Post 309. THE MID-MONTH NEWS.

FIRST THE GOOD.

Rescue of Thai youngsters.
Best news of the year so far was that all twelve of the Thai boy footballers (aged 11 to 17) and their coach (aged only 25), had escaped from the flooded Tham Luang cave complex where they had been trapped for seventeen days and that the international team of rescuers involved, including many Thai navy seals, were (with the exception of one brave seal who lost his life early on) equally fortunate.
A handful of the lads, who were stateless, may now be given statehood too.
Still hope for humanity, isn't there.
THEN THE WORRYING.

Our daughter Roz. (In the only picture I could find of her - at The Warner Bros. Studio Tour in 2012 - half blocked out by her father's left arm.)
The younger of our two daughters, Roz, has been diagnosed with invasive breast cancer. She has undergone a variety of tests - the results of which the hospital seems to be taking an inordinately long time to release, let alone act upon - and has prepared herself with a thoroughness that has been one of her more positive traits ever since she came of age.
At present we are feeling very old and sadly aware that we have nothing to offer but concern and love.
That's it for the moment.
For chrissake get moving, St. Mary's.
THEN THE BAD:

The World Cup.
FOOTBALL'S STAYING ABROAD
It's staying abroad
It's staying abroad 
Now for chrissake shut up about it. 
THEN THE REALITY.

Trump's here.
Aaah, he can wait until next time.

Post 308. FOOTBALL FOOTBALL AND MORE FOOTBALL.

TIME AGAIN FOR.

A plethora of professional cheating.
I am running into the penalty box. I am almost in control of the ball: It jiggles about and I can't get set for a shot. There is somebody running alongside me! Please let them try to dispossess me! Please let them put a hand - an arm - a leg - a foot near me! Please let them touch me!
They have! I'm down! I'm poleaxed! I'm rolling about! I'm writhing! I've adopted the 'in agonies' expression! I'm looking to the referee - assistant referee - the public - the cameras to record my Oscar deserving performance - I am looking for a penalty kick!
I think I may have got one!
What? Oh, sod sportsmanship, it's professional cheating and I'm a master of it. Refs love playing God and seldom trust cameras.
I'll be a hero back home.
Next season I'll be in a top club in the English Premier League. There's a fortune to be picked up there. When I retire they'll call me an icon.
Silly bastards!
Footnote:  
FOR THAT NICE AMERICAN READER.
1. For football read soccer.
2. A Video Assisted Referee (VAR) currently videos international matches and acts as arbiter if a refereeing decision appears to require questioning.
This may rapidly fall out of favour now that the use of it has seen World Cup holders Germany knocked out of the 2018 tournament by South Korea. (Cue for uncontrollable English glee.)
Well there's not been much in football for us to smile about since the nineteen sixties.
TELEVISION.
NEXT WEEK IT'S WIMBLEDON.

So more repeat repeats.
Yep, the BBC will go into sports overdrive again for the next fortnight while every loud grunt or shrill scream that nowadays accompanies the striking of a small ball with a tennis racquet for a lot of money supersedes every other television programme previously listed for the delectation of the viewing public.
It would be a little more tolerable if the repeats drafted in to replace cancelled shows were not so often repeat repeats.
Over the years of Wimbledon tournaments I've watched some features so many times I could pass for one of the cast. 
By the same token, I've now taken in so much Scandi noir I hardly need look at the subtitles.

The Bridge has seen me (and lord alone knows how many millions more) caught up (apparently for the last time) in the weird and wonderful world of detective Saga Norén (Sofia Helin), a vintage Porsche driving mix-up of forthright femininity and investigative genius.
Truth is, I took in what was said more than I ever understood what the plot was about.
Enjoyed Saga though.
Great character: beautifully acted.
Enough now.
Enjoy the heat wave.
Watch some more footie.

Post 307. FATHER'S DAY 2018.

LOST ANOTHER DAY OF SCRIBBLING.

It just vanished.

A short while ago the computer lifeboat captain made a fine job of fixing my draft blog post page and it worked a treat for post 306. Dunno what I did to annoy it last Saturday, but on the Sunday, Father's Day, I switched on and found myself faced with a blank page. Every bloggin' thing I had written was gone. What? Oh, I think I saved it – just don't know where it went.
That's me and technology.

Ah well.
Back to page one, which I think started with: WHATEVER HAPPENED

TO SPEAKING YOUR MIND?

The PC Brigade GB has effortlessly become the Corps of Political Correctness and, with the addition of the Fairness to Foreigners Division, is fast transforming into PC National Command.

Whatever happened to speaking your mind?

Time was when expressions like tell the truth and shame the devil were commonplace and the privilege of publicly expressing one's opinion was accepted without question.

Not now.

Now I am reminded again and again that when, back in 2015 - Post 2(32) - I wrote Honesty is not always the best policy. (Ask Gerald Ratner. Ask Brian True-May) I was merely putting forward a token objection to the way in which an individual's entire life could be realigned (even ruined) by the negative input of unwell-wishers. Little did I foresee the army of professional objectors who would gradually take over the UK with all the ruthlessness of ducking parties on archaic witch hunts.

During the past week the author Lionel Shriver has been dropped as a literary judge after she criticised the latest diversity and inclusion policies proposed by Penguin Random House. It seems Ms. Shriver, writing in The Spectator, dared to suggest that Penguin was “drunk on virtue.” 
The editorial director of the magazine Mslexia duly removed her from the judging panel of their annual short story competition for, it would seem, the sin of speaking her mind.

I shan't elaborate. It's all on Google. If you're interested, look it up.

I do despair though.

Know nothing of Lionel Shriver and hold no brief for the magazine that carried her views, but whatever has happened to freedom of speech? And how long before we hang the people who exercise it?

This has become an age of mad intolerance.
TELEVISION.

The Wright Stuff (Chanel 5) But not anymore.

Last Thursday Matthew Wright made his final appearance as presenter of this morning chat show. 

He had been in the chair for the better part of eighteen years and said he wanted to spend more time with his wife. Good for him. I hope she was with him on the evening of the same day when he was welcomed at Cardiff for David Dimbleby's Question Time on BBC 1 despite having bitched about the Beeb throughout his entire tenure on The Wright Stuff.

Clearly not everybody is opposed to freedom of speech, though in this case I think it more likely that nobody from Broadcasting House has even glanced at Chanel 5 for the past eighteen years.

Good luck, Matthew.

That's all, folks.

 

 

Post 306. ALL ABOUT FAMILY.

STARTING WITH

Jess Daisy White MPharm:
Best news of late was that our granddaughter, Jess White, has obtained a Master of Pharmacy degree: a First, too. Currently she is set on a tour of Europe (couple of days Copenhagen etc. etc.) Needless to say we are delighted for her and immensely proud of her. Richly deserved, my lovely, very well done.
So, whilst we are embracing nepotism, let's mention Neil W. Barnden:
The Computer Lifeboat Captain, immersed as he constantly is in a demanding work schedule (don't be fooled, producing computer games is not a doddle), once more turned out the lifeboat to pull me off the treacherous rocks of technology.

In the process he valiantly attempted to impart a smidgin of computer sense (some hopes) into his father's IT resistant brain. Glad to say I did pick up on a bit of it, including the advice that Google would not be bothered by the pictures I print so long as they are not pornographic. Well, they never are. And to quote the late Hylda Baker: “I say that without fear of contraception.” 
Whatever, we have never lived in each other's pockets, so it was good to see our Neil again.
It was good, too, to welcome dear friend
Anne Wilkening for a short stay.
(If I could find a picture I'd publish it)
She came from Cornwall last weekend: sang in Portsmouth Cathedral on the Saturday, lunched out with us on the Sunday, visited Pompey's Mary Rose Museum with us on Monday and, before I could so much as open another bottle, had gone back home. The Mary Rose is a splendidly presented, truly moving, experience and Anne's brief company was, as always, a delight.
Last but by no means least, Roz Barnden:
Our Roz has put her house up for sale. It is a nice three-bedroomed semi with off road parking for two vehicles and a long back garden at the end of which stands a fine summerhouse. Should sell easily enough, but this is the Island. Enough said. We can only hope for her. The dog Buddy will be back with us tomorrow.

And that's it from the personal home front.
The usual mixed bag next time.

Post 305. THE CONSTANTLY OFFENDED.

THOSE WHO NEVER STOP TAKING OFFENCE.
Will take it now.
Yep. Somebody will take offence at the tone of this post before I so much as get started. And if somebody can invoke a law to stop it being written they'll do that, too. It's their way. We are living in an age of the easily offended and there are a helluva lot of them about: they are the sort who will be mightily offended at being described as 'easily offended.' and I am inclined to the view that their extreme readiness to be so hugely affronted is another ominous hand-me-down from that land of the rising litigation, America.
If you are decrepit and desperate enough to watch daytime television chat programmes in Britain, right now you will be well aware of the words alleged and our lawyers advise. Everybody is scared witless at the thought of being sued.
Fact is, malcontents who are not trying to prise money out of you (and in my case just think 'blood' and 'stone') are eager instead to obtain an apology.
Don't ask me why. Litigation benefits no one but lawyers and an apology is just words. 
Currently I am getting messages from Google urging me (I think) to adhere to their policy on personal something-or-other. Needless to say I don't understand a word of it, but from today I shall print no photos except my own, just in case anything else is what breaches their policy on whatever it is.
The world has gone mad.
TELEVISION.
Peter Kay's Car Share.
We watched The Finale of this wonderful slice of life and, just in case you have not seen it, we thought it was even better than the original. Kay and Sian Gibson are a magical combination.
BBC Music Weekend.
A treat for music lovers of all ages. We particularly enjoyed the combined talent of Nigel Kennedy and Mark King: another magical combination.
And while we are about it...
Later with Jools Holland. It was good to hear Lily Allen again, with Jools on piano, performing her ballad Three. Heartfelt and unique.
That's it. No more to say right now.

Post 304. THE DAY AFTER THE WEDDING.

FAREWELL PROTOCOL, HELLO MODERNITY.

This was a joyful occasion.
My heading could have been worded 'The day after that wedding' but, in an age of weird political correctness so far as words are concerned, 'that' might have been construed as a note of criticism which (though I am by no manner of means a royalist and the happy couple have probably, in one day, ensured the survival of the Windsor dynasty for at least another century) it is not. 
The world and his wife - her husband - its partner - whatever - saw this for the joyful occasion it truly was, not least because the new Duke and Duchess of Sussex, a truly likeable couple, artlessly embodied a refreshing farewell to protocol and a cheerful hello to modernity.
Of all the senior royals, Prince Charles came across as the most politely resigned to such change, Prince Philip the most cheerful - I think he's just glad to still be alive - and HM Queen Elizabeth (together, I'm sure, with no small number of hangers-on) the least happy. But HM seldom looks all that happy nowadays, does she.
C'est la vie.
For the rest of us, the show was hugely enlivened by Episcopal Bishop Michael Curry's sermon-like address.

Bless him, I think he may be a disciple of his fellow American Andy Warhol who sagely prophesied: "in the future everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes." By the time he reached 'fire' and was but a stone's throw from 'brimstone' I was starting to wonder whether, at my age, I had enough time left to hear him finish (boy, did he enjoy his time on the world stage) but, sure enough, I was there for his blessing, for the end of the service, and for a denouement which had the couple riding around Windsor in an open carriage to the delight of the public and, no doubt, the considerable concern of Special Branch.
Meghan and Harry may have to face none of the real world worries that beset most young people starting out on married life today, but it would be churlish not to wish them health, happiness, and a long and happy marriage.
Good luck to them and to all the others who took the plunge yesterday.

Post 303. I PUT THEM SOMEWHERE SAFE.

THAT NOTORIOUSLY SAD MISTAKE.

I still can't find things I put away at Christmas, including family photographs normally lined along the mantelpiece in the dining room: they had to come down to accommodate the Santa Claus line-up that benevolently beams away there for a couple of weeks every December.
Well, it's only May now so I might still unearth them before it's time to repeat that notoriously sad mistake.
I won't hold me breath, though. 
MAY THE GODS PROTECT US.
From lunatics with beiief.
This morning came news that five people were attacked in central Paris last night - one of them fatally - by a knife wielding nutjob who French police promptly shot dead, and that a family of six indoctrinated idiots (mother, father, two daughters and two sons) carried out suicide bomb attacks on three churches in Surabaya, Indonesia today.
They and many of those they attacked, died.
Why?
Christ knows what these twisted barmpots are out to prove, but no religion or belief in the world is worth that sort of carnage.
AND AT HOME.

Nephew Philip Butler.
This highly regarded younger son of Mo's late sister, Jean, had to undergo a re-route of blood supply (this time at Basingstoke and North Hampshire Hospital) recently, will be returning there shortly for an operation on his liver, but was out and cheerfully optimistic in time for his birthday on the 11th of May.
All the very best, Phil. Youre a good 'un. As is...
NO DOOM ON YOU.

Jess Daisy White                                                                                                 

our granddaughter (on the right), who completed her studies at Hertfordshire University this week and returned home in time to tackle the annual Walk the Wight event today. She, together with friends, Buddy the dog (who made it to Carisbrooke), and with lord knows how many more worthwhile walkers for Mountbatten Hospice charity, started out from Bembridge at 7am and, via Arreton, Carisbrooke, Mottistone and Freshwater, made it to Alum Bay at a little after 5 this afternoon. On a selfishly personal note, lovely girl, the one and only Popsy is very, very proud of you. Well done.

Post 302. WHY CHANGE ANYWAY?

ALL THINGS CONSIDERED.

I can't be bothered.
So if you regularly look in on these scribblings, dear reader, be prepared for more in the same vein.
I think the implication was clear in my last post but it does no harm to confirm there will be no outstanding change to this blog format now, nor will there be any gesture towards gender or race equality. I don't give a toss what sex, race or religion anybody is, they are either someone I would care to know or someone I wouldn't. I tend to avoid the latter, even on the television screen.
That's what the remote is for.
TELEVISION.
I am using the remote more often.
Perhaps it is age (last week my Leader gently reminded me I am only three years short of ninety) but I have a deal less patience with television now.
Programmers, under whatever title they currently pose, have dumbed down standards to the lowest possible level of viewer intelligence and presenters - with a few marked exceptions - are cheerfully complicit in this: well, the pay's good and you can go a long way if you are a television face. Look at Donald Trump (who I specifically mention only to honour a promise made in my last post). 
I don't watch even the British version of The Apprentice. If you do, I'm sorry.
HOME.

 The kids are back at school and we are subject to a daily visit from Roz's dog, Buddy, who is lovely and jampacked with energy and unpredictable and everything an eleven month old puppy will invariably be, plus a bit more.
I think we are beginning to get used to each other.
I never did get the computer lifeboat captain's advice on blog change after his confinement with the heavy cold.
Things just got in the way.
He has now sailed off with Pauline for a week's holiday in the Cotswolds.

 Drive carefully. Don't trust other people's indicators!

 

Post 301. STILL VERY WARY.

IT AIN'T THAT BROKE.
So why change it? This, of course, refers to my blog format which is so old I now have no idea what it is called but do remember that it was free with Google and, gawdblessem, has remained so to this day. Right now I am trying my printing hand with Calibri 22. It's a self-help notion. We'll see.
Haven't rung to find out how the computer lifeboat captain is faring. I really must do so. I'd write a reminder on my cuff if I didn't wear short sleeved shirts. Meanwhile...
TELEVISION.

The Wright Stuff. (Channel 5)
Ol' Wright moved studio location a while ago and some bright spark decided that the change of venue was an opportune time to change the format.
Trouble is, it wasn't that broke.
Now, instead of two permanent panellists per week and one guest visitor each day, they have opted to change all the guest panellists randomly, like a weekly end of series edition of Would I Lie To You, or Mock The Week, or Room 101. I find myself thinking it has to be repeats from over the last few weeks.
Then there's the papers: the tried and tested routine of each panellist reading out three or four items of news of the day before passing the baton for the next person to perform, has been superseded by a willy-nilly bobbing up and down the panel of the camera as each protagonist presents a snippet in turn.
It should be preceded by a warning to anyone suffering from epilepsy.
To add to the confusion, whenever Matthew took one of his (fairly frequent) breaks from the screen, his replacement as host was invariably Anne Diamond or Richard Madely.
He was away for a week recently and a fresh female face filled the screen every day. Did no harm, but I do rather like Anne and Richard and have no time for token gestures.
Somebody at Channel 5 needs to get a grip and I do wonder if the bright spark who proposed these changes ever considered the likely viewing public of a morning programme. Aside from the housebound and the unemployed, the vast number will, surely, be retired people.
Oldies.
And oldies, like children, are at best small c conservatives who do not like change or, at worst, capital C Conservatives who only watch BBC news.
All for now.
If you are American and have no idea what this has been all about, I'll try to mention President Trump next time out.

Post 300. Index 6. Posts 251 - 299

Adni, Daniel: 263 Alibhai Brown, Yasmin: 262 Allam, Roger: 286 Allingham, Margery: 253 Angel: 273 Anne, friend (see Wilkening) Anonymous John (Appleton) 274 Ashman, Kevin: 278 Ayres, Pam: 292 Bacon, Jonathan: 259, 269 Bailey, Nick: 287 Barbirolli, John: 269 Barenboim, Daniel: 271(b) Barnden, Maureen: (My Leader) Barnden, Neil: 251, 298, 299 Barnden, Pauline: 251, 273, 299 Barnden, Roz: 262, 270, 273, 276, 285,293, 296 Barnden, William "Bill" 258 Beaton, M.C. 253 Beckham, David: 282 Berry, Mary: 275 Berthoud, Mollie Freedman: 279 Bjorling, Jussi: 289 Blaehr, Tommy: 261 Blethyn, Brenda: 260 Booth, Webster: 289 Bradbury, Ray: 255 Brandon, John G. 253 Brear, Hannah: 270 Brenda from Bristol: 264 Brocklehurst, Danny: 256 Buddy: 273,293 Burke, Tom: 275 Burke, Alexandra: 281 Burnett, Robin: 273 Butler, Jean: 286 Butler, Phil: 286 Butler, Steve: 286 Calman, Susan: 264 Campbell, Alistair: 262 Caron, Leslie: 290 Cassandra: 256, 279 Castle, Roy: 265 Chandler, Raymond: 253, 274 Charteris, Leslie: 253 Cheyney, Peter: 274 Christie, Agatha: 253 Christine (neighbour): 274 Clarke, Allan: 271(b) Clarke, George: 252 Connor, William (see Cassandra) Cook, Jason: 279 Cooper. Charlie: 296 Cooper, Daisy: 296 Coren Mitchell, Victoria: 274 Costello, Elvis: 252 Creasey, John: 253 Cumberbatch, Benedict: 276 Daly, Tess: 274 Davies, Alan: 274 Davis, Andrew: 271(b) Dawson, Peter: 265 Day, Doris: 284 Dayer, Ellis: 270, 273, 285 Derek next door: 293 Derham, Katie: 271(b) Dexter, Colin: 262 Diamond, Anne: 251 Dillow, Ian: 258, 266, 290 Dodd, Ken: 287 duBeke, Anton: 274 Duff, Oliver: 256 DVLA: 259 Ellis, Vivian: 290 Ellman, Daphne: 273 Eliot, T.S. 292 Fairbrass, Richard: 262 Farage, Nigel: 260 Faust, Isabelle: 271(b) Fielding, Noel: 275 Forsyth, Bruce: 274 Fowler, Daphne: 278 Galbraith, Robert: 271(a) 275 Gibson, Sian: 279 Gigli, Beniamino: 289 Gillen, Aidan: 274 Google: 294 Goose, Claire: 260 Grande, Ariana: 266, 267 Granddaughter Jessica (see White) Grandson Ellis (see Dayer) Gray, Berkely: 253 Gray, Dolores: 265 Grayson, Larry: 281 Guetary, Georges: 290 Gunn, Victor: 253 Haitink, Bernard: 271(b) Hammett, Dashiell 274 Harrison, Bill: 280 Harrison, Kath: 280 Hatfield, Stefano: 256 Hawking, Stephen: 287 Heath, Eira: 265 Hollies, The: 284 Horowitz, Anthony: 277, 279 Hughes, Chris: 278 Hume, David: 253 Hurley, Graham: 258, 268 Hussain, Nadiya: 274 Ingleby, Lee: 276 Johnson, Boris: 276 Keep, Joan: 285, 286 Kelly, Gene: 290 Kelner, Simon: 256, 264 Kuusisto, Pekka: 293 Kyle, Jeremy: 274 Lancashire, Sarah: 284 Lanza, Mario: 290 Leith, Pru: 275 Len (neighbour): 274 Lincoln, Andrew: 278 Macdonald, Kelly: 276 Mackintosh, Cameron: 270 Madely, Richard: 251 Mahmoud, Mohammed: 269 Malone, Gareth: 273 Margolyes, Miriam: 283 Marr, Andrew: 253 Marsh, Ngaio: 253 Maxwell, Robert: 256 May, Teresa: 267 McCormack, John: 283 McEwan. Ian: 276 McFadden, Joe: 281 McGee, Debbie: 281 Morgan, Jeffrey Dean: 255, 278 Morgan, Piers: 260 Munch, Edvard: 294 Murdoch, Rupert: 256 Murnaghan, Dermot: 278 Murray, Douglas: 271(b) My Leader: (almost everywhere) Nilsson, Harry: 284 Ogden, John: 263, 269 O'Sullivan, Kevin: 264 Parfitt, Judy: 262, 287 Parker, Robert B: 274 Parry, David: 283 Pay, Colin: 276 Pay, Linda: 276 Peckham, Beth: 270 Perkins, Sue: 271(b) Plant, Margaret: 273 Pratchett, Terry: 252, 268, 271(a) Pullman, Philip: 279 Rana, Beatrice: 271(b) Riggs, Chandler: 286 Robeson, Paul: 284 Robins, John: 266 Roth, Tim: 276 Rowling, J.K. 271(a), 274 Sargeant, John: 275 Sargent, Malcolm: 271(b) Sayers, Dorothy L: 253 Shadow, the cat: 292 + almost everywhere Shaw, Percy: 254 Shorrock, Steph: 270 Skellern, Peter: 260 Skripal, Sergei: 295 Skripal, Yulia: 295 Spike: 273 Street Porter, Janet: 256 Tauber, Richard: 284, 289 Thomas, Dylan: 257 Tizz, Ina: 296 Toase, Anne: 273 Toksvig, Sandi: 275 Tree, Bubbles: 286 Tree, John: 285, 286 Trump, Donald: 255, 260 Turnbull, Giles: 288 Vegas, Johnny: 279 Viney, Carolyne: 273 Virgo, John: 264 Vogt, Lars: 293 Watts, Susana: 273 Webb, Lizbeth: 290 West, Tim and Pru: 275 White, Jessica: 258, 273, 285, 296 White, Peter: 265, 266 White, Robert: 265, 283 Whittam Smith, Andreas: 256 Wilkening, Anne: 276, 277, 278 Williams, John: 271(b)Williams, Mark: 260 Winkleman, Claudia: 274 Wiseman, Rich: 270 Wonnacott, Tim: 260 Wood, Henry: 271(b) Wright, Matthew: 251, 264

Post 299. BLOG INDEX TIME AGAIN.

AND THEN WHO KNOWS?
I've lost track of the times we've tackled this enigma. I promise myself there will be a change in blog format after I've published the next index: I must have made that promise four or five times now. Then I bumble around reading blurb on the web and listening in as pretty young women with American accents (is there an 'expert' left in the world who doesn't have an American accent?) assure me, in terms my semi-educated English skull is quite incapable of absorbing, why their blog format is far and away the best thing since sliced bread (an always over-hyped product in my opinion).
I then seek local advice: this time I sought it from the computer lifeboat captain who said (Post 298) that he would think about it. That was last Friday.
On Sunday I phoned his home number and had a chat with our daughter-in-law, Pauline, who is currently recovering from a nasty bout of pneumonia that she simply refused to give in to: she's an Island girl. He was confined to bed with a heavy cold and sore throat. That's nasty, too.
It has been doing the rounds over here. My Mo is just getting over it. She insisted on getting up every day: she's a Pompey girl.
Anyway, I declined Paul's offer of a chat with Neil. There's a time for everything and I felt that wasn't the time. We'll get to talking again after blog index 6 has been published. Who knows? Before that, perhaps the faceless Silent Bobs at Google will break all their rules and offer me a solution - other than "fuck off" - in language I can understand.
Pigs might fly.
Oh, badgers do in The Badgers Of Deep Wood (my book for children aged nine to ninety nine) now almost completely revised and set to go.
Wish me the luck of finding favour with a pretty young publishing expert who has an American accent.
 
 
 

Post 298. ADVICE SOUGHT AGAIN.

FROM A RELIABLE LOCAL SOURCE.
The Computer Lifeboat Captain.

Made sense to phone him. He's our son Neil (pictured) and, somewhat to his father's perplexity, he's been making his living on computers for years.
I told him of the problem I have experienced in transferring (copy and paste) my carefully crafted WordPad (duplicated on OpenOfficeWriter) blog posts from their source to the 'edit' page.
My first question to him was: "Should I buy a domain?"
He didn't actually say "Christ, no!" but his reply did leave me in no doubt that somebody else always owns your domain, paid for or not and, in my case, any alteration to the status quo would be a big mistake. So how to rectify the difficulty of my dancing print size?
He didn't actually say "Christ knows!" but he did say he'll think about it.

Post 297. BUREAUCRACY GONE MAD.

MAD! NO DOUBT ABOUT IT.
And I am a diabetic.
Yes, I am a Type 2 (or, as I prefer to describe it, Grade 2 listed) diabetic and have been taking daily tablets for more years than I care to remember. Since I am increasingly too old, weak-willed and lazy to lose a couple of stone (28 pounds) in weight (look it up), for the rest of my life I shall probably be a who-knows-how-many-times-a-year regular at whatever local NHS establishment has the time and staff to deal with me.
They become harder and harder to find.
We still have a surgery in this village, but it is the branch surgery of a Newport practice currently beset by staffing problems.
For my next pre checkup blood test I have to go to the main surgery in Newport (a parking nightmare) or to St. Mary's Hospital on the other side of Newport (a bastion of self-importance over competence). That's the choice.
There is also a walk-in clinic in Ryde where you can chance your arm.
I opted for the main surgery and the earliest appointment I could get there - which is at the end of this month. Don't get me wrong, I don't expect Shangri-la and I do appreciate that others are faced with far greater problems, but for years I just walked down the road to obtain the scant services I required.
Not now. Too many patients: too few staff. 
Now it is bureaucracy gone mad.
No doubt about it, politicos are slowly killing off the NHS. If, diabetes notwithstanding, I survive another ten years, I doubt there will be a free service left. Who trusts an NHS Trust?
I was employed in family practitioner administration for thirty two years and believed in what it stood for. It's gone now. Successive governments have buggered everything up.
Not completely yet.
But watch 'em!

Post 296. WATER UNDER THE BRIDGE.

FOR THIS BLOG FORMAT?

Perhaps the final week.
I am examining the alternatives. And there are many of them. It seems the blogging world is alive with proficient people presenting fine new formats to tease the blogging beginner. I need advice less on beginning a blog (this one will be twelve years old come the 26th July) than on simply transferring to a modern, more easily prepared, publishing format.
If and when I find one, my entire output since 2006 may well become water under the bridge.
Probably already is.
There are far too many words floating about out there anyway. Half of Fleet Street adds to them every day and most of it is political twaddle.
We're better than that.
THIS COUNTRY.
Daughter Roz and granddaughter Jess came to see us yesterday. Usual family stuff until they got to talking about ThisCountry, a BBC iPlayer mockumentary starring brother and sister Daisy and Charlie Cooper and just about everyone else in their family (one of the joys of being the pair who created and wrote it). Roz and Jess were convulsed with laughter as they talked. We had to see it.
We have now.
My parents were too old for The Goon Show, let alone Monty Python. We were too old for The Young Ones.
Need I say more?
LETTER TO THE EDITOR.
Sir -
It has not escaped my organisation's notice that Watching is composed and edited by a male person. This is clearly an affront to gender equality about which immediate action should be taken.
Yours,
Ina Tizz,
for Women in Everything
Dear Ina - Have you ever met my Leader? Ed.