2 (27) IN LESS THAN A CENTURY VI.

ADVICE FROM A BALD-HEADED BARBER.

The sixties (continued). 

So there we were. Middle of the swinging sixties. Two children and a roof over our heads. Not much else. Still, compared to many we were lucky. I certainly was: my young wife had great legs and it was the age of the mini skirt. Financially, though, we were treading water and close to sinking. I had reached the lofty grade of Higher Clerical Officer: the salary was not enough to support a growing family. It was hardly enough to justify a car (even, as it was by then, a little Austin A30), let alone my monthly haircut. But the car was a snip from a friend of my mother and the haircut was an impossible to avoid essential: impossible to avoid because there was a very competent 'short-back-and-sides' barber in the road alongside the office and essential because no self-respecting ex boy soldier would go around with hair like a dosshouse drunk.
Anyway, I liked the barber. Didn't know his name - or he mine – but he always greeted me with: “How are you, sir? And how's the wife?” 
My response to both questions never varied: “Fine, thank you.” This exchange was enacted long before I met Maureen or had any notion I might ever marry. Never asked why he thought marriage suited me; perhaps it was my worried look. 
He had an interesting background which included a spell at a barbershop on Portsmouth Town Station. The senior barber at that time had been a Mr. Morris, a Russian Jewish immigrant justifiably proud of his sons, Aubrey and Wolfe Morris, who were actors.
Such little snippets enlivened our conversation as my barber snipped along. If required, he finished off the haircut with a shampoo which, he maintained, had to be done twice in succession if it was to nurture the hair. He was bald, so it was hair-care advice from a bald-headed barber. 
Did I take it seriously? Of course I did.

 Elsewhere in the world a bunch of people whose barber was probably a 'stylist,' the Rolling Stones, had a huge hit with (I can't get no) Satisfaction. Never did work out why Mick Jagger had that problem. 
In my case it was down to the tightly monitored staffing grades and levels imposed on Executive Councils by the Ministry of Health on behalf of the taxpayer. There was no promotion to be had at Portsmouth; if I wanted a pay rise we would have to move. In the event, Malcolm X had been assassinated, Twiggy had been named face of the year and England had won the FIFA world cup before such an opportunity came along. 
In 1968 experienced officers were invited to apply for the post of Deputy to the Clerk of the Isle of Wight Executive Council (NHS) at Newport, I.W. I applied and, to my surprise (because I never, ever, interviewed well), got the job. 
I reported back to my boss at Pompey with the words: “So you were right when you thought a man who came here from the army wouldn't stay long.” 
He laughed. “How long ago did I say that?” 
It was eleven years. 
We finally moved on 1 July, 1968. I had then been the Island E.C.'s Deputy Clerk/Finance Officer for three months and was beginning to understand the ins and outs of it.

 It took longer to take up residence in our new home (though house buying at that time was not the traumatic experience it is now), but we eventually settled in Wootton Bridge, a village three miles from Newport. The commute was an easy one; there was very little traffic on the roads over here in those days. 
We quickly settled back into the routine of young family life (few concerns outside survival and bathing the kids). 

When, on the 21 July, 1969, Neil Armstrong said: “That's one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind,” it barely registered that the swinging sixties were swinging to an end. 
The Barnden family had its own giant leap to consider. Maureen was expecting our third child. 
(Oh yes, I remember the sixties.) 
HOME. 
The election. Went. Voted. Same wet plank with a blue rosette got in. Never accuse islanders of unpredictability.
BOOKS. 
Have read: Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death, by M.C.Beaton, a bread-and-butter yarn from a prolific writer (well, writers have to live, too) and am reading Soul Music by Terry Pratchett and A Spy Among Friends (Philby and the Great Betrayal), by Ben Macintyre. More later on both. 
Mind how you go. 

2 (26) IN LESS THAN A CENTURY V.

IF YOU CAN REMEMBER THEM...

The sixties. 

It has been said, too often, that if you can remember the sixties you weren't there. I can remember them well enough and that says it all. Never in my life smoked pot or wore flowers in my hair and, from my mid-twenties onwards, had little time for the music of the day. Was never a 'teenager' for that matter; they came later. Back in the forties you were just a spotty adolescent. Never lived in a tented commune with the smell of damp clothes and cannabis and free love, either. Might have been a nicer person if I had; but no, all that passed me by. I wasn't there. 

Met my Leader for the first time in 1961 (she tells me). We first went out the day the Berlin Wall went up. I'm not sure whether that signifies anything. We drove, in my Fiat 600, to a pub out in the country that she “had heard was quite nice.” When we got there the owner of the shop where she worked and one of his male assistants just happened to be “having a drink” in the lounge bar. What a coincidence! We had a pleasant evening and as I drove her back home I realized, in silent amusement, that I had just passed the first test: had I not I would have been driving alone and her boss or his assistant would have escorted her home. You'd have to be a complete moron not to admire feminine guile like that. 

The following year we were married: sold the Fiat (complete with fog lights and abarth dual exhaust) to help fund it. Went on honeymoon to Cornwall in a hired Mini with bald tires. Nobody gave a sod in those days. Later bought a former McDonald's fisheries van to drive to and from work. Cats followed me around for months. Well, I like cats. Mo found work with our local newsagent and I carried on working for the NHS (poor money, but one day there would be a pension). 

It was the year The Beatles recorded their first single (Love Me Do), and it was the year Marilyn Monroe died (who knows how). The assassination of JFK in 1963 was less of a surprise than it might have been. In a country where everyone has the right to bear arms, the decision to drive the American President into Dallas in an open car had to be fatally optimistic didn't it? That said, I don't think any of it affected us much. We were new to married life and gently happy. At the beginning of February 1964 our son, Neil, was born at a nursing home in Emsworth, on the Hants/Sussex border. Towards the end of July, 1965, his sister Jacqueline was born at home. Back then, hospital - home - hospital were the advised birthplace venues for successive babies. Might not be the same now. In the NHS, as in education, the police and all the public services, the bureaucratic goalposts were (and still are) constantly changing. It's the prerogative of politicians to meddle and, one way or another, they always do. If I had a thousand quid for every Minister of Health (from Derek Walker-Smith onwards) who was a total twat, I'd be a very rich man. (To be continued) 

READING. 

I finished Terry Pratchett's Men At Arms (published by Gollancz) with the smug self-satisfaction of a man who has come late to Disc World and still has a load more of the series to read. Do I need to laud the genius of the late Sir Terence any more? Surely not. If you've read him you'll know what I mean: if you haven't, get on down to your local bookshop and spend a few quid. You'll not regret it. 

The World According To Noddy (Constable). Noddy Holder's “life lessons learned in and out of rock 'n' roll” is an easy read. Lots of famous name dropping, but if you are as famous as he is you are bound to have lots of famous names to drop. The man is entirely down to earth and it is plain that what you see is what you get. I like Noddy so I liked the book. 

Apropos the above: Our son went to the Reading Rock Festival in 1980 and came back full of how Slade, a last minute booking, had stolen the show.

“You'd have thoroughly enjoyed it, Dad,” he said. “Nobody gave them a hope and they turned out to be the best thing there.” It did not surprise me. 

That was the festival where, as he was leaving, Neil was shoved up against a wall and searched for drugs by the police. He has never been a smoker - tobacco or anything else - or a drug user, so must have been chosen on appearance alone. (In his teens he could look a bit way out.) Anyway, they found him to be clean and sent him on his way. 

I have already told the next bit many times, so skip it if you've heard it:
I was paternally peeved. 

“Did you take down any of their numbers?” I asked. 

“No, why would I?” 

“Because you hadn't done anything wrong. If they'd done that to me I'd have taken down their numbers and written a stiff letter of complaint to the Chief Constable about it.” 

He shook his head: 

“They wouldn't have done it to you, Dad. You'd have walked down the middle of the road in your suit, tie and waistcoat and the only thing they might have said to you is: 'Good day, sir.'” 

A wryly accurate assessment which I doubt would still apply today. 

Enough for now. More fairly soon if my computer hasn't been packed for a move by then. The cat Shadow, unabashed by age, has found two new girlfriends next door. I fear he will strongly object to being shifted.

2 (25) THE REASONABLY SOON BIT.

WATCHING: AT HOME.

The impending election. 
Had your fill of rats-in-a-trap, oh-so-sincere, politicians yet? Fed up with the incessant string of patronisingly implausible promises? Begun to wonder how the hell Britain ever puts one foot in front of t'other? 
Join the club. 
But vote! 
As I have already indicated, I shall vote this time. I have no expectation that any of the prospective candidates will fulfil a fraction of their published proposals, but I shall go to the polls and vote for someone, I have no idea who and wouldn't say even if I knew. Enough that it will not be for a UKIP candidate: I think they are quasi-patriots and Johnson had their like in mind when he said: “Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel.” 
End of political diatribe. 
THE DETECTIVES. 
Grimm still rattles along. 
Our hero has regained his unearthly powers, the love of his life has picked up a nifty new self-defence technique to protect herself when he is away and that nice little oriental station sergeant has finally been introduced to the world's most unreal real world. If you haven't seen it you should look in. It's charming and daft and the make-up's marvellous. 
Person of interest. 
Mr. Reese and Mr. Finch (together with their two NYPD helpmates) remain the persons of most definite interest in this sublime take on crime technology gone mad. It, too, is charming and daft; we love everything about it, especially the dog. 
The Mentalist. 
We have recorded the last ever episode. Could have ended when Patrick Jane did away with Red John but it didn't. We've since had all the stock situations including a flag-on-the-coffin funeral. The pleasant actors will be missed, but it really is time to go.
Safe House. 

This one is unlikely to go on too long. It is a four part thriller and it stars an actor who believes actors should never hang around long enough to be typecast, Christopher Eccleston. No doubt the series, like the actor, will keep moving and will be remarkably impressive. 
Inspector George Gently. 
Martin Shaw's Fabian of the Yard character is back and well on form. Another world. 
Longmire. 
Still the quirkiest cop show around. This series ran for ten episodes and ended with a question mark. 
AND THE REST. 
Peter Kay's car share. 
This new television series has the comedian and his bubbly companion, Sian Gibson, getting to know each other as they car share their way to and from work. They are a likeable pair and their car-bound double act could well become as popular as Rob Brydon's solo turn in Marion and Geoff (2000/03). Good viewing. 
Not to be deleted. 
I have not that many television recordings on our not to be deleted list. The Gruffalo twosome and Room on the Broom are there as is Nigel Kennedy at the Proms, a couple of Young Musician of the Year marvels and the best pianists at the last Leeds Piano competition. I have also kept Joseph Calleja's August 2013 concert in Malta because we love the spot where, with guest Sarah Ferguson, he sings “Can't help falling in love.” The duet seems at times to be sadly under-rehearsed and the BOV Joseph Calleja Children's Choir try hard to cover up the gaps, but in the orchestra behind the duettists, just up above Mr. Calleja's left shoulder, there sits a lovely, smiling flautist who clearly adores the song and cannot resist singing along with it. So far as we are concerned, she turns what might have been a minor disaster into a not to be deleted gem. I do hope nobody remonstrated with her afterwards. 
Another royal wedding. 
This time an acting royal. Well, he's King Louis XIV in his latest film, A Little Chaos, which he also directed. That's already close enough for my money. 

Whatever, it has been reported this week that actor Alan Rickman and his partner of 50 years, Rima Horton, have finally concluded they are compatible and have secretly married in New York. “Afterwards,” he said in an interview, “we walked across Brooklyn Bridge and had lunch.” 
I don't know them and have seen him only once off screen (at Anthony Minghella's memorial service), but I wish them both a happy and healthy future. 
On screen I have never seen Mr. Rickman give other than a mesmerizing performance (from the Sheriff of Nottingham to Severus Snape). Make no mistake, the man is an acting royal. 
I doff my cap.

Afraid I'm slightly late publishing this post. Put it down to age, my dears. 

2 (24) IN LESS THAN A CENTURY IV.

WELCOME TO CIVVY STREET!

The fifties (continued). 

The difficulty many servicemen found in adapting to civilian life had clearly been recognized in high places: it was rectified by six months of post services training. For me, therefore, 1957 started with two terms at Clark's Commercial College in The Avenue, Southampton. When I left I had become, at 26, the proud possessor of a GCE (Oxon) in English. (It remains my only worthwhile educational qualification.) I was supposedly studying accountancy, but had not the slightest interest in becoming an accountant. 
My father said: “It doesn't matter what job you do, just make sure it's one with a pension.” So, on Monday 2 September, 1957, I started work with the Portsmouth Executive Council (NHS) - miniscule salary but sound pension scheme - and at the end of the month was presented with my first civilian pay cheque (twenty nine thirtieths of the month's total, because that first Monday had been the second day of the month). That's accountancy, friends. (If, as many public service decrying journalists maintain, the NHS has wasted billions over the years, it certainly didn't waste it on me.) 
In the year before I left the army I took my first ever leave to the UK by plane: an Elizabethan from Dusselforf. Passenger flights had taken off and home leave had become a simple matter of booking a seat. The Elizabethan class airliner that flew us back and forth had never...it was proudly announced for the benefit of the wary...been involved in any untoward incident. Those of us who were the wary were glad about that. On 6 Feb.,1958, came the Munich air disaster and the decimation of the Busby Babes. Tragically, the Elizabethan turned out to be not that safe after all. 
My new post seemed to be safe enough, though. The Clerk of the Executive Council met me in the corridor a few months after I started. “Ah...Mr Ah...” he said, “how are you settling in?” 
“Very well thank you, sir.” 
“Good, good. Wasn't sure about appointing you, y'know. Well...years in the army...used to moving about 'n all that... thought y'might not stay...” 
I might not have stayed. 
In 1959, still single and living with my parents, I had filled out an application form to join the Essex police (failed the height stipulation for Hampshire), had been declared medically fit by my GP (late on a Friday evening) and was all set to post off the application the next day. 
Around midnight my father had a heart attack and was rushed into hospital. When my mother and I visited him on the Saturday he was awake and lucid. Before we could get to him on Sunday he suffered a second attack and died. It was, we were told, a massive coronary thrombosis. He was 54 years old. He was a smoker. He enjoyed a drink. And in the Portsmouth City Architect's offices (I was later reliably informed) there was an attempt made after his death to share his regular workload between three qualified (on paper) people. They all said it was too much. His qualification was practical experience. 
“You,” the head honcho once told him (before dispatching him to sort out latrine trouble or suchlike at a council build), “are the only one around here who has seen a loo chain pulled in anger.” 
So I guess nowadays we might have anticipated a coronary. Back then we, he and our doctor thought the chest pain was indigestion. Well, his mobile x-ray results were OK. Seems medieval now, don't it? 
So I saw out the decade clerking and writing monthly payment cheques for the work done by chemists on the Pompey NHS list. (What? Oh, 72 of 'em I think.) 
A police career was never going to happen. 
Just as well. I'd have been a lousy copper. (To be continued) 
HOME. 
A lovely story. 

Christine and Christopher Russell. 
Back in April 2011 (Post 165) I wrote that my Leader and I had met this nice couple when they were signing copies of their first two Warrior Sheep books at our local Waterstones. 
We bought the books on spec for grandson Ellis when he was a little older. He seemed to reach the right age this year and we introduced them into his bedtime reading. Great enjoyment. Great enjoyment. So I enquired and found that the writers had produced two more: The Warrior Sheep Down Under and The Warrior Sheep Go Jurassic (which is set in our home territory, the Isle of Wight). 
Waterstones could obtain Down Under; but Go Jurassic, they told me, was out of print. 
Well, to precis a long story, I emailed the Russells and they gifted Ellis a signed copy of Go Jurassic. It came by post earlier this week and was a gift simply made out of the kindness of their hearts. 
He now has the complete set to date and I know they will be treasured for many years to come. 
Thank you, my dears. 
Our place.
Seems that, subject to contract, we may have sold. 
It has come at a time when Maureen has seen her surgeon and been told she will need to go back into hospital for additional hip related surgery. 
At this juncture I have nothing more to say.
(Back reasonably soon.)   

2. (23) NEXT TIME IS HERE.

THE OTHER HALF. 

Stop press. Yesterday I tried to publish a lengthy blog post and was duly chastised by Google Blog. The section reproduced below looked as though the “We don't do the editing” editors had smacked me on the head so hard that my legs concertinsed. i.e. It was a bit squeezed up! (Check the last two lines.) 

I tried to remedy the situation, but eventually realized I was on a hiding to nothing and withdrew. (A bit like Suez in 1956.) 

Anyway, here is that other half with – I hope - improved printing.

TELEVISION.

The Detectives. 

Longmire is back and still a programme worth the watching. 

Fortitude ended in a mishmash of fantastic incredibility: My Leader and I shook our heads and asked: “Is that it, then?” 

And Vera, the most improbable CDI in Britain, continues to impress as probable, thanks to the brilliant Brenda Blethyn who, to me and a worldwide viewing public, would be credible in any part she cared to play.
The Rest. 

The Musketeers departed in a rattle of steel and a popping of single shot pistols. (Marc Warren stole the show as loathsome Rochefort.) I enjoyed it but it was very much Boys' Own stuff. 

It is followed by a returning Atlantis, which is also very much Boys' Own stuff: I shall enjoy that, too. Show me an old guy who's not a big kid at heart and I'll show you a sad old guy. 

The death of author Terry Pratchett has led to the reshowing of a couple of his televised stories. The Colour of Magic featured David Jason as the world's worst wizard, Rincewind, together with the Luggage, the Librarian and a hugely formidable supporting cast. I found it enjoyable, but thought it lacked the wicked humour that is the trademark of Sir Tel's books. (I also - and some may regard this as sacrilege - thought that Martin Freeman should have been Rincewind.)

Going Postal was another brave attempt that somehow missed the mark. Lovely cast. (Sir Tel himself came on at the end - speaking role, too.) But there was a faintly laboured feel about it all. I just don't think it was the best Discworld example with which to finish a film trio of the great humorist's work. That's the trouble when you've read his books, though, ain't it. 

READING. 

Re-read some Pratchett and M.C. Beaton and have started on Noddy Holder's The World According to Noddy and on Sir Terry's Men At Arms. Keep an eye on this space if you're at all interested. 

I'm off again now. 

Plenty of reading to do. 

2 (22) IN LESS THAN A CENTURY III.

YOUNG ADULT MEMORIES. 

The Fifties.

At the age of twenty (see picture) I was a barely noticeable cog in the Middle East Land Forces machine stationed in Cyprus. Posted there, via Egypt, at the age of eighteen, I returned to England a couple of months before my twenty second birthday: (via the S.S. Asturias which came from Australia: the Aussies had drunk nearly all the beer before it reached Port Said). There was drizzling rain when we finally got to Soton. We stood on deck and cheered. 
I have never since been bedazzled by the promise of a sunshine holiday. 
Came a break and then British Troops Austria, where I nervously learned to ski, became a cricket follower, obtained expertise in putting up bivouacs and regularly won free seats to the BTA cinema in Klagenfurt by correctly answering questions on films set by a pleasant little British Forces Broadcasting bloke, Willis Toogood, who was also 'Uncle Willis' on the kids' programmes. My answers were both correct and in verse (way before Pam Ayres made a career of it) and ol' Toogood - always, I gleaned, a reluctant 'Uncle Willis' - liked that. 
After a couple of years in Austria and keen for a return to England, I sought and was given the coveted home posting: it was to British Army of the Rhine. 
Y'know, I was not until then aware that the war with Germany had been a civil war. Anyway, off I went to the fatherland; first to a coal dust begrimed barracks at Essen Kray, then on to Rheindahlen where, since I spoke neither French nor Flemish, by some weird logic known only to the military I was appointed troop sergeant of Belgian Liaison Troop. 
I Liked the Belgians. Civilized people. 
Came 1956 and I was all set to leave the service when Anthony Eden, a Prime Minister who, until then, had been little more than a homburg hat on legs, ordered our troops into Egypt to escalate the Suez Crisis. Their action was proceeding with scant hindrance when America demanded it be discontinued. 
Eden was no Churchill. We complied with the demand. It brought to an end our fallacious 'special relationship' with the US; put paid once and for all to the British Empire; finished Eden's career; and kept me in uniform somewhat longer than expected. My final day of Service with the Colours was January 8, 1957, the day before Sir Anthony resigned as prime minister of Britain. (To be continued) 
HOME. 
Our house. Somebody came on Good Friday: told the estate agent they liked the place and thought it would be ideal for 'letting,' but were too concerned at its Grade 2 listed status to proceed any further. So why on earth did they come in the first place? Couldn't they read? Actually, the Grade 2 listing of the house has caused me far less bother than has my Grade 2 listed diabetes. Ah well. Keep taking the tablets. 
A cute present. 

The little bubble quilt seen above was made by my Leader (prompted by, and with some input from, daughter Roz) as a present for the baby girl of close family friends of Roz. It concluded with hours of stitching by hand and I did wonder whether the esteemed Leader would ever finish it. 
Worth every hour, Mo, worth every hour. 
Brother Harold. 
Harry, who I could not like and respect more if we were related by birth, has recently undergone a knee operation. We spoke on the phone this morning and last week he walked around the block with the aid of crutches (and accompanied by his daughter), but feels that his recovery is not as fast as he would like it to be. 
Never is, old mate, never is. 
We will talk again in a fortnight's time when I hope he will have taken more steps towards abandoning those crutches and Pompey will have accumulated a couple of wins (plus a tough, astute new manager).

Enough for the half month.

Television next time 
(including Terry Pratchett films).

 
  

2 (21) IN LESS THAN A CENTURY II.

ADOLESCENT MEMORIES. 

The Forties. 

After a couple of years Harold and Brian's father, Harold Snr., remarried and the boys went back to Portsmouth to live with him. My father, now an overseer of wartime brick shelter building in Pompey, was still working there and commuting from Bognor; so a short time later we, too, moved back. The two families remained close. Enemy planes had been augmented by pilotless V -1 buzz bombs which flew until they dropped and exploded. They were meant to demoralize the nation, London in particular: they didn't. 

Every male seemed to be in uniform back then so, one by one, when we reached the age of fourteen and a half, we three boys joined the army: Harold finished up in REME, I joined the Royal (Corps of) Signals and Brian went into the Royal Engineers. They both made a career of it (Harold going on to become a civilian instructor at Borden); I came out after twelve years. Suffice to say that by the end of the nineteen forties, with the war over, we were all 'old' soldiers and Pompey had the finest football team in the country. 

In 1949 I went to Cyprus to begin a three year term as a special wireless operator. Troopship first to Egypt. (The Empress of Australia)

Nobody went, or came home, by plane in those days. You got there and there you stayed. Shift work. Never mind the sunshine, sometimes it seemed like a long three years. 

More in next post. 

HOME. 

Fascinating. A viewer came last weekend. Apparently flew down from Aberdeen. Seemed to like the place (according to the estate agent) and has gone back to deliberate. 
Another world with the plane now, ain't it? 
THE DETECTIVES. 

Just the two. 

Fortitude: Have you looked in? Gawd! Ennit gory?
Person of Interest: Still as unbelievable as ever and still as watchable. 
AND OTHERS. 

Indian Summers. Julie Walters and colleagues are still cleverly showing us why, as a nation, we are universally detested. How glad India and the rest must have been to see the back of us. 

Four in a bed. My Leader watches this. I look in only occasionally - and shudder. Just in case you, like me, are no follower of reality television, this is a series in which guest house keepers visit rival establishments to make snide comments, find a pubic hair or two and knock a few quid off the price of their room. I invariably finish up determined never stay at another B&B in my entire life. 

Tom Felton meets the superfans. 

This documentary is currently showing on iPlayer. Directed by and starring Tom Felton (Draco Malfoy of Harry Potter fame), it takes a fascinating and sympathetic look at what drives people to become obsessive fans. 

Tom talks to fellow Potter actors, to J.K. Rowling and to several of the most persistent fans: his interviewing technique is open, cheerful, friendly and so un-Draco that you cannot help but marvel at what a bloody good actor he is. When he's being himself he's obviously a charming bloke. 

But I write as one who is too old and sceptical to be anybody's fan. I admire the personable and the talented objectively. In the unlikely event I should ever meet any of 'em, I doubt we would become friends. 

From the tone of this programme, though, there's not much harm in most of those dedicated fans who like to think they are the friends of celebrities. 

If it makes them feel good, why not?

Have a good Easter. 

By the time it is over I may even have stopped muttering about that effing hour on the clocks

2 (20) IN LESS THAN A CENTURY.

 BOYHOOD MEMORIES.

The Thirties.

In 1930, the year I was born, aviatrix Amy Johnson became the first woman to fly solo from England to Australia. She flew in a Gipsy Moth biplane and it took her 21 days: nowadays a flight from London to Darwin takes around eighteen and a half hours. That, you might say, is progress. I remember, as a small boy, the magic of sitting on a fender box watching my mother toast crumpets before an open fire. I recollect how, for a short time, my father dabbled with a cat's whisker radio, later replacing it with the valve operated wireless set which for years was our staple entertainment. 

The BBC produced a steady stream of news and popular listening on the old wireless. Children's Hour and In Town Tonight were firm favourites as were songs sung by Gracie Fields, Flanagan and Allen and (with a hefty helping of banjolele and double entendre) George Formby. 
My father was a carpenter and joiner: thirty bob (£1.50) a week and nothing when it rained. Mother was a housewife with aspiration (or father may forever have remained a carpenter and joiner on thirty bob a week...but that's another story). 

Throughout the nineteen thirties our little family moved three times from rented house to rented house, finishing up at Eastney, Portsmouth. To the best of my knowledge we were not particularly moved by the abdication of King Edward V111 in 1936 but, along with the rest of the country, were much moved by the arrival of the Second World War in 1939. By then my parents had acquired a pair of unofficial foster brothers for me in the form of the two lads next door whose mother had inexplicably departed. The older, Harold, was eighteen months my senior; his brother, Brian, a year or so my junior. Came the evacuation (entire school to the Isle of Wight), the 'Phoney War,' the early return of we three to the blitzes on Portsmouth and then, blitzes over, the relocation of the entire family to Bognor Regis, where we were to be bombed only by the occasional hit and run raider. 

The aeroplane was proving to be a dubious blessing. More in next post. 

HOME. 

Our house. A request came for a viewing to take place last Friday. On the Monday we were having a chat with a nice young woman (NYW) from the estate agents when we had a phone call from her office asking if a further viewing, on Wednesday, would be OK. We said 'fine' and agreed with the NYW that with Spring coming the market might soon buck up: that was that. On Wednesday, as is our wont, we made ready to leave the house to the NYW and client/s. The phone rang. It was the NYW's office. They had just been informed that the Friday viewers were now 'suited,' so would we please cancel that viewing. We said OK and off we went. When we got back there was a message from the NYW on the answerphone. The Wednesday clients had duly turned up. Mother and daughter. They had been surprised to discover that the house was on three floors, had not realized that the bathroom was on the first floor and mother, who had recently undergone a hip operation, would never be able to manage the stairs. The place was perfect in every other way. “Perhaps,”added the NYW, “the viewing on Friday will be more successful.” 

Highly unlikely, we thought, highly unlikely. 

THE DETECTIVES. 

Just a quick run through. Fortitude becomes increasingly bizarre and horribly compelling. 

Murder in the First Degree featured Tom Felton as Erich Blunt, an adult Draco Malfoy. He was predictably splendid. I hope they'll soon find a nice guy role for this nice guy. 

The Mentalist is cruising through what is alleged to be the last series. It is still watchable. 

Grimm ploughs on with only leading cast members aware that the world is packed with weird creature-people of lethal disposition. 

NCIS, normally a hive of foreign invasion paranoia, is currently flitting from one character's personal crisis to another. They are such good actors you forgive them all the tosh. 

Person of Interest comes back tonight. I have given up trying to analyse it, but they are such good actors...

As for the Brits, DCI Banks is with us again. 

A suitably taciturn Stephen Tomkinson heads the usual good cast. Still very watchable. 

AND OTHER THINGS. 

Idiots. They make a bit of headway in life and it goes to their heads. Remember when Mrs. Thatcher, perhaps unsurprisingly, started to act as if she was the Queen? The end was nigh. 

Recently, four judges were accused of watching porn on the IT equipment in their offices: it was in no way connected with their court cases, but the powers that be concluded it was not acceptable behaviour. One of them resigned, the other three were sacked. 

Then along came Jeremy Clarkson - again: this time, it seems, he punched a producer of Top Gear in a dispute regarding the absence of a meal (after a day filming that popular boys' toys programme). Consequently he is under suspension. Whether he will be sacked is apparently more important than who wins the next election. Media heavyweights are convinced he is indispensable. He's not. Nobody is. But this is a storm on a dinner plate which should have terminated with the producer casually kicking him in the double de-clutch. Say no more. 

THE BOOK WORLD.

I finished reading Small Gods by Terry Pratchett and, while I was still smiling my appreciation and nodding my agreement, learned of the author's death. It was good to read that he died peacefully, surrounded by family and with his cat asleep on the bed beside him. Death surely will have said, in kindly capital letters: “COME ON THEN, OLD FRIEND, YOU KNOW THE DRILL.” 

Words galore have been - and will be - written about this fine author. I was introduced to his work quite recently, so have a lot of catching up to do. There will be much chuckling and murmurs of approval as, again and again, I inhabit Discworld with the Librarian, the Luggage, Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler, various heroes, anti-heroes, witches, wizards of varied competency and arch villains of Machiavellian complexity. 

Like millions of others who never met him, I shall very much miss this brave, talented, irrepressibly humorous man. 

RIP Sir Terence David John “Terry” Pratchett OBE.
(For a lengthier tribute you might like to Google “Terry Pratchett: above all, he was funny” by Nick Harkaway.) 
AND FINALLY. 
254 OBA. Southern Chapter members of the Royal Signals Old Boys Association, together with wives and guests, were back at Botleigh Grange Hotel for the annual reunion last weekend. The arrangements (still impeccably orchestrated by Chairman Pat Soward and his wife, Maureen), were little changed from last year. The gathering, other than being a year older, was reassuringly similar to that of last year and the hotel (sans last year's Indian wedding) appears not to have changed anything but the bedclothes. Good food, good staff, good company and a good ambience. What more can you ask?
We thoroughly enjoyed it. 
Cheers!
  

2 (19) WHAT, CYNICAL? ME?

 POLITICS.

Patronizing or what? Three months before the election and already the 'you have a duty to vote' lectures from journalists determined to remind us how lucky we are not to be living in (1) a dictatorship (2) an overbearing kingdom (3) a country run by an immoveable political clique or (4) an inquisitorial hellhole under the thumb of a religious elite. Is that patronizing or what? Well, it is; but, sadly, they are right. 
I just wish they were not quite so holier-than-thou about it. 

Truth is, many people cannot see the point in rushing to the polls when they know the majority of those around them are (according to how politically 'safe' the area in which they live) programmed to vote unquestioningly for any ass with a blue ribbon around its neck or any donkey with a red ribbon, ditto: and that those dedicated party disciples will continue to pursue the same unquestioning ritual because they always have, their parents always did and, blissfully, their children always will. 
Token malcontents may vote for the token political crackpot, no matter how crackpot that crackpot's policies are. 
It is called democracy. 

As I have written before within these walls, there have been times when I have not bothered to vote. It has been said that those of us who fail to go to the polls deserve whatever we get. Bunkum. Whether we vote or not we will finish up being represented by party lackeys who will do exactly what the whips tell them to do. I'm sure the brightest sparks start out with the best of intentions; it's just that by the time their train pulls into London all that lofty idealism has wafted away like so many farts in the wind. 
Parliament is no place for those unwilling to walk the party line. 

This year, though, I shall vote. For whom I am not yet sure. To date only one prospective candidate has put a leaflet through my letterbox. If none of the others bother, I shall probably vote for him. Well, you've got to admire a trier. I think he is a Socialist, though, so he stands no chance over here, my vote or not. (Over her it's less Fifty Shades of Grey than Fifty Hues of Blue.) Anyway, whoever gets in I shall expect nothing. I'm too old to be taken in by promises. Always have been. But don't you find it implausible that each successive government's balls-ups are instantly attributed to errors made when their departed counterpart was in power, no matter how long ago that may have been? And don't you, too, find it exasperating that any promise made by a political party in the run up to an election instantly becomes too impractical (i.e. costly) to implement once that party gains power?

What, cynical? Me? Too right.  

Party leaders' debate on TV? Looks as though this daft import from America may not now come about. Don't ask me why. Ask somebody who gives a shit. 

HOME. 

The unstately edifice. A viewer came on Thursday: said she liked how quiet the place is, but it's not for her. Another on Saturday: her husband in tow. He liked it more than she did. They were only looking for a place to rent out to holidaymakers, anyway. Oh well. Keep 'em coming. 

TELEVISION. 

My view. 

Not only did the Beeb repeat series two of Father Brown, it also treated us to a rerun of the first series in which Hugo Speer played the thick police presence common to all old-fashioned whodunits. Inspector Valentine was an uncouth lout who seldom took his hat off, even in church, and whose senior officers would certainly, in those days, have ordered him to do up his shirt collar and tighten his tie; he didn't, from start to finish: maybe that's why he was later transferred. 

We saw (and have just about forgotten) the last episode of Last Tango in Halifax. Won't come back again, will it? Oh, all right, I expect it will.

Watching Fortitude on Sky Atlantic. Joint stars are: Imported snow, Sophie Grabol, Stanley Tucci, Michael Gambon, Richard Dormer and, for a few moments, Christopher Eccleston. The left hand doesn't seem to know that the right hand has frostbite, but I shall stick with it, if only because it's cold outside.

 Guess I'll also stick with the television adaptation (rewrite) of J.K. Rowling's first story for adults, The Casual Vacancy (BBC1), where Michael Gambon is again one of the stars. (Not bad for a man who allegedly says he has given up the stage because he can't remember his lines.) Sadly, as recorded at time of publication, I did not particularly enjoy the book. I blame public service. During the course of a fairly pedestrian NHS career I encountered just about every one of J.K.'s insular Pagford parishioners and, to a person, loathed the bloody lot of them. 

Broadchurch (ITV). Even the best actors can't rescue a total turkey and, to my mind, this one has been just that. David Tennant and Olivia Colman will surely be back in better yarns. 

The Wright Stuff (Channel 5). I still look in when anybody interesting adorns the guest list. This week Yasmin Alibhai-Brown and Lee Hurst are on. Thought they would be amiability personified, but there was an immediate falling out over the three young British girls who have apparently taken off for Syria. Yasmin was sympathetic. Lee was not. Could be an interesting couple of hours every morning. Look for fireworks.

BOOKS. 

My reading seems to have fallen behind of late. Morning tele and an afternoon nap don't help. I am, however, halfway through Small Gods by Terry Pratchett. Bowled over, as usual, at Sir Tel's astuteness. More next time. 

Cheers. Mind how you go.