in the UK, mainly from the trades unions, about possible proposed changes to the retirement age and the future value of pensions. It is obvious that change must happen and soon, given the usual apathetic attitudes of the population at large the proposals will be enforced with just a few minimal changes.
Here, over the channel, similar changes are being mooted by Sarkozy and company with the inevitable clamour from the trades unions and those with vested interests in maintaining the status quo. There is a fundamental difference however between the two countries, already there has been three separate days of national strikes bringing the country to a standstill. Allied with these strikes are demonstrations throughout the country with up to three million workers out on the streets each time. There are more to come, the next within a few days.
Historically concerted civil action has resulted in changes to the proposed new regimes whether mildly diluted or abandoned totally, sometimes in almost indecent haste as happened several years ago with proposed changes to under 25s employment policy.
Why does popular opinion often seem to carry the day? Maybe French politicians are more aware that re-election is not guaranteed if the electorate are displeased. There is another reason often quoted that there was major civil unrest many years ago in 1789 when the French Revolution toppled the then existing hierarchy of nobility, church and state. This fait accompli by the bourgoisie is thought to lurk in the inner recesses of the collective political mind which has little appetite for such another upheaval and thus propsed poitical excesses may be tempered.
Popular opinion seems to indicate the belief that the severest excesses of the new proposals on pensions and retirement age will at worst be more than somewhat amended, at best swept under the carpet never to be seen or heard of again.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not openly advocating a people's revolution in Britain but perhaps a little less overall apathy and acceptance might not be such a bad thing ...
Pose the same question here in France today and an overwhelming seventy nine per cent of youngsters want to be a civil servant - a fonctionaire. Why on earth would moat youngsters desire a civil service job? Simple answer really, retire at fifty five years of age with a superb indexed pension. That luxury not only includes the pen pushers but military and emergency services, health staff and professionals and local government employees as well. The number employed in these sectors is immense, currently just over twenty per cent of the working population.
There are rumblings of discontent in the UK, mainly from the trades unions, about possible proposed changes to the retirement age and the future value of pensions. It is obvious that change must happen and soon, given the usual apathetic attitudes of the population at large the proposals will be enforced with just a few minimal changes.
Here, over the channel, similar changes are being mooted by Sarkozy and company with the inevitable clamour from the trades unions and those with vested interests in maintaining the status quo. There is a fundamental difference however between the two countries, already there has been three separate days of national strikes bringing the country to a standstill. Allied with these strikes are demonstrations throughout the country with up to three million workers out on the streets each time. There are more to come, the next within a few days.
Historically concerted civil action has resulted in changes to the proposed new regimes whether mildly diluted or abandoned totally, sometimes in almost indecent haste as happened several years ago with proposed changes to under 25s employment policy.
Why does popular opinion often seem to carry the day? Maybe French politicians are more aware that re-election is not guaranteed if the electorate are displeased. There is another reason often quoted that there was major civil unrest many years ago in 1789 when the French Revolution toppled the then existing hierarchy of nobility, church and state. This fait accompli by the bourgoisie is thought to lurk in the inner recesses of the collective political mind which has little appetite for such another upheaval and thus propsed poitical excesses may be tempered.
Popular opinion seems to indicate the belief that the severest excesses of the new proposals on pensions and retirement age will at worst be more than somewhat amended, at best swept under the carpet never to be seen or heard of again.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not openly advocating a people's revolution in Britain but perhaps a little less overall apathy and acceptance might not be such a bad thing ...
Tuesday, 5 October 2010
Ding, ding, hold very tight please!
One conductor that I worked with for a while was always looking for any way to avoid actually doing what he was employed and paid for - collecting the appropriate fare from passengers and ensuring that his end of the bus was conducted in an orderly fashion!
This particular day saw us at Hammond Street about six miles north of Waltham Cross. There was about ten minutes stand time before we were due off again so time for a quick cuppa from the ancient Transit mobile caff that was there during the day. I wandered and got the teas in while Dougie went to view the countryside about a hundred yards away from the other side of the hedge. A few minutes later he rejoined me and we sat slurping and chatting until our departure time.
As i walked round the front of the bus to get into the cab it seemed to have a slightly lop-sided appearance, closer investigation revealed that the offside front tyre was flat. Obviously a phone call to the engineers at Ponders End Garage was needed so ambled off to the nearest phone box at the Rising Sun pub a good quarter of a mile away.
The conversation with the engineering foreman was the usual terse affair with me being told that we would have to wait as the early engineering shift was about end and the late shift had yet to start work.
Having broken the good news to Dougie we adopted Plan B, have another cup of tea, a fag and wait patiently in the warm afternoon sun, Dougie seemed to have a slight incontinence problem that afternoon and ambled off to admire the countryside again. He reckoned that it was a stroke of good fortune that the tyre was flat at the very time that the early and late engineering shifts were changing over and that we would be further delayed because of this inconvenience. He then just dropped into the conversation that as we were due to finish our duty at Ponders End on the way back from our destination at Warren Street, near the GPO Tower, that with a bit of luck, there would be insufficient time for us to go anywhere apart from back to the garage.
Some fifty minutes elapsed before the repair crew arrived in a type of bus that was not used on this particular route so we could not swap vehicles and continue on our merry little way. A very large trolley jack and spare wheel was unloaded and the mechanics jacked up the front of the bus and then looked slightly perplexed.
"Where's the wheel brace," asked one.
"Dunno, you chucked it on" came the reply.
A search of the other bus revealed no trace of the missing tool.
"Better phone the shed then" said one, so they drove their bus down to the pub to make the necessary and probably slightly embarrassing call. It is probably discreet not to speculate on the actual dialogue during this interaction as it may well have contained what is politely known as 'industrial language'.
A polite enquiry upon their return elicited the fact that another bus was being despatched from the garage with a wheel brace, Again it would be impolite to my readers to quote the reply verbatim.
Around thirty minutes later yet another bus of unsuitable type arrived with a driver and his mate. Why two fitters you may ask? Simple, the bus was of a traditional London open platform type and the second employee was aboard to ensure that potential passengers did not leap aboard at traffic lights etc and also ensure that the wheel brace did not fall of the back of the bus.
A further twenty minutes elapsed before we were able to continue our interrupted journey. Eventually we reached our home depot to be told by the inspector on duty that it was pointless resuming our duty as there was insufficient time left to achieve anything useful. So we knocked off twenty minutes early and celebrated with another cuppa in the canteen. Whilst enjoying the delights of London Transport tea Dougie took out his diary along with which a tyre dust cap complete with valve key on the end fell to the floor. I retrieved it and just smiled as I handed it back to him ...
This particular day saw us at Hammond Street about six miles north of Waltham Cross. There was about ten minutes stand time before we were due off again so time for a quick cuppa from the ancient Transit mobile caff that was there during the day. I wandered and got the teas in while Dougie went to view the countryside about a hundred yards away from the other side of the hedge. A few minutes later he rejoined me and we sat slurping and chatting until our departure time.
As i walked round the front of the bus to get into the cab it seemed to have a slightly lop-sided appearance, closer investigation revealed that the offside front tyre was flat. Obviously a phone call to the engineers at Ponders End Garage was needed so ambled off to the nearest phone box at the Rising Sun pub a good quarter of a mile away.
The conversation with the engineering foreman was the usual terse affair with me being told that we would have to wait as the early engineering shift was about end and the late shift had yet to start work.
Having broken the good news to Dougie we adopted Plan B, have another cup of tea, a fag and wait patiently in the warm afternoon sun, Dougie seemed to have a slight incontinence problem that afternoon and ambled off to admire the countryside again. He reckoned that it was a stroke of good fortune that the tyre was flat at the very time that the early and late engineering shifts were changing over and that we would be further delayed because of this inconvenience. He then just dropped into the conversation that as we were due to finish our duty at Ponders End on the way back from our destination at Warren Street, near the GPO Tower, that with a bit of luck, there would be insufficient time for us to go anywhere apart from back to the garage.
Some fifty minutes elapsed before the repair crew arrived in a type of bus that was not used on this particular route so we could not swap vehicles and continue on our merry little way. A very large trolley jack and spare wheel was unloaded and the mechanics jacked up the front of the bus and then looked slightly perplexed.
"Where's the wheel brace," asked one.
"Dunno, you chucked it on" came the reply.
A search of the other bus revealed no trace of the missing tool.
"Better phone the shed then" said one, so they drove their bus down to the pub to make the necessary and probably slightly embarrassing call. It is probably discreet not to speculate on the actual dialogue during this interaction as it may well have contained what is politely known as 'industrial language'.
A polite enquiry upon their return elicited the fact that another bus was being despatched from the garage with a wheel brace, Again it would be impolite to my readers to quote the reply verbatim.
Around thirty minutes later yet another bus of unsuitable type arrived with a driver and his mate. Why two fitters you may ask? Simple, the bus was of a traditional London open platform type and the second employee was aboard to ensure that potential passengers did not leap aboard at traffic lights etc and also ensure that the wheel brace did not fall of the back of the bus.
A further twenty minutes elapsed before we were able to continue our interrupted journey. Eventually we reached our home depot to be told by the inspector on duty that it was pointless resuming our duty as there was insufficient time left to achieve anything useful. So we knocked off twenty minutes early and celebrated with another cuppa in the canteen. Whilst enjoying the delights of London Transport tea Dougie took out his diary along with which a tyre dust cap complete with valve key on the end fell to the floor. I retrieved it and just smiled as I handed it back to him ...
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