MISSED THE HONOURS LIST AGAIN.
Wrong age, wrong attitude.
Somewhere back among the changes of title and conversations with the cat that this blog has recently become, I bemoaned that I was never a teenager. People of my era were past their teens before teenage became the 'in' word to describe young people aged thirteen to nineteen: I was merely an awkward adolescent and I did not become an adult until the age of twenty one: some who knew me at the time might question that, too.
Likewise, when my father first went to work 'on the buildings' he was called Bill by those who knew him and nothing at all by those who didn't. This lasted throughout his blue collar years.
Later he joined the collar and tie brigade where he became Mister Barnden to senior colleagues and Sir to tradesmen and juniors.
That was office protocol way back when.
It lasted through most of my working life, too.
Didn't let it bother me.
A lad who went into the army at the age of fourteen soon discovered what answering to rank was all about: and it wasn't always the people you respected who you were obliged to address as 'sir.'
I met a vast number of dickhead 'sirs,' both in and out of the army.
Never got that far myself.
In the army I did not reach a rank where 'sir' was appropriate and by the time I packed up in the NHS there was scarcely a 'sir' to be heard in the workplace.
Doesn't look like I'm headed for the knighthood now, either.
So: do I regret it?
Na-a-a-h. I don't support a political party, am lukewarm about the royal family and am neither a famous actor nor a gay icon (let alone both).
So why would I be made a sir?
Funny old world we live in, though, ain't it.
TIME FOR MORE WRITING.
And some casual name-dropping.
Maybe a man who finished his last blog post with a warning to the reader that there are a lot of clowns out there really shouldn't have started it with a picture of himself in a wizard's hat; but I did enjoy wearing that titfer: long ago it was a Halloween choice of our granddaughter, Jessica White (Director: CSI Isle of Wight, Series 1 and 2 - Post 110), and I was last seen wearing it at the start of Post 157 on the 31st October, 2010, towards the end of which the two gentlemen named below were mentioned.
To explain: the rewriting of my long ago shelved children's book - current working title The Badgers of Deep Wood - includes a new prologue which I tentatively sent to friend, retired magistrate (and life member of the NUJ), Ian Dillow (still the one wearing the moustache), to assess.
Ian's editorial eye delivered a judgment that was, thankfully, favourable. He advised I also seek the advice of his old friend Graham Hurley, the popular writer of crime fiction and page-turner standalone novels. I did as suggested and was elated to receive another kind response together with some excellent practical advice. Now a New Year writing binge has me rewriting Badgers, attempting the first draft of that too-long-postponed crime story and keeping up with this - aka the cat Shadow's - blog. (Wish me luck. I do enjoy the scribbling, but making it look easy is never as easy as it looks.)
In conclusion, my thanks again to Mr. Dillow,
to M. Hurley (above) and to all of you who regularly look in on my meandering with a kind heart.
May this year be good to you.
Wrong age, wrong attitude.
Likewise, when my father first went to work 'on the buildings' he was called Bill by those who knew him and nothing at all by those who didn't. This lasted throughout his blue collar years.
Later he joined the collar and tie brigade where he became Mister Barnden to senior colleagues and Sir to tradesmen and juniors.
That was office protocol way back when.
It lasted through most of my working life, too.
Didn't let it bother me.
A lad who went into the army at the age of fourteen soon discovered what answering to rank was all about: and it wasn't always the people you respected who you were obliged to address as 'sir.'
I met a vast number of dickhead 'sirs,' both in and out of the army.
Never got that far myself.
In the army I did not reach a rank where 'sir' was appropriate and by the time I packed up in the NHS there was scarcely a 'sir' to be heard in the workplace.
Doesn't look like I'm headed for the knighthood now, either.
So: do I regret it?
Na-a-a-h. I don't support a political party, am lukewarm about the royal family and am neither a famous actor nor a gay icon (let alone both).
So why would I be made a sir?
Funny old world we live in, though, ain't it.
TIME FOR MORE WRITING.
And some casual name-dropping.
Maybe a man who finished his last blog post with a warning to the reader that there are a lot of clowns out there really shouldn't have started it with a picture of himself in a wizard's hat; but I did enjoy wearing that titfer: long ago it was a Halloween choice of our granddaughter, Jessica White (Director: CSI Isle of Wight, Series 1 and 2 - Post 110), and I was last seen wearing it at the start of Post 157 on the 31st October, 2010, towards the end of which the two gentlemen named below were mentioned.
To explain: the rewriting of my long ago shelved children's book - current working title The Badgers of Deep Wood - includes a new prologue which I tentatively sent to friend, retired magistrate (and life member of the NUJ), Ian Dillow (still the one wearing the moustache), to assess.
to M. Hurley (above) and to all of you who regularly look in on my meandering with a kind heart.
May this year be good to you.
