HOME.
Maintenance.Forgot to mention in my last post that we have had our kitchen re-roofed.
It is a board and felt job with a couple of roof lights and when we moved in, around about 2000/1, we were advised by the surveyor that it would probably be necessary to replace it in a couple of years.
We held out; it lasted.
So this year, after a couple of reasonable summer months, we decided to have it replaced before, perhaps, winter forced our hand.
We found a reliable firm, accepted their quote, and a couple of weeks back they came in: Jim and his mate.
It pee-ed down, on and off, for the entire time they were here.
Jim was phlegmatic. “Better we know right away whether there are going to be any problems,” was his philosophy. “This way we find out early on.”
One night they left us with a tarpaulin between us and the rain.
That night we experienced the first truly unbelievable downpour for months. Water teemed off the kitchen roof and into the courtyard in a solid sheet. Standing at the kitchen sink was like standing behind Niagara Falls.
But we were miraculously leak free and the next day saw the laying of the new felt.
Finally came the replacement of old, cracked lead and the modification of the antiquated drainage system.
Job done.
Well, I take it job done.
Should last twenty years I am told, so I‘d be a tad optimistic if I said I‘ll let you know.
AND AWAY.
254 OBA.
My Leader and I spent the last few days of last week at a reunion of the 254 Old Boys’ Association. It was our first visit and it came about by chance.
I was wallowing around the web one night and happened upon the names of some ex boy soldiers who had been lads in the Royal Corps of Signals with me. Seemed they had formed an Association consisting entirely of those whose army numbers began 254 i.e. boys who, at the age of fourteen (and from the years 1942 to 1948/9 only), had enlisted in the Royal Signals as apprentices.
Further inquiries elicited the information that they hold an annual reunion (have done so since 1991), that wives were welcome and that, courtesy of the Grim Reaper, the Association’s numbers were fast depleting.
We were sent a nominal roll of OBA members and some copies of their magazine, Jimmy’s Journal, by editor Brian Fisher. We were invited to attend this year‘s bash, drove our car to Salisbury, were driven from there to Derby and back by newly found chum Jim Jenkins, were cordially received by Chairman Toby Seymour - together with as nice a bunch of people as you could find anywhere - and quietly enjoyed the entire experience.
Well…four star Mickleover Court Hotel, Derby…nice staff…all the trimmings… old pals like Wally Brown, Ted Mellor, Nat Preece and Brian Stockwell…a host of affable new pals, all contemporaries…a bevy of charmingly patient (not to say long-suffering) spouses…great organisation by dedicated volunteers…what was not to enjoy?
We shall go again next year if, as Sarah Kennedy so appropriately puts it, we are spared.
Alverstoke Michaelmas Fair.In a pleasant spot just outside Gosport, Hampshire can be found the charming village of Alverstoke wherein live my Leader’s sister, Our Marg, and her husband, Mike.
Every year the village holds a Michaelmas Fair and if we can we pay it a visit.
Brother-in-law Mike meets us at Gosport Ferry terminal and taxis us back and forth. The weather is usually fine. There couldn’t be a nicer way to spend a day.
We wander around the stalls and various charity catchpennies until loose change has departed and elderly energy flags.
We then repair to Our Marg’s to sample her excellent cooking; the two sisters talk sister talk and Mike and I cheerfully agree to disagree on just about every topic imaginable.
He is a devout Tory who firmly supported Margaret Thatcher and believes global warming is a myth. I am a devoutly non-partisan detester of politicians who regards himself as too old to do anything about global warming, myth or fact, and who refuses to lose so much as an hour’s catnap about it.
To the best of my knowledge we have never parted company on a sour note.
Why would we? He married Our Marg.
TELEVISION.
Leeds International Piano Competition.
Is it three years already? I suppose it must be.
This year I saw the televised concert performances of the first two contestants and pronounced them fine by me.
Cristina Ortiz, a magnificent concert pianist, quickly put the damper on such naive enthusiasm.
So I replayed them on DVD.
And of course the lady was right.
Her forthright views also made total nonsense of my theory that piano competitions are won by playing Rachmaninov, hitting the right notes in the right order, and finishing up at the same time as the orchestra.
Ah well…
Merlin.They’re back again. Young Colin Morgan (Merlin) and the rest of them: Anthony Head, Richard Wilson, Angel Coulby, Katie McGrath, Bradley James as Arthur, and the Voice of the Dragon provided by John Hurt.
Incidentally, how come nobody but Merlin and his mentor seem to know that there’s a bloody great talking dragon in the cellar?
It’s as daft as ever was and I shall try not to miss a single episode.
Harper’s Island.
We have regularly recorded this series and have just started watching it.
There’s plenty of misty forest, duelling banjos characters, lust and loathing.
And, like Merlin’s talking dragon, nobody seems to realise that the trees are full of booby traps and bodies.
Gawd! Ain’t it bloodthirsty?
I shall try not miss a single episode.
DAFT DAYS INDEED.
World Egg Day.The second Friday in October, the 9th, was World Egg Day.
What purpose did it serve?
Is the world falling behind in egg consumption? Are the world’s dairy farmers on the breadline? Is there fear that, universally, hens will become paranoid if the total amount they drop into their baskets is not instantly snapped up?
I like eggs, boiled, fried or poached, but I won’t be brainwashed into eating them by the announcement of another daft day.
National Poetry Day.And on the subject of daft days, National Poetry Day, with the theme Heroes and Heroines, fell on the 8th of October.
Probably the daftest thing about that one was news that the nation’s favourite poet is T.S. Eliot.
I was mulling it over, musing that I’d have bet on Pam Ayres myself, when the magical mystery Shadow appeared before me.
“Old Possum Eliot is favourite poet then,” he said. “Were you surprised?”
“Very,” I said. “Were you?”
“Oh yeah. I’d have bet on Pam Ayres myself.”
He struck his poetic pose.
I sighed, but there was no stopping him.
Shadow - The Poetry Cat (he announced)
A poem by Himself.
Shadow is a poetry cat: he’s called the Feline Bard
He scribbles on the rooftops and he scribbles in the yard.
And if by chance you find a scratchy scribble on your door,
You can bet composing Shadow has been at the muse once more.
Shadow, Shadow, you can rely on Shadow,
Shadow will be rhyming all the time:
No dog out-doggerels Shadow, top-cat poetic laddo,
He’s a dedicated master of the rhyme.
So lock up all your notepaper and cover all your walls,
For when it comes to scribbling verse ol’ Shadow don’t lack balls.
He’ll scribble in the sunshine and he’ll scribble in the rain.
He’ll scribble on your lavatory door - or even on the chain.
He’ll inscribe a rhyme on your Pekinese, or even on its fleas
He’ll tattoo a verse on your elbow and two of them on your knees.
He’s not averse to appending a verse that would make other poets despair,
But when he tried to do it to Eliot - MACAVITY WASN’T THERE!
He had a quick wash.
“Well, what do you think?” he asked.
“Not bad,“ I said. “Quite T.S. Eliot. Especially the last three words.”
Maintenance.Forgot to mention in my last post that we have had our kitchen re-roofed.
It is a board and felt job with a couple of roof lights and when we moved in, around about 2000/1, we were advised by the surveyor that it would probably be necessary to replace it in a couple of years.
We held out; it lasted.
So this year, after a couple of reasonable summer months, we decided to have it replaced before, perhaps, winter forced our hand.
We found a reliable firm, accepted their quote, and a couple of weeks back they came in: Jim and his mate.
It pee-ed down, on and off, for the entire time they were here.
Jim was phlegmatic. “Better we know right away whether there are going to be any problems,” was his philosophy. “This way we find out early on.”
One night they left us with a tarpaulin between us and the rain.
That night we experienced the first truly unbelievable downpour for months. Water teemed off the kitchen roof and into the courtyard in a solid sheet. Standing at the kitchen sink was like standing behind Niagara Falls.
But we were miraculously leak free and the next day saw the laying of the new felt.
Finally came the replacement of old, cracked lead and the modification of the antiquated drainage system.
Job done.
Well, I take it job done.
Should last twenty years I am told, so I‘d be a tad optimistic if I said I‘ll let you know.
AND AWAY.
254 OBA.
My Leader and I spent the last few days of last week at a reunion of the 254 Old Boys’ Association. It was our first visit and it came about by chance.
I was wallowing around the web one night and happened upon the names of some ex boy soldiers who had been lads in the Royal Corps of Signals with me. Seemed they had formed an Association consisting entirely of those whose army numbers began 254 i.e. boys who, at the age of fourteen (and from the years 1942 to 1948/9 only), had enlisted in the Royal Signals as apprentices.
Further inquiries elicited the information that they hold an annual reunion (have done so since 1991), that wives were welcome and that, courtesy of the Grim Reaper, the Association’s numbers were fast depleting.
We were sent a nominal roll of OBA members and some copies of their magazine, Jimmy’s Journal, by editor Brian Fisher. We were invited to attend this year‘s bash, drove our car to Salisbury, were driven from there to Derby and back by newly found chum Jim Jenkins, were cordially received by Chairman Toby Seymour - together with as nice a bunch of people as you could find anywhere - and quietly enjoyed the entire experience.
Well…four star Mickleover Court Hotel, Derby…nice staff…all the trimmings… old pals like Wally Brown, Ted Mellor, Nat Preece and Brian Stockwell…a host of affable new pals, all contemporaries…a bevy of charmingly patient (not to say long-suffering) spouses…great organisation by dedicated volunteers…what was not to enjoy?
We shall go again next year if, as Sarah Kennedy so appropriately puts it, we are spared.
Alverstoke Michaelmas Fair.In a pleasant spot just outside Gosport, Hampshire can be found the charming village of Alverstoke wherein live my Leader’s sister, Our Marg, and her husband, Mike.
Every year the village holds a Michaelmas Fair and if we can we pay it a visit.
Brother-in-law Mike meets us at Gosport Ferry terminal and taxis us back and forth. The weather is usually fine. There couldn’t be a nicer way to spend a day.
We wander around the stalls and various charity catchpennies until loose change has departed and elderly energy flags.
We then repair to Our Marg’s to sample her excellent cooking; the two sisters talk sister talk and Mike and I cheerfully agree to disagree on just about every topic imaginable.
He is a devout Tory who firmly supported Margaret Thatcher and believes global warming is a myth. I am a devoutly non-partisan detester of politicians who regards himself as too old to do anything about global warming, myth or fact, and who refuses to lose so much as an hour’s catnap about it.
To the best of my knowledge we have never parted company on a sour note.
Why would we? He married Our Marg.
TELEVISION.
Leeds International Piano Competition.
Is it three years already? I suppose it must be.
This year I saw the televised concert performances of the first two contestants and pronounced them fine by me.
Cristina Ortiz, a magnificent concert pianist, quickly put the damper on such naive enthusiasm.
So I replayed them on DVD.
And of course the lady was right.
Her forthright views also made total nonsense of my theory that piano competitions are won by playing Rachmaninov, hitting the right notes in the right order, and finishing up at the same time as the orchestra.
Ah well…
Merlin.They’re back again. Young Colin Morgan (Merlin) and the rest of them: Anthony Head, Richard Wilson, Angel Coulby, Katie McGrath, Bradley James as Arthur, and the Voice of the Dragon provided by John Hurt.
Incidentally, how come nobody but Merlin and his mentor seem to know that there’s a bloody great talking dragon in the cellar?
It’s as daft as ever was and I shall try not to miss a single episode.
Harper’s Island.
We have regularly recorded this series and have just started watching it.
There’s plenty of misty forest, duelling banjos characters, lust and loathing.
And, like Merlin’s talking dragon, nobody seems to realise that the trees are full of booby traps and bodies.
Gawd! Ain’t it bloodthirsty?
I shall try not miss a single episode.
DAFT DAYS INDEED.
World Egg Day.The second Friday in October, the 9th, was World Egg Day.
What purpose did it serve?
Is the world falling behind in egg consumption? Are the world’s dairy farmers on the breadline? Is there fear that, universally, hens will become paranoid if the total amount they drop into their baskets is not instantly snapped up?
I like eggs, boiled, fried or poached, but I won’t be brainwashed into eating them by the announcement of another daft day.
National Poetry Day.And on the subject of daft days, National Poetry Day, with the theme Heroes and Heroines, fell on the 8th of October.
Probably the daftest thing about that one was news that the nation’s favourite poet is T.S. Eliot.
I was mulling it over, musing that I’d have bet on Pam Ayres myself, when the magical mystery Shadow appeared before me.
“Old Possum Eliot is favourite poet then,” he said. “Were you surprised?”
“Very,” I said. “Were you?”
“Oh yeah. I’d have bet on Pam Ayres myself.”
He struck his poetic pose.
I sighed, but there was no stopping him.
Shadow - The Poetry Cat (he announced)
A poem by Himself.
Shadow is a poetry cat: he’s called the Feline Bard
He scribbles on the rooftops and he scribbles in the yard.
And if by chance you find a scratchy scribble on your door,
You can bet composing Shadow has been at the muse once more.
Shadow, Shadow, you can rely on Shadow,
Shadow will be rhyming all the time:
No dog out-doggerels Shadow, top-cat poetic laddo,
He’s a dedicated master of the rhyme.
So lock up all your notepaper and cover all your walls,
For when it comes to scribbling verse ol’ Shadow don’t lack balls.
He’ll scribble in the sunshine and he’ll scribble in the rain.
He’ll scribble on your lavatory door - or even on the chain.
He’ll inscribe a rhyme on your Pekinese, or even on its fleas
He’ll tattoo a verse on your elbow and two of them on your knees.
He’s not averse to appending a verse that would make other poets despair,
But when he tried to do it to Eliot - MACAVITY WASN’T THERE!
He had a quick wash.
“Well, what do you think?” he asked.
“Not bad,“ I said. “Quite T.S. Eliot. Especially the last three words.”
