2 (39) IN LESS THAN A CENTURY XI.

THE END OF AN ERA.

The nineties. The decade started with the departure of the largely disliked poll tax and the resignation of Margaret Thatcher. 

Within a week John Major became prime minister. (Whoever chose him, apart from his spouse and Edwina Curry, is a mystery to me. I always thought he looked and sounded like a serial train spotter.)  

It was around this time that I became part-time (five mornings a week) secretary of Age Concern, Isle of Wight. The office was in the seaside town of Ryde (one room at the top of a steep flight of stairs) and the honorarium barely covered the cost of parking my car in the nearest council car park. 

I gave it three years before advising on future local expansion (which included moving - lock, stock and barrel - to the county town, Newport). I then got out. Truth to tell, the last contact I had with it was to buy (just after we moved here) a rather nice bed-settee, at a very good price, from its Newport shop. 

Nationally, Age Concern later joined forces with Help the Aged to become Age UK. The merger was a sensible one. How many old folks' groups do you need in a small country? I was, however, in no way surprised at recent allegations that it has been advising the elderly to purchase overpriced products from firms who are paying it commission for the favour. From experience I wouldn't touch Age UK insurance with a barge pole, but that's very much a personal thing. It is, like every solvent charity, a business. Say no more. 

In 1992 the Conservatives headed by John Major won the general election, the Channel Tunnel was opened and sterling was withdrawn from the ERM. In 1994 the Church of England (to the gnashing of reactionary teeth) ordained its first women priests. There was then little of import until 1997 when New Labour, led by Tony Blair, gained a majority of 179 seats in the general election: it was the end of socialism as we, who remember the likes of Ernie Bevin and Manny Shinwell, knew it. In the same year, Britain handed Hong Kong back to the Chinese and Diana, Princess of Wales, a loose cannon much loved by the populace (if not by older royals and her ex husband), was killed in a car crash in Paris.

National empathy with Diana soon became apparent. Flowers were piled five feet deep in front of Kensington Palace (proof, if it were needed, that there are more out than in) and the royal family, forced to acknowledge, albeit grudgingly, the warmth of public feeling for the princess, returned from Scotland to attend her funeral. An estimated one million people lined the route: no more than a handful of them would ever have met her. 

Finally that year, almost as an afterthought, Scotland and Wales voted for devolution. A profoundly sensible move. 

In 1998, Mo Mowlam moved the whole of Ireland towards civilized government (and hopefully an end to violence) with the Good Friday Agreement. Her reward was a typically political one. She was shunted out of the Northern Ireland job by PM Blair and his Machiavellian sidekick Peter Mandelson. 

Poor old Mo really should have known: it doesn't pay to become too popular in politics. 

Maybe the urge to move was in the air, for we were living in a pleasant bungalow in Wootton Bridge (where we should have remained to this day) when family voices enticed us to examine the joys of sea views from a flat in Ventnor. 

We moved. Once a day the mail boat to the Channel Islands could be seen through our patio doors and once a year the Round the Island Yacht Race straggled by in a few sail-powered hours. There was little else. 

We liked Ventnor; but by early 2000 we were ready to move on.

2 (38) SOME START TO A YEAR (Pt. 2)

SADLY EARLY FAREWELLS. 

Michael Mann (1 July 1934 - 3 January, 2016). Mr. Mann was an Island resident and the father of our daughter Jac's friend from childhood, Rachel, who lives in Australia. His death from a heart attack at his home on St. Lawrence was sudden and unexpected. Rachel journeyed here to be at the funeral and to present the eulogy with her brother, Steve, who came down from Wales. We met Michael only on social and formal occasions, but he and his wife were good friends to those of our kin who have kept in touch with Rachel. By all accounts he had a wacky sense of humour and his amiable presence will be much missed. 

Alan Rickman (21 February 1946 – 14 January 2016).

 In Post 5 of this blog (27th September 2006) I wrote: A few random thoughts about some people I have never met but who have constantly entertained me over the years. For a start there is the actor Alan Rickman, a wonderfully hateful Professor Snape in the Harry Potter films. How can anyone help but admire a man who, in 1988, had Bruce Willis running barefoot through broken glass and in 1991 cancelled Christmas. What a worthwhile chap. If he'd never done anything else I'd still like him. 

The news that he had died, at the same age (69) and from the same illness (cancer) as David Bowie a few days earlier, was a shock to his millions of fans around the world. Like Bowie, he never gave a poor performance in his life and his Severus Snape was, to my mind, one of the best antihero portrayals of all time. 

Commiserations to his lifetime (from their teens) partner, Rima Horton. 

RIP Alan Rickman. 

Then the news, yesterday, of the death from cancer of broadcaster Terry Wogan at the age of 77. 

For years I laughed my way to work listening to Wake Up to Wogan in the car. Remember the TOG (Terry's Old Geezer) who wanted to fly around the world by balloon but only if he could keep one foot on the ground and go home every night for tea? Remember the 'silent' fireworks parties on the 5th of November which were specifically designed not to frighten children and pets? Remember the weekly reports on television dramas like Brideshead Revisited? 
“Lady Marchmain fell down the stairs, killing the butler. Lord Marchmain died of the Chinese wallpaper.” 

We shall not see his like again. 

RIP Sir Tel, broadcasting genius.

And this list would not be complete were I not to mention that my one time editor Ian Dillow's family cat, sixteen year old Rosie, “finally went to meet her maker” on 11th of January. Her health had been in decline for some time. 

Ian wrote: “We keep imagining her in the house. It's silly really but they do become part if the family, don't they?” 

They do, old friend, they certainly do.

A FEW MORE CHANGES. 

Mo and I managed to move my desk and computer into the back room looking down the garden. Somerset Maugham would not have approved. No matter. Nice spot. 
Token exercise equipment to my left and bed settee behind me. I have draped Ellis's Super Mario duvet over the settee to give a splash of colour and added matching pillows as cushions. 

The cat Shadow is now in semi-permanent repose there. He opened one eye as I went by just now. 

“I've copped a look at the blog post,” he said. “Some start to a year, eh?” 

I smiled ruefully. “Yeah. They were all younger than me, too.” 

“Don't think about it, buddy,” he said. “In cat years I'm older than you are. You keep scribbling, I'll keep sleeping.” 

And in an instant he was gently snoring again.

Guess I'll keep scribbling.

2 (37) SOME START TO A YEAR (Pt. 1)

HOME. 

Daughter Roz, still awaiting a left knee replacement, slipped on the new flooring in her kitchen, broke her left elbow and tore the ligaments in her right leg. Arm in a sling. Crutch to walk. Could we look after grandson Ellis for a few days? 

We could. We did. 

On the following Monday my Leader, who does all the driving nowadays, took him the four miles to school and then drove over to see how Roz was coping. At around midday she telephoned me from the local hospital. It seems she was only doing a routine task in Roz's kitchen when she slipped. She had cracked a bone in her left wrist and could not drive home (insurance risk): could I come and drive her? 

I could. I did. 

I'll be so glad when the plaster cast comes off her arm, though. My friendly motorist's language is getting worse by the day. 

The good news is that Roz is driving again now and went back to work yesterday. She is a LSA at a local high school and loves the job.
TELEVISION. 

Various television series have popped in and out (some of them almost unnoticed). Longmire, Luther, Ripper Street, Grimm, The Great British Bake Off and, if you can stand it, All Star Mr. and Mrs. are noticeable examples. Episodes of Father Brown are still appearing (most of them repeats) and you can still see dear old John Nettles in ancient offerings of Midsomer Murders, while his successor, Neil Dudgeon (above), is currently appearing in the latest of that ilk. I mostly give the old 'uns a miss. Always liked Nettles, but have to draw the line at repeat repeats; even Miss Marple can pall when it reaches the fourth time around. Long ago gave up on Jonathan Creek, Frost, Poirot, Wycliffe, Dad's Army and Only Fools and Horses. Crikey, I still have the entire last series of Ripper Street to watch.

 On a brighter note, my Leader and I have enjoyed the early career yarns featuring Montalbano (The Young Montalbano) and Morse (Endeavour). 

We also liked series 3 of the Danish/Swedish TV series The Bridge (which I always think of as the Saga saga). Be a shame if it is discontinued. 

READING.

Feet of Clay by Terry Pratchett (Corgi) combines a glorious send-up of the peerage and all things noblesse with a dire warning that robot workers should not be taken for granted. Loved it. 

Quips, quotes and retorts for Oldies (Parragon Books) was one of my Christmas presents as was Authorisms by Paul Dickson (Bloomsbury): both make good reading if you are of that turn of mind. 

I have also started Fleshmarket Close by Ian Rankin. It's Rebus. Think I may have read it way back. I'll know around page 200. 

Which brings me to end of Part 1. Part 2 will be along later today or tomorrow. It is written, but Google can be a bit cranky if I go too mad with the wordage on a single post.

Anyway, if Warner Bros. can divide Deathly Hallows in two, surely I can do the same with a bloody blog post. Back anon.