Spooky - or what?

Some say that flirting with unknown forces may be dangerous, others that there are no such things and that it is a matter of individual choice as to whether such things exist or not as well as to become involved or not with such.  From this rather vague opening remark it is hoped to relate a personal experience of strange and maybe unexplained events.  Please bear with me ...

One Tuesday evening in mid-March we were using a Ouija board at home, this was not the first occasion as it had been used many times before.  After a number of inconsequential contacts through the board a very positive one was made, this one eventually gave his name as 'Pa'.  Seemingly at first nothing remotely unusual in that many men over the years had been known as Pa by family and friends.  When asked "Pa who?" there was a response of "Norton".  Now the name of Pa Norton definitely  meant something as he was the founder of the Norton motorcycle manufacturers in the early twentieth century.  Just for those who do not know me I have been involved with motorcycles in one way or another for over almost sixty years now, they are an abiding passion.

It just so happened that only a few weeks before we had bought a Norton racing sidecar with the idea of racing it, what else?  The morning after this Ouija board session we were off to Snetterton circuit in Norfolk for a practice day for a shakedown for us and the bike.

Back to the Tuesday evening - our next request for any message was met very quickly and vigorously with the planchette speeding from letter to letter spelling out D-A-N-G-E-R.  The next message was C-A-U-T-I-O-N and that was the end of contact with Pa Norton.

The outfit had been stripped and rebuilt by us over the previous weeks with any necessary work carried out and we were happy that we had not missed anything at all.  The Wednesday morning found us at the circuit, after preliminary safety checks and warming up the engine we went onto the track for some exploratory laps to get used to the machine and satisfy ourselves that there was nothing amiss.   Returning to the paddock various checks and minor adjustments were made, fuel topped up and off we went again with the idea of improving lap times.  Having completed half a dozen laps or so top engine revs were being used on the faster parts of the circuit and our times were falling.  Crossing the start/finish line something suddenly felt different about the handling of the outfit, probably imagination.  Near the apex of the next corner, a right hander, it became apparent that it was not in my mind, there was definitely something wrong as the bike wanted to go straight on rather than turn, the effort involved just to stay on tarmac was huge.  After what seemed an eternity we got onto the straight and pulled off.  Quick inspection showed nothing significant, no puncture apparent which was the obvious possible fault so slowly we returned to the paddock.  After a quick discussion the fairing was removed and a thorough check begun particularly around the steering and front forks where the fault was obvious - the brazed joints of the frame to the steering head were all cracked, thus the difficult steering.  Presumably the fault was either due to poor brazing which was unlikely as the frame etc around that area was original factory brazes or caused by a previous crash unknown to us.  That was that then, unfortunately an abrupt end to any further testing and a visit the next day to the man with the brazing torch.

Pa Norton was right that there was danger, the end result could have been very serious for us both.  As far as strange forces are concerned there is little personal choice but to accept that such things certainly exist and something for which I am more than grateful.

Maybe a little more in this vein may follow ...

Nothing really ...

Haven't written anything since last Saturday for a couple of reasons: the first that there appears to be a severe attack of writer's block ongoing making it difficult for the creative juices to flow especcially about nothing; the second is that until yesterday there was no Interweb connection from my provider due to difficulties occasioned by the extreme weather in the north of the country.  Admittedly that we live only some two hundred miles away from the Spanish border and that as the more astute will realise is nowhere near the northern part of the country but my provider's central distribution is, just outside Paris in fact.  Now all is restored to normal service - thankfully!

It is only when something that is taken for granted and then taken away that the realisation comes of how important that now missing something is, in this instant  t'Interweb.  Instead of being absorbed with assorted forae, emails and other diversions there suddenly was this yawning great chasm each day of just so many hours to fill.  Too cold to go out into the workshop not spend time outside in any other way, thankfully the portent of Christmas intervened in some measure with joyful hours passed in various retail establishments whilst gathering sustenance for the festival and last minute gifts.  Even more thankfully during the course of these forays there is always a welcoming café for a decent coffee and a browse of the newspaper.

An idea occurred whilst in one of the huge hypermarkets arising from the presence of créche facilities for harrassed mothers with youngsters to safely deposit kids and shop unhindered, why not have a grown-up créche for husbands where wives can safely leave t'other half and likewise enjoy unhindered retail therapy.  requirements could really be quite modest for such an establishment, decent coffee or beer, comfortable easy chairs, a selection of suitable reading material, television showing a variety of programmes and of course appropriate staff for such a place.  Now how many men would be only too happy to go shopping given such inducements?  Me for one ...

Amazing isn't it?  Set out to write nothing and what happens?  A further outpouring of assorted, miscellaneous drivel!  Oh well, back to the concept of creating nothing ...

Seasonal Greetings ...

... From us, Tigger & Fudge.

Driving advice

Heard on Sky News this morning from a driving expert from the AA - "If your car gets stuck then use the floor mats under the wheels to gain traction and get under way again".

Great advice, unless you think about it. A rubber tyre on ice has little traction as we all know, a tyre on a mat will have greater traction than on ice, obvious ennit? Now interpose said mat between tyre and ice and try to drive off . Assuming that the scheme works and you are moving then how do you retrieve the mat? Obvious, stop, get out put mat back in car and drive away. Ah, problem - no grip so get out put mat under wheel again ... ad infinitum.

Reality - tyre grips mat which slips on ice thus propelling it rearwards at some rate of knots into the air landing down the road a few yards.  If everyone tried this the road would look like a demonstration of flying carpets in Baghdad :lol:

Great theory but it does not work. How do I know? Just trust me on this one ...

'Ello, 'Ello, 'Ello - Part 2

Just two tales today, one amusing and almost worthy of the Keystone Cops, the other at the opposite end of the scale as far as that scale goes.

One warm, pleasant summer's evening a fellow Special and I were making our way back to the station for what in the job are known as refreshments and anticipating a decent cuppa. As we turned the corner into a main road only a couple of hundred yards away from our break we saw a car parked on the zig-zag lines on the approach side of a pedestrian crossing adjacent to which there was a pub of a certain local reputation. The vehicle was checked for tax disc etc while I went into the pub to find the driver. My polite request for the driver of this car, a MkII Jaguar was met with a somewhat rude and belligerent response from two men seated near the door. After several requests from me, eachh stronger in tone, they came out and rudely demanded what was going on. My colleague explained the error of their ways in quite reasonable terms with the simple intent of getting the driver to move his car some thirty or so yards along the road so as to be clear of the crossing.

Seemingly they both wished to return to their beer in the pub and refused very pointedly and suggested that we might like to go away and do something useful. I asked for appropriate documents, unsurprisingly none were forthcoming but a torrent of further invective was instead. When asked what the car boot contained we were told that it was none of our business. By this time the two 'gentlemen' were talking themselves into being nicked, especially when both declined to furnish any personal details. My fellow officer went to open the boot and the driver of the car roughly pulled him away whilst offering further advice to us both. So what started just as a polite enquiry and request was now escalating into something potentially ugly. Both were again warned that further hindering the police in the course of enquiries would lead to arrest and possible court action. Yet again our desire to ease the situation was bluntly rejected.

Just at this moment the station van turned the corner, stopping to ask if all was OK or did we need any assistance which we readily accepted. The two inquestion were briefly spoken to by the other officers and arrested due to their lack of co-operation. When asked again to open the car boot one did so after some altercation revealing a blanket over some items in there. When the blanket was removed a sawn off shotgun and another shotgun as well, examination showed that both were loaded.

To cut this tale short the two villains, as it turned out that indeed they were, were on very unsafe ground - one was out on licence from prison for violence, the other had a number of outstanding warrants against him for non-appearance in court. So really a simple parking offence led to the arrest and return to jail of one and the other receiving a jail sentence for this and other outstanding offences. Two nasty pieces of work out of circulation in one evening, not bad!

It was only whilst writing up our notes etc over a well earned cuppa that the possible enormity of a very different outcome was realised.

Now for the other tale. Just before midnight one autumn Friday evening a mobile unit was called to a domestic break in, the property was in a quiet white collar residential area. By the time that the unit arrived the burglar had left with his haul. Several local people said that a furtive figure had been seen heading towards the local park, quite large and fenced, secured at night except for umpteen holes in the railings and fences. Various units answered to go to the park and the search began.

One of the features of this particular park are several large shrubberies and one or two are quite dense. Reasoning that a fugitive burglar might choose to hide in the undergrowth those areas were targeted for a search. It was a very dark night with no moon not helped by a lack og lighting within the park. Obviously we all had torches and radios to keep in touch but it was deemed that radio silence was essential to avoid giving our positions away. Quite how that was arrived at is unclear but some dozen or so heavy footed police officers crashing about in the undergrowth was sufficient to alert anyone as their positions.

Suddenly there was a shout which seemed to indicate that a capture had been made. Indeed it had but in the almost Stygian darkness an officer could easily be confused for our burglar - this was the case, the unfortunate 'burglar' bought down by a heavy rugby tackle which resulted in a broken collar bone. Several more false alarms with other officers being apprehended followed culminating in one being bundled into the boating lake. Silent approach? The whole episode was reminiscent of a herd of rampaging elephants!

Oh, almost forgot, the burglar was not found and the end was called eventually to this event. Not one of the finest searches in the history of a certain North London police station.

Red tape

I want to buy a couple of stationery items, some card pin badges and some microperforated card for address cards. Cannot find anything like in any of the hypermarkets, stationery retail stores are as scarce as hen's teeth in our little bit of France. The obvious thing is to buy online, a quicj Google search finds quite a number of online stores. Great stuff ...

So I explored the first hit, they have exactly what I want at prices that I like, put them in the virtual shopping basket and proceed to the checkout. Easy so far. Filled in the usual required details etc and went to pay. Instead of the payment screen The details one reappeared, apparently I had missed something on there. Having checked it showed that I needed to enter a Siret number, that effectively is a business registration number which as a private individual I do not have. Tried entering a series of numbers of the appropriate length and on to payment again - still no joy.

Oh well, back to Google and another online store. Come the payment bit and again the same problem, so a few more sites were tried, each with the same result.

Now to Plan B, go to a UK site such as Staples or Office World, both of whom had the desired items. Towards the end of the transaction both stated quite clearly that items will noy be sent outside of the UK. This nothing unusual as many retailers online will not psot to Europe. Why for heavens sake? There is no additional paperwork now thanks to the EU only extra postage, no customs formalities nor anything else.

So, here am I totally frustrated and wanting to support French businesses and I cannot because of red tape. UK companies do not want my meager trade either for different reasons.


AAAARRRGGH!

What can possibly go wrong?

Friends coming over for dinner this evening, what could be nicer? Not cooking anything special, just a standard English Sunday roast. Decided that instead of just 'gravy' to accompany the meat I would make a sauce chasseur, basically that's simply a wine and mushroom sauce. The necessary ingredients are already in the kitchen so it's just a case of 'let's do it'.

First task is to weigh the ingredients for the sauce, simple eh? No, the electronic kitchen scales are dead, do not work, a set of ex-scales. Can't be the batteries are flat as they were only changed a week or so ago. Right, change batteries, first problem - no spare batteries in the house. Raid my wife's little English/French translator for the batteries, put them in the scales and ... the display shows a meaningless load of garbage. Call for assistance from she who knows about these things, whom after much much muttering, incantations and repeated button pressing finally the correct display condescends to appear.

Right, where were we? Oh yes, weighing mushrooms etc, fine, all done. Next open a bottle of wine as some is needed for the sauce. Said bottle of wine opened and is found to be 'off', great for use as vinegar on chips but not much else. Open another, this time as the cork is extracted the bottle slips out of my grasp, dropping to the floor. Tiled kitchen floors are mercilessly unforgiving to anything remotely fragile that drops onto them. Result? One shattered wine bottle, wine and glass fragments all over the floor. There is now an added complication of two inquisitive kittens sniffing the floor, the last thing now needed is drunken kittens or an emergency trip to to the vets to have shards of glass removed from delicate little paws. Kittens shut temporarily in the bedroom and 'Operation Cleanup' can begin.

In England shopping on a Sunday is taken for granted, regrettably not possible here as all shops are closed on Sundays. A quick trot to our neighbours over the road in rain of biblical proportions elicits the loan of a bottle of wine, happily this is safely opened and the requisite amount dispensed into a pan.

Other ingredients are added to said pan and the gas lit. Some thirty seconds later the gas burner goes out - we are out of gas, not having the luxury of mains gas we use bottled. Not a major problem except that to change the cylinder necessitates going outside the house because the bottle is kept in an insulated container below the kitchen window. The rain of biblical proportions has by now intensified to monsoon level as only previously seen in 'It Ain't Half Hot Mum', so having donned wellies and foul weather gear sufficient for a single handed voyage around the globe a sortie to the bottle store is made.

One added luxury is that the roof two storeys above the kitchen window has no guttering so the exchange of the empty cylinder and the spare is made not only in torrential rain but in a waterfall cascading directly from the roof above. Mission accomplished and once more safe indoors, drying off and changing a soggy shirt and jumper, not from a leaking jacket but cold rainwater pouring directly down my neck, it is time to return to the kitchen. The next discovery awaiting me is that recently purchased shallots are all bad under the skin, unfortunately a phone call to our neighbour goes unanswered because they have by now gone out for the day.

So, having phoned a friend who lives several kilometres away and happily has some shallots for the scrounging a further waterproof jacket is donned. Upon reaching our car it is observed that a rear tyre is flat. No, I am not going to change the offending wheel is this downpour as scuba gear is not readily to hand. Returning home amidst a torrent of somewhat picturesque language I am met with an enquiry as to whether anything is wrong. Wrong? Yes there certainly is something wrong - I got up this morning!

Dinner this evening? Ah yes, I'm sorry but you will have to be content with ordinary, standard issue gravy.

France best country to live in?

France best country to live in?

Seasonal activity

Living in the heart of the country it is noticeable that the changing seasons are more obvious than for townsfolk. Autumn arrived a couple of weeks ago cladding the world in a riot of colour from pale yellow, through orange and red to deep russet browns. The fields have changed too from the golds and yellows of ripened crops to rich ploughed earthy shades speckled with small pieces of natural limestone which is the underlying bedrock. Winter seed has been sown and is already casting a gentle green tinge to otherwise bare fields. Most herds of cattle have been moved from summer pasture into winter deep litter barns to protect them from the elements.

Other seasonal things are happening too, the local hunt or 'chasse' is now in full swing until the end of February, the main quarry being deer, wild boar, hares, rabbits and an assortment of game birds. There is a strict quota of deer and wild boar that may be taken each season which in traditional French bureaucratic fashion is meticulously recorded by each hunter and association and then submitted to the necessary authorities. The most popular days for hunting are Sunday and Wednesday when groups of twenty men or more gather to arrange the day and then disperse with guns, dogs, horns and walkie talkies. All will be dressed head to toe in camouflage clothing appropriate to the country to keep a low visible profile. There is an exception to this low visibility aspect, each and every hunter will wear a high visibility cap or jacket to avoid being shot by his his chums, thus nullifying any potential advantage of sneaking up on some unsuspecting creature. It should be pointed out that during the course of each season there are some dozen or so fatalities to hunters caused by gunshot throughout the whole country.

Another shorter seasonal pursuit is collecting wild edible fungi which lasts only some six weeks or so which is when the choicest varieties abound. These range from ordinary common mushrooms through the delightfully coloured morelles to a range of dark beefsteak varieties. Often this activity is not a lone pursuit, groups of men band together to seek these delicacies, the usual means of access to the wooded ares is by quad bike. It is not uncommon to see anything up to fifteen or so pass our home en route to the growing areas which are often closely guarded secrets as some of their pickings are sold commercially.

The ultimate prize at this time of year are wild truffles which grow around the roots of specific types of oak tree. The usual method of unearthing this walnut sized delicacy is to use the sensitive nose of a trained dog or pig to seek them out but the hunter has to be very alert otherwise the pig particularly will eat them. Truffles are very desirable merchandise to the restaurant trade and gourmands and are used in minute quantities to perfume suitable dishes the most common of which is probably a truffle omelette. This latter dish will cost anything upwards of €20 in any restaurant. That may seem a somewhat exorbitant price for an omelette but in specialist markets truffles sell for anything up to €1500 a kilogram but that obviously reflects the desirability of the fungus.

Something we always look forward to is the first couple of weeks in January which is the lambing season here, it is a sheer joy to see the new lambs in the fields and to watch them grow. That particular annual event is the precursor to spring arriving in another few weeks when the countryside awakes again ready for another glorious and colourful summer.

Confusion

Much confusion and downright puzzlement is caused to a good number of British drivers venturing to France is caused by the idiosyncratic traffic law of 'give way to the right. Perhaps unsurprisingly this particular rule of the road gives rise to roughly one in ten of all road traffic accidents in the country.

So how did this quaint concept arise? Before the era of mechanically propelled vehicles everything was drawn by animals, horses, donkeys, oxen, some of these beasts particularly oxen and horses were of not inconsiderable size. Just think of the size of a Shire horse for example, a huge and magnificent animal. The local breed of cattle, Aquitaine Blondes, are so big that I can barely see over the back of one and weighs on average one and a quarter tonnes.

Imagine that you are driving a cart or wagon drawn by even just two of these animals and approaching a junction in the road; the power units are some two and a half metres long, allowing another half a metre for the bit of the wagon between you and them makes forr roughly ten feet in old money. That is a rather large lump in front of you - before you have any view of the other road that you are approaching there will obviously be the animals already intruding onto that road. Thus it made sense to give way to traffic from the right as the French drive on the right.

A simple explanation perhaps which although it may not help your state of mind when driving it gives you an understanding as to why things are the that they are!


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No apology is made for reproducing the following from a webpage. a regular question asked by continentals and those from much of the world overall is why does the UK drive on the left.

Perhaps this may help just a little in explanation and may also amuse at the same time:

" Why do people in Britain and some of their former colonies drive on the left side of the road? Is it just a case of clinging stubbornly to an outdated tradition, such as the confusing English system of measures?

— Billy Bob, Memphis, Tennessee

Dear Bilbo:

Try to be tolerant. Seven hundred years ago everybody used the English system, and if distressing numbers of us have proven fickle in the centuries since, that's no reason to rubbish the Brits.

In the Middle Ages you kept to the left for the simple reason that you never knew who you'd meet on the road in those days. You wanted to make sure that a stranger passed on the right so you could go for your sword in case he proved unfriendly.

This custom was given official sanction in 1300 AD, when Pope Boniface VIII invented the modern science of traffic control by declaring that pilgrims headed to Rome should keep left.

The papal system prevailed until the late 1700s, when teamsters in the United States and France began hauling farm products in big wagons pulled by several pairs of horses. These wagons had no driver's seat. Instead the driver sat on the left rear horse, so he could keep his right arm free to lash the team. Since you were sitting on the left, naturally you wanted everybody to pass on the left so you could look down and make sure you kept clear of the other guy's wheels. Ergo, you kept to the right side of the road. The first known keep-right law in the U.S. was enacted in Pennsylvania in 1792, and in the ensuing years many states and Canadian provinces followed suit.

In France the keep-right custom was established in much the same way. An added impetus was that, this being the era of the French Revolution and all, people figured, hey, no pope gonna tell ME what to do. (See above.) Later Napoleon enforced the keep-right rule in all countries occupied by his armies. The custom endured even after the empire was destroyed.

In small-is-beautiful England, though, they didn't use monster wagons that required the driver to ride a horse. Instead the guy sat on a seat mounted on the wagon. What's more, he usually sat on the right side of the seat so the whip wouldn't hang up on the load behind him when he flogged the horses. (Then as now, most people did their flogging right-handed.) So the English continued to drive on the left, not realizing that the tide of history was running against them and they would wind up being ridiculed by folks like you with no appreciation of life's little ironies. Keeping left first entered English law in 1756, with the enactment of an ordinance governing traffic on the London Bridge, and ultimately became the rule throughout the British Empire.

The trend among nations over the years has been toward driving on the right, but Britain has done its best to stave off global homogenization. Its former colony India remains a hotbed of leftist sentiment, as does Indonesia, which was occupied by the British in the early 19th century. The English minister to Japan achieved the coup of his career in 1859 when he persuaded his hosts to make keep-left the law in the future home of Toyota and Mitsubishi.

Nonetheless, the power of the right has been growing steadily. When Germany annexed Austria in 1938, it brutally suppressed the latter's keep-left rights, and much the same happened in Czechoslovakia in 1939. The last holdouts in mainland Europe, the Swedes, finally switched to the right in 1967 because most of the countries they sold Saabs and Volvos to were righties and they got tired of having to make different versions for domestic use and export.

The current battleground is the island of Timor. The Indonesians, who own west Timor, have been whiling away the hours exterminating the native culture of the east Timorese. The issue? Some say it's religion, some say it's language, but I know the truth: in east Timor they drive on the right, in west Timor they drive on the left."

— Cecil Adams

Armistice Day, 11 November

A time for remembering and reflection. A time for hoping that lessons have been learned from the two savage wars that swept Europe and the world twice in just over thirty years. From the carnage and ashes and economic desolation of six long years of savagery and man's inhumanity to man came an idea that perhaps such a tragedy could never happen again. The idea was born in France that an initially small brotherhood of nations might be forged to create a more secure and understanding world. From this eventually came the Common Market and latterly the European Union. This is neither time nor place to argue the merits and problems of that union but to appreciate what it has done in terms of European peace.

Armistice Day here is a public holiday, shops and businesses closed with only essential services running on a day of remembrance. We shall be at our local ceremony at the war memorial in our village as will millions of others in this land to acknowledge the sacrifices made by ordinary people who were fighting these two dreadful wars. Their names are inscribed on the memorial, some twenty four from our village in the first conflict, a village of less than ten times that number. Several family names are there with brothers and fathers killed too. There is also, thankfully, just one name from the second conflict largely due to France being overrun in June 1940.

Others who perished particularly are also remembered, those deported under compulsory labour orders who never returned, political and 'anti-social' elements as well as vast numbers of Jews living in France. An address of remembrance will be read by our mayor, the hub of the local community, the same address will be read at every other ceremony throughout the country unifying an act of remembrance.

Wreaths will be laid then children from the village primary school singing the Marseillaise then two minutes silence. No prayers or other religious symbolism is involved in this simple yet moving event because this is a secular country.

Afterwards at the village hall attached to the Mairie a 'vin d'honneur' will be taken in memory of those who gave their lives for their country.

France has a saying about the war - 'Forgive but don't forget'

Who am I?

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!

'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.

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.

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.

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 ...

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."

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 ...

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!

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.

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!