Post 442. STILL FOLLOWING THE PROMS.

DESPITE THEIR MODERNITY.

I REMAIN FAITHFUL BUT LESS EAGER.
Pushed on by avant garde conductors, concert orchestras now seem compelled to undertake at least one composition by a 'promising new composer' with every appearance they make. This year at the Proms there has been ample evidence that the practice is spreading. So far I have watched the Ukrainian Freedom Orchestra conducted by Canadian-Ukrainian Keri-Lee Wilson give, with only a fortnight to prepare, a fine performance of Valentin Silvestrov's 7th Symphony (Mr. Silvestrov, Ukraine's leading living composer, left Kylv with his daughter and granddaughter, in March), of works by Beethoven and Brahms, and of  Chopin's Piano Concerto No.2 played by Anna Fedorova. I have always thought Chopin's piano concertos to be nothing more than fancy tinkering up and down the scales with an occasional nod in the direction of the orchestra, and Brahms Symphony No.4 is very, very long, so the programme was not to my taste. But the orchestra was fine and the proms audience loved it.
I also watched Marin Alsop conduct the Vienna Radio Symphony Orchestra on their Proms debut: the programme consisted of works by Bartol, Prokofiev, Hannah Eisendle and Dvořák. I like Marin Alsop, I liked the orchestra, and I greatly respect the keyboard skills of Benjamin Grosvenor. Those were my positives. Everything else: from the Bartok - where the tramps should have done away with the mandarin at least ten minutes earlier - to Dvořák's Symphony No.7 which came from nowhere and went right back where it came from, was a negative.
So, too, was the Proms broadcast on BBC Radio 3 of the Finnish Radio Symphony Orchestra conducted by Nicholas Collon and fronted by a favourite of every fun-at-the-Proms follower, violinist Pekka Kuusisto. Great orchestra, and always great to hear Pekka, but did he really have to let Vaughan Williams' lark out of its cage again? Never mind the number one choice of Classic FM listeners, I'd have shot that little bugger out of the sky long ago. To me, most twenty  and twenty first century classical music is a combination of the loudly discordant and the monotonously off-key. If I am alone in this, too bad. 
To quote the brilliant (recently retired) concert pianist Philip Fowke: "I'm not a student at all. I run on ignorance and prejudice...and instinct of course, that's very important."
He still is a brilliant pianist.
I still scribble this blog and follow the Proms: the latter less eagerly.

I don't like decimalisation and the metric system either.
But things will cheer up. They always do.
As Endeavour's Fred Thursday (Roger Allam) puts it: "Mind how you go."

Post 441. STRAIGHTFORWARDNESS.

 HOWEVER HONESTLY PRESENTED.

IS NO LONGER ACCEPTABLE.
No, you don't speak too openly, not in twenty first century England you don't. Now you tread warily. You choose your words with care. You avoid confrontation or giving offence. If you have two penn'orth of sense you keep clear of social media, too. ChitChat, TikTok, PatterNatter, FlipFlop - whatever trade moniker given it by some teenage billionaire.
And you ignore any comment by anybody who doesn't give their name, or by any 'former something-or-other' who does. Time was when a member of the NHS committee that purported to employ me (actually the government did) remarked that I was 'rather forthright' and I took it as a compliment, even if it did mean I would never progress beyond Deputy Clerk and Finance Officer. Most of the people who took exception to my bluntness were pompous small-town somebodies whose views concerned me not. I was my own man: never did learn.
Now it is different. Even my dear Leader warns me. You cannot - must not - be adversely outspoken about the way you see this country changing. It is no longer the England of your youth: the one you thought you knew. It is twenty first century England: the one you don't, and never really will, know. So keep your counsel. Do not rock the boat. Avoid words like 'tokenism.'
Though this may suggest otherwise, it really does not bother me all that much. Can't change it.
Early nineties, arthritis, diabetes, cancer: nobody lasts forever and my time has to be too limited for such trivia. But I worry for our descendants in the rat race they will perforce have to join.

Meanwhile it is BBC Proms time again so I am back watching 

TELEVISION.
Saw the vast and gifted National Youth Orchestra of Great Britain conducted by Andrew Gourley perform Danny Elfman's composition Wunderkammer (20 mins), Gershwin's Rhapsody In Blue with Simone Dinnerstein superb at the piano, and Maurice Ravel's Daphnis et Chloe (50 mins). Loved the Gershwin, thought both the Elfman and the Ravel (in particular) were too long and went nowhere. But I am not a 'modern' music fan. The orchestra, though, was marvellous and the Proms audience (liberally sprinkled with NYOGB musicians' parents I guess) clearly enjoyed every moment wherever the music was or was not going. Wonderful.
Also saw Yuja Wang play Liszt's Piano Concerto No.1 with the Oslo Philharmonic Orchestra conducted by Klaus Mäkelä. Brilliant.

How can someone who looks that good be that talented?
How many times have i asked that question?

That's it until the end of the month..     

post 440. MOSTLY THE TELEVISION SCREEN.

NOT IN THE CORNER.

ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE LIVING ROOM.

Yep. A sad fact of life: television still reigns supreme in this house. The screen (it long ago ceased to be 'the box' didn't it?) stands slap bang in front of Mo and I and is watched, or at least switched on, for most of every day. God knows why. Much of it is garbage. But some of the repeated stuff can still be worth another look: so we  watch it, further praise the good, and re-lambast the bad.

Good or bad does of course depend on your perspective, and my likes or dislikes may not be yours or  those of a more kindly majority. When I look back, many of the television programmes I castigated from their very conception have since appeared in series after series, each attracting an adoring audience, and are still going strong. Ah well. To each his own.
Mo and I are currently attempting to intersperse the reality dross with Netflix. Mostly it works.

We saw Clint Easrwood's film  Cry Macho and it was slow but charming. The actor/director is four months older than me and looks it: but he can still ride a horse and deliver a quick punch. I pass.

We saw Ewan McGregor in The Ghost Writer and both enjoyed it even if,  halfway through, I did realize it was second time around for me. Yes...age again... you remember when it's too late.
For our sins we also watched James Weber Brown in Mark Greenstreet's Silent Hours. The film is set in Portsmouth, so we felt a compulsion to stay the course: we are, after all, Portmuthians who met and were married there. Mo eventually gave the film a kindly word on account of twists in the plot. I concluded, in a less kindly vein, that it took two and a half hours off my life and that was two and a half hours too long. Anyway, Pompey is not much of a lure to me. Never was.
To conclude, everybody seems to be complaining that it is too hot, so it was with some relief that I found my annual diabetes check-up being managed by a nurse of thirty years standing who said: "They're all moaning about the heat now. In a week or two's time, when it changes, they'll all be moaning about the rain. I tell 'em to enjoy this like it is. It won't last that long. And the grass will grow  again: it always does." 

God bless common sense. And I'm not in bad nick for an oldie. 

Post 439. HOORAY! THEY DID IT!

 ENGLAND 2 - GERMANY 1

AS IF YOU DIDN'T KNOW.
And, if you are English, how could you not? Last Sunday at Wembley the England women's football team beat the Germany women's team 2 - 1 in extra time to win the Euro 2022 Trophy. It was a landmark for the English against a country that had won the Trophy eight times and, if you were looking for a touch of gentle irony, the England manager, Sarina Wiegman, is Dutch.
So much for Brexit, eh?
A wonderful sporting achievement, though, and the utmost praise to all concerned. I just hope the resultant surge in interest won't lead women's football too close to that of the men. We can do without histrionics in the penalty area, attempted coercion of referees, off-field Facebook fights, or top teams so full of foreigners (see Chelsea 1999) that you can't pick a national side from the Premiership because there are barely enough English players there to form one. That apart, good luck to the girls in their quest for a better deal on the football front. They have had one helluva long wait.
HERE AT HOME.
If you are owned (or have ever been owned) by a cat you will know that, no matter how much you may kid yourself to the contrary, you never really know your feline owner: the most accurate one word description is unpredictable.
My Leader and I are currently owned by two cats: Spike and Angel. Spike, the little female, paying due homage to Mo, runs the show to suit herself; and that includes sleeping most nights by Mo's feet at the bottom of our bed.
Angel has adopted me on an increasingly permanent basis. I hold the door keys, as well as being keeper of the Felix goody bag packet, and nothing in the Angel world could be more influential than an elderly retainer who sidelines as doorman and caterer.
So on Sunday night he disappeared. He is a wanderer and has done it before, but not for too long since he moved here. We may not have worried, but by late Tuesday when calling and searching had brought no joy, we were increasingly concerned that he may have become trapped somewhere or have strayed into busy main road holiday traffic. Mo put a message on her social media outlets and got some nice responses from other cat people. But nobody had seen him.
At a quarter to eleven on Tuesday night I was standing at the loo having a last minute leak when he poked his head round the bathroom door to ask: "Got any cat treats?"
He never has fathomed privacy. Look at it: butter wouldn't melt.

And we still don't know where he was. 

Post 438. DON'T UNDERMINE OUR EDUCATION SYSTEM.

 WITH ALL THIS WONDERFUL EQUIPMENT.

DON'T BASTARDIZE THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE.
The smartphone pictured at the end of my last post and the smart ipad shown above are not mine: though I greatly respect machine small talk's constant progressiveness, and am in awe of those who have mastered it, I do not yearn to be a part of it. And I do worry that it may concurrently be undermining our education system. 

Recently on Jeremy Vine (Channel 5) the television show where Mr. Vine jumps up and down from his seat like a hypochondriac on a flight to Australia, the presenter made one of his irksome trips to a blackboard to regale us with the, clearly very  modern, view that the apostrophe should be discarded from our language.

There is, he opined, no appreciable difference between 'your' and 'you're.'
The 'no swearing in this house' rule teetered wildly and, though I balk at insulting a guest in my home, I growled: "Do stop it. Your is one word, as in 'your middle-aged crisis is showing ' and you're is two words, as in 'you're talking a load of bollocks:' isn't that something you mostly do when the topic is bikes and cars?"
He didn't reply. I don't think he heard me.
Well I ain't goin' to ring 'im.
Perhaps, in an age when everything other than the medieval minds of some national leaders is subject to change, concern that our language is being crucified by ignorance masquerading as modernity will be dismissed by the change initiators as reactionary. But in accepting the bastardizing of English, surely we are both pandering to the idle and further undermining our oft unfairly criticised education system.
So do I have a particular axe to grind?  Well...yes....
I did leave elementary school knowing only three (noun, verb, adjective) of the eight parts of speech. I  did learn the others on a 'brush up your English' correspondence course opener at the age of twenty three. I did sit and proudly pass my sole GCE (English) when I was twenty six and otherwise taken up by a two terms 'change of career' course in bookkeeping at Clark's Commercial College, Southampton. I did have a column in the award winning Link W.H.A. newspaper for seventeen years. And I did complete sixteen years of this blog just four days ago. 
Oh, let the technically forward be literally backward if it suits them, but don't use that as an excuse to wreck good English. Some of us have worked to put our words in the right place. 
That's the end of the lesson.
It's footie now.
England v Germany. Women.

Fingers crossed.

Say no more. 

 

Post 437. WE ARE STILL SMILING.

 STILL STUCK AT HOME.

BUT WHO WANTS TO HEAD FOR DOVER?
Our home is located on the main road between Newport and Ryde. It is set well back and we have good double glazing, but our bedroom is at the front of the house so we usually sleep with the windows shut and the door wide open. The recent heatwave put paid to that: our little top window stayed open and sod the traffic. The occasional vehicle or two didn't trouble us.
We slept well enough, though I think that was helped by me closing the window on the way back from my early morning call to the bathroom.
As we sat in bed drinking tea on the first open window morning, Mo said:
"Oh, you've closed the window. When did you do that?"
"At about six o'clock," I said. "I thought by eight we might have the tail end of the traffic queue to Dover lined up out there."

Sorry, unhappy travellers, but how many of you voted to come out of Europe?

On Tuesday morning, at a little after nine o'clock, we were sitting in bed drinking tea. 

Mo was reading Barbara Taylor Bradford's Being Elizabeth.  I was listening to Classic FM.
AA (not the Automobile Association, the other one) was probably polishing off a full English whilst we listeners took in the final movement of Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No.2 in C minor.
Mo suddenly came out of her book to say: 
"This is nice. D'you think someone might use it as a theme tune?"
"What. after Celia Johnson and Trevor Howard did it to death with their Brief Encounter on a railway station?" I said. "I don't think even the television people would be so cheeky."
"Oh lor!" she said. "Was that the one?" And she went back into her book.
Y'know, I think ol' Sergei would have seen the funny side of that. 

I MAY BE BACK AT THE END OF THE MONTH

WITH A GRIPE ABOUT MODERN ENGLISH.
Or "What's the point of education?"
Hope you'll look in

Post 436. WHEN TECHNOLOGY LETS ME DOWN

 I AM FURIOUS.

EVEN IF IT IS MY OWN FAULT.

I have lost track of the number of times I have cursed to hell Google and everybody who works for it. The last time was at the conclusion of Post 435 (the one that says technology is wonderful) which originally concluded with a picture and a few more lines but then did that weird transference onto a one page too many page that retains your last few words but loses absolutely everything preceding them. Don't ask. It's a Google Blog thing. Perhaps it has something to do with taking up too much valuable space on the net. I dunno.
But I like a bit of space: it's the reason I don't do TikTok or why I constantly overlook bandying niceties on Facebook (from whom I recently received notice that there were twenty seven
messages awaiting my attention). It's not deliberate rudery or obtuseness. It's forgetfulness combined with a lack of technical savvy. I'm not proud of it, but I'm too old to care about it. 

I am also too old to blame Google when I bugger up the blog. Which won't stop me doing it.
What's life if you can't occasionally curse them up there?

THIS IS THE PICTURE

THAT CONCLUDED MY LAST POST.

Her name is Betty and she is standing in for our daughter, Jacqueline.
Why?

Because I don't have a single picture of Jackie, with or without Mike, on my computer.

What did I say? It's forgetfulness combined with...
Have a good holiday.
Try to avoid the road to Dover

Post 435. YES, TECHNOLOGY IS WONDERFUL..

WHEN IT WORKS.

AND LAST THURSDAY IT DID.
Yes, thanks to Live Streaming on YouTube, and a considerable amount of aged blundering on the computer, last Thursday we were able to see our lovely (courtesy) granddaughter Hannah Woods' degree ceremony at Nottingham University. If you blinked you missed her (so many smart young people on display), but we were fully focused and the few seconds in which she did appear were magic to us.
A lot of salt water has flown under the non-existent bridge to the island since Hans's first visit here. She was, I am reliably informed, nine years of age then. She quickly bonded with Jac and quietly became one of the family. To me she has always been, and will always be, my little buddy.
Now look at her. Grown up. Confident. A good degree (2:1) in Broadcast Journalism and, recently, a new job that promises extremely well for the future.
We could not be more pleased for her or more proud of her.
Bravo, little buddy!
Onwards and upwards!

    

Post 434. BOJO'S OUT THEN.

 EVENTUALLY SHOWN THE 

BUT NOT AN  EASY DEPARTURE..
Well, did anyone imagine it would be a simple farewell? What, to Master Johnson? When was anything ever that straightforward? He's the limpet PM. Finally kicked out, he apparently means to cling on to 10 Downing Street as Caretaker Prime Minister "until his successor is elected."
He blames his failure on the herd instinct, not on himself. Well he would, wouldn't he.

Now he will hang about in the wild hope that during the next three months there will be a  magical change in the world of politics -  where, it is said, a week is a very long time - and that something along the lines of  Putin dragging the world into WW3 will force Britain to acknowledge its need for a Winston Thatcher Johnson to save us from a fate worse than death.  
Dream on, Sunshine, dream on... 

In the next few weeks I shall try to contain my laughter at the wildly ambitious antics of those eager to replace the artful todger (sic) at No.10. Many of the contenders will have been Cabinet ministers, headed several departments and been singularly useless at all of them. They will make promises that even their former leader may have thought questionable. They will employ professional advertisers who will make sure the description 'reliable' and 'experienced' is bandied about a lot, and they will do a painful amount of faux smiling and limp hand shaking. They may even be photographed putting overpriced petrol into a total stranger's car.
It's open season on gullibility, folks, so enjoy the show but know you're going to finish up with the same self-serving charlatans. 

And for every one who doesn't believe them there will be one who does.
It's enough to drive you to

TELEVISION.

Which to us means mostly documentaries, fictional cops (home grown and foreign), or films on Netflix. On the documentary front we have enjoyed Francesco da Mosto's Mediterranean Voyage from Venice to Istanbul and still enjoy Secrets of the London Underground presented by Tim Dunn and London Transport Museum's Engagement Manager, Siddy Holloway. Tim's enthusiasm is infectious and any man who doesn't cast an appreciative second glance at Siddy...

What? Aren't I supposed to say that now? 

Get off! My Mo would think there was something wrong with me if I didn't.
All the best to you and yours. 

       

Post 433. TALKING ISLE OF WIGHT FESTIVAL.

WHICH LOOKED LIKE THIS.

NOT THE OTHER ONE which was larger but occasionally looked like a cheerful evening in a home for retired entertainers: Where was that again? Glastonbury? Well they both had a lot of visitors so they must be doing something right.

On the Isle of Wight the early favourites included Madness, much loved over here (though Suggs, constantly interrupted in an off-stage interview, was not sure that the Red Arrows were being particularly friendly):the group did most of their popular numbers and everybody loved 'em. They were followed by the likes of Lewis Capaldi, The Charlatans, Kasabian, Mark Owen, Peter Tong, The Kooks and,to conclude the last night, Muse, one of the best bands on any festival stage anywhere, singer Matt Bellamy showing, for the benefit of those of us who who are blissfully unaware of such things, that he is a versatile and gifted musician too. We watched quite a lot of it on television. Ellis went, was sensibly selective in what he watched, came the couple of miles home each night rather than camp at Seaclose, and did not set eyes on his father, Mark, who was also there and who later had Covid. Ellis was lucky as was our daughter Roz's friend Wendy: she, with her daughter Lyla, was also at the festival. They came in to see us on their way back to Brighton. It was so good to see them again and exchange news.

As for Glastonbury. We also watched quite a bit of that on television. 

Neither Diana Ross nor Paul McCartney has as strong a voice as they once had, but they still have great stage presence and a faithful following. Which is surely what drives them on. They don't need the money, do they? 

And it didn't rain on anybody. Lovely.
I JUST STILL WISH

I HAD LEARNED TO PLAY THE PIANO.
Too late now.
But I do see some of the best pianists in the world on YouTube.

They nearly all speak English, too. What luck.

Just watched Peter Donohoe chatting, slightly uncomfortably I thought, to a select group at St.Mary's Perivale. Somebody really should have offered him a glass of water early on.
After his 1982 success in the Tchaikovsky competition I saw him play Rachmaninoff's 3rd  at Portsmouth Guildhall. Remember being vaguely disappointed at first (believe I thought it was going to be the 2nd), but finished up a lifelong admirer both of the 3rd and that performer.
He is still a fine musician and a nice down-to-earth man.
The same obviously goes for young Canadian pianist Jan Lisiecki. His YouTube appearance with orchestra conductor Peter Oundjian discussing the cadenzas of Beethoven's piano concerti is fascinating even to a viewer who knows not a single note of music (not even tonic sol-fa).

Whatever your musical taste, enjoy it whenever and wherever you can.
Cheers. 

Post 432. I HAVE AGAIN LOST MY GMAIL.

NO MESSAGES IN OR OUT.

NOBODY CAN FIND IT.
That's it. Nobody. Not even computer lifeboat captain Neil.
I asked Ellis and he tried. No luck. He thought I would have to ask Neil. So I did.
I try not to call out the computer lifeboat nowadays - our son has more than enough on his plate - but he happened to be here, for some reason beyond my elderly recollection, and I quickly roped him in to investigate why the server is so firmly rejecting my login. He had limited time but he tried. No luck. So if you are one of the few who has my email address and has intended using it to message me; forget it,  friend. I have hit a wrong key somewhere and that's that for now. 
What? Oh I have Googled it. Plenty of instructions from experts, none of whom I can understand. So back we go to

TELEVISION.

AND HOORAY FOR NETFLIX where we recently binge watched Stranger Things. Lovely lunacy.
For good measure we watched (and, in some cases, re-watched) our every recorded episode of Beck. Lively police action apart, Peter Haber as Martin Beck and Ingvar Hirdwall as his neighbour are a double act par excellence. It takes talent and experience to get timing that good. Bravo!

We also tuned in to the BBC series Sherwood. A superb cast played James Graham's harrowing story of lasting embitterment in a defunct mining village to perfection. David Morrissey, as DCS Ian St. Clair, topped the list of a cast packed with star actors. A thought-provoking six episodes.

That's all for this month.
Try to be safe. Try to be considerate.

On the world situation? Words fail me

 

 

 

Post 431.WHY I AM NOT SURPRISED

AT THE DISAPPEARING PM 

WHO WILL BE IN UKRAINE milking popularity the moment the shit threatens to hit the fan at home. It ain't diplomacy, folks, it's self-preservation that activates the Winston Thatcher persona, and it does not surprise me in the slightest. Now the crafty little responsibility dodger has been seeking further approval in Ukraine. Partygate won't go away and Master Johnson's sniffy Latin one-upmanship obviously eschews the phrase hircum hic sistit.

Here at home his universally detested Home Secretary, Priti Patel, is seriously considering the electronic tagging of all uninvited Channel crossers, presumably on the grounds that they are all petty criminals too. Oh dear oh dear. But I am not surprised. 

NOR WAS I SURPRISED

TO LEARN THAT THE COLUMNIST YASMIN ALIBHAI-BROWN'S recent fall, as she was boarding an underground train in London, left her lying helpless and in considerable pain on the floor of the carriage for two stops without a solitary approach by a fellow passenger. Three people finally came to her assistance as they were coming to the third stop, but her experience from then on was equally distressing until she finally came into kindly staff hands and eventually reached hospital where it was found she had badly broken bones in her upper right arm. She will by now have undergone surgery and one can only hope that all will go well and wish her a swift and complete recovery. But she had not encountered the sort of London she thought she knew.
Sadly, I am not surprised. I have a village mentality and, on my few solitary visits to London, found it to be the loneliest place in the entire world. You didn't pass the time of day there. But she has lived and worked there for years and thought she knew it. I am sorry it has changed for her.
For me England today is an insular self-serving shambles much like its government.

Which unfortunately has no opposition so is unlikely to be dislodged in my lifetime.

So to end on a happier note... 

GLAD THAT IAN RANKIN HAS BEEN KNIGHTED.

I THINK HE'S ONE OF THE GOOD GUYS

A damn good writer, too.

That's it for now.
Talk Isle of Wight Festival at the end of the month.

Post 430. THE ROYALS WILL SURVIVE.

THANKS TO AN ELDERLY LADY

WHO HAS DONE ME NO HARM.
If you are one of those discreetly discerning people who regularly looks in on my meanderings you will know that "an elderly lady who has done me no harm" has for years been my jocular accompaniment to the words Queen Elizabeth II. It may have suited neither the pomp of royalty nor the fawning fiddle-faddle of those who unashamedly kowtow, but it has not been badly meant. I am no unquestioning royalist. Given a pair of scissors anyone can cut a ribbon. But I once articulated my slightly facetious "...who has done me no harm" quote to a vague supporter of royalty whose immediate response was: "Nor good" and realised that, true though that was, it did not change my outlook on the Queen. I would rather ensconce a royal in a castle than raise the portcullis for a politician of whatever ilk. Just look at what Trump did and what Putin is doing. Just consider what an undesirable country this became when Oliver Cromwell held the reins. The further away from symbols of power you can keep politicians, the better.

Since we stopped monarchs cutting people's heads off and kept them in their place they have been much safer denizens of castles and palaces than any drawbridge crossing politicians would be. For what it is worth, I think the lady pictured above has probably, in the politest way possible, told more than one British Prime Minister to stop being such a bloody idiot and, if only in that delightful possibility, has surely determined the survival of the royal family in Britain.
Well, she has done me no harm. Have I said that before?
AND BACK AT HOME.

SOME CONFOUNDED CLOWN has been sending telephone messages to people as far away as Reading and Oxford giving them our number and asking them to ring us. It now appears that other homes in this village are being pestered by presumably the same unknown pain in the arse's handiwork. There was a time when the instigators of such lunacy were sought out, sectioned, and shut away in asylums. What price progress?

Will chat again later.

Don't ring.
  

Post 429. MO JUST WENT FOR CAKES AND TEA.

 A QUICK TRIP OUT WITH AN OLD BUDDY.

AND FINISHED UP IN A & E.

They go out once a week, my Mo (current picture above) and her buddy, Mo Andrews (Mo A). They go  on a Thursday or Friday morning and take turns over who drives their car. They have tea and a snack at one or another of their favourite hidey-holes where they catch up on family news and put the world to rights. Last week they decided to visit the recently relocated Farmer Jack's (now Harvey Browns) at Hale Manor Farm. Mo A. drove them there. They didn't get inside.
As they made their way up to the building my Mo suddenly lost balance and  fell forward to land on the side of her face on the concrete path. It happened quickly and inexplicably.
The people at Harvey Browns couldn't have been more kind and concerned (offering to ring for an ambulance) and Mo A, who has nursing experience, couldn't have been a better buddy. Declining the ambulance offer and the waiting time that would entail, she settled my Mo back into the car, drove her to St. Mary's A & E, and remained with her while a whole range of medical tests were undertaken. The doctors, nurses, and entire  hospital staff were decisive and thorough. There was the initial check-up, the blood pressure assessment, the blood test, the ECG, the scan...You name it, they did it. And one right after the other. They then discharged her with all the requisite advice regarding dizziness, drowsiness etc. It was text book competence.
Mo A then drove her home and joined us for a fish and chip dinner before heading back to her own neck of the woods to feed her cats and, hopefully, enjoy a peaceful end to the day.
All you can you say is thank you to a buddy like that.
My lovely Mo has a lump of a bruise on the side of her head to accompany that shocking black eye, but is her usual determined not-to-be-beaten self in dealing with it.
If you're the praying type, say one for her, eh?

I potter around trying not to be too helpless. Off to watch the box with her now.
And that's enough about us for this month.

Enjoy your street party if you are having one. 

Post 428. AND STILL AT HOME.

OUR GRANDSON.

ELLIS WAS SEVENTEEN.
This month the young man (seen above in the only picture I have of him) celebrated his seventeenth birthday and a week later, with Platform One mates in a Beatles tribute group (he was Paul McCartney), did a highly successful gig at Strings Bar and Venue, Isle of Wight. He was 'bricking it' before he got there and jubilant when it was over. His mum would have been so proud of him. We certainly are. It might be a long and winding road, but he's going to make it.
SWEARING.
In our dotage we are swearing too much, Mo and I. It's official. Our children have remarked on it.

My initial reaction was: What? Us? Surely not...
It was swiftly followed by: Come to think of it, I do use more bad language now than I ever did back in my army days. I seldom swore then...
The upshot was our firm resolve, Mo and I, that the language of the twenty first century in-crowd, and of most American TV dramas, was not for us. Neither of us is a  modern stand-up comedian, either, so we do not have to eff and blind to impress people with our worldliness.
It has been very serene around here since we took the pledge.
ALL IT NEEDS NOW.

IS ALED JONES and a eff'n choir.
Sorry, Mo.
Sorry, kids.
Sorry, Aled.
Sorry, vicar.

Post 427. DOWNSIZING THE CIVIL SERVICE

TO SAVE THE TAXPAYER MONEY?

WHY NOT DOWNSIZE PARLIAMENT?
Let's start with the civil service. Unlike Topsy, it has not 'just growed and nobody never made it.' It has been methodically made, like all paper empires are made, on the backs of hard working Indians and ruthlessly ambitious chiefs. Most public services work to the same pattern. Departmental heads are usually paid according to how many staff are employed in their department and that depends on how large the population (at the last census) for which that department is expected to provide services. Lots of figure juggling goes on and, heedless of public disaffection, lots of pie-in-the-sky decisions are reached. Incomprehensible targets are set: targets that may only be met if staff numbers are increased. 

More staff means more managers and more managers means more top managers, and more top managers means more fat salaries for those who sit their arses at tables talking twaddle.
That, my friends, is modern administration.
And who do you think will get the chop when the redundancy wreckers are let loose on the civil service? It will be the Indians. It always is. Nothing touches the chiefs except the concern for self of bigger chiefs. My sympathy is - always was - with the Indians. I was a pretty good manager.

SO TO PARLIAMENT.
I regard with healthy cynicism the picture above. It shows the House of Commons packed to its customary capacity when MPs salaries or some threat to their status is not on the agenda.
But surely, if the country can be run with just that many members, we don't actually need the rest of them. You will know who you would dispense with.
Me? I'd get shot of the entire government for a start.
Ah well.
HERE AT HOME.

GRANDDAUGHTER JESS AND HER BOYFRIEND JAMES:

Walked the Wight on Sunday 8th May 2022. The full twenty six and a half mile walk in aid of the charity Mountbatten Isle of Wight starts at Bembridge and ends at The Needles. People of any age can take part and there is a choice of five different distances (from 4 through to the lot) that can be chosen.. Our pair did the lot. Took them all day and left them knackered but content. Don't yet know how much they made for the charity, but will doubtless find out when we get around to handing over our contribution. Jess's Mum, our Roz, did the walk every year too. All the women in this family are great. And well done, James, for stepping up to the mark. I was never that good.

Be back before the month ends - if only just.

  

Post 426. PLENTY OF SUNSHINE.

 BUT A CHILL IN THE AIR.

THAT TRANSCENDS THE WEATHER.
No thanks to a demented Russian president and his equally unhinged acolytes.

Does anyone really know why they are doing what they are doing?
Didn't we all hope for a better world in the twenty first century?
Did we visualize that world so fast becoming a mix up of the homeless seeking shelter and the sheltered seeking seclusion?  I think not.
Anyway, neither the plight of millions nor Master Johnson's readily performed Winston Thatcher act will become more acceptable through mention in an old man's blog. So it's back to...

THE MUNDANE AGAIN.
Which covers just about every aspect of my current existence; but wouldn't many poor souls be happy to say that?

The customary fickleness of our news coverage is evident with the prioritising of UK local elections over war in the Ukraine, refugee mismanagement, or even Partygate.
Only a quarter of the permitted voting public turned out and the upshot in Northern Ireland was particularly interesting. I think that says it all. 

Oh, we watched D.I. Ray (ITV) Maya Sondhi's short series about racism in the police. It will not appeal to many bar-lingering Little Englanders, but there was a sad ring of truth to it.

IT WASN'T LIKE THAT IN THIS CHAP'S DAY.

GOODNUGHT ALL. 

 

  

   

Post 425. A DISTURBING YEAR

CONCLUDED ON THE 12TH OF THIS MONTH

WITH THE FIRST ANNIVERSARY of our Roz's death at St. Mary's Hospital, Newport, I.W., the very hospital where, fifty one years and one month earlier, she had been born.

Coincidentally, the last of my five radiotherapy sessions at Southampton Hospital was completed by around 9.30 a.m. on April 12th. As we made for the car park next to Jurys Inn at 7.45 a.m. I think I said to Neil: "It's the anniversary today," and he replied quietly:  "I know."

We said no more about it. He was the one who brought the news to to us that day.

He witnessed our hearts break.

Some memories are best left unspoken.
AND IN THE BIG ROUND WORLD.

WHAT AN ALMIGHTY MESS! Both abroad and at home.
Abroad is fast becoming end of the world territory. More and more countries are becoming abandoned shells with only sad remnants of civilized habitation hanging on. The latest, Ukraine, is struggling to withstand a brutal and sustained act of war by Russia for which there appears to be no justification whatsoever. Never trust peasants with power.
At home, our buddy Max came by yesterday. Her Stuart, a builder, is currently sans lorry (overwork I think) and is seeking a replacement. Sounds simple enough. eh? Well...no...because right now there is an unprecedented demand for lorries of the builders lorry type, apparently,  and a lorry that cost you £6,000 six months ago would probably cost you £12,000 today: and we're not talking new here!
Hang on. Wasn't Brexit going to bring us a greener, easier, much cheaper Britain? Only asking...

SO HERE'S A CHEERFUL ENDING.

BUDDY IS BLISSFULLY HAPPY.

Here he is with one of his new family friends: the little girl of two cats and the one he favours just as he did Spike when he lived here. Grandson Ellis and teacher pal Jez took him for a walk yesterday: he was pleased to go with them, but equally pleased to get back home.
Home, Ellis learned, also contains a parrot that says "Hallo Buddy" when he walks into the room, that impersonates his bark, his whine, and the voices of family members, and that calls out "Food" to let him know when his dinner is ready. To add to this happy mix, it seems Buddy is gently protective of the family baby. One happy dog and one happy and relieved grandson.
Yesterday was a good day here.

   

  

 

Post 424. 5 RADIOTHERAPY SESSIONS LATER

THANKS TO STRONG SUPPORT:

FROM  OUR SON, NEIL (above) AND THE ENTIRE FAMILY: plus the ability to remember my date of birth and home address, I am happily back from a land of underpaid hospital staff, overworked hospital equipment, and comfortless hotel pillows. An interesting experience to say the least of it.
We set out, Red Funnel ferry from East Cowes, on Wednesday 6th April in good time for my first radiotherapy appointment. Neil took me straight to the hospital, waited until the session was over, then transported me to Jurys Inn (don't ask me why they fought shy of the apostrophe) where I would spend two nights. He saw me settled and went home. Dinner and breakfast the following day were both acceptable and well-managed at the inn and I took a taxi to and from the hospital for my 2pm Thursday appointment. Both taxi drivers were British Asian, as are a great many Southampton taxi drivers: the one who drove me back from the hospital was observing Ramadan. It's all a long way from John. G. Brandon's Big Bill Withers, but they were pleasant company and really knew their city. I hope that doesn't sound patronizing. It isn't meant to be.
On Friday Neil caught the ferry from the IoW in time to pick me up at Jurys and transport me to the hospital for my 2.30pm appointment, from whence he took me back to the boat and home for the weekend. All this in his vintage Porsche saloon car, Russian oligarchs? Huh!

A weekend back home with Mo was bliss.
My Monday appointment was at 5.35 pm (Southampton Hospital: always arrive an hour early) so Neil booked us on the 2.30 ferry from East Cowes and we made it to the hospital with time to spare. He had also booked himself a room at the inn for the night because my Tuesday appointment, the final one, was at 8.50 am. We made that with time to spare, too. I had the last bladder balking radiotherapy session at around 9.15am and we were safely back on the 10.00 am ferry home. Yes, it was an interesting (and, I hope, not too often to be repeated) experience.

AS FOR MY LAST POST.

INITIALLY THE EDITING WENT AWRY.

And my first sub-editor, Mo, had not then - and has not now - seen the reverberating President Joe Biden/Duchess of Cornwall meeting. My second sub-editor, Daughter Jac. who had seen it, put me right straight away. 

I now qualify for one of the coveted Jackie B. T shirts (XL please) inscribed on the front:

I HAVE BEEN

CORRECTED
And on the back:

   BY MS

BARNDEN

It had to happen sometime.

Jacqueline is a Special Educational Needs Coordinator.

Hope you had a pleasant, sunny, Easter 

 

Post 423. SOUTHAMPTON GENERAL HOSPITAL.

 PART OF A HUGE, FRIENDLY, MAZE.

.WHERE, REASSURINGLY ACCOMPANIED BY OUR SON, NEIL, I arrived last Wednesday to face my second CT scan since the discovery that I have a malignant growth on the bowel; this scan to pinpoint exactly where forthcoming radio therapy treatment should be directed.

So this is unapologetically personal, but may help the reader as yet unbothered by a serious health problem face what I am told could eventually beset every other one of us.
The first thing you have to come to terms with is that, friendly and Christian namey though it now is, your modern hospital is still the most invasive institution outside of suspicious Customs and Excise that you will ever encounter in your sheltered little life.

That thoroughgoing medico's maxim: "You've gotta strip 'em to see 'em" still pertains.
Clothed patients are partially disguised patients.
Which means you must be prepared to stand before young hospital professionals (and when you are my age all of them are young) in a state of undress that would get you arrested if you were to stand in front of them, similarly undressed, in the street.
Next you will have to deposit yourself, or be assisted, onto a paper covered couch for examination and/or treatment. If it is a CT scan you will be required to undertake this manoeuvre with your bladder filled to a required level - NB It does not help if you have to relieve yourself during the possibly lengthy wait before you meet your CT team.
But to start from the beginning:

Neil and I caught the 1030am Red Funnel ferry from the IoW.
Neil drove Pauline's new state-of-the-art Citroën C3 and, despite the 'help' of satnav, we arrived at Southampton General in good time for my 1230 initial appointment.

I was sensibly armed with a bottle of alleged Highland Spring water which I senselessly left in the car throughout an entire day in which every sensible voice advised me I should be quaffing copious amounts of water. Yeah, I know..
In the hospital we were issued with medically approved masks and directed from one reception desk to another until, many corridors. stairs, and a lift later, we arrived at our destination. 

The staff member who invited Neil to come in with me for my first appointment had a confident, humorous and painstaking approach: he clearly explained what was what and what was to come before asking whether we had any questions. At no stage was I made to feel rushed. It was a master class in the art of new patient reassurance. 
We were then passed on to the Channel Islands Liaison Team representative, a cheerful and charming lady who, quickly and without fuss, booked accommodation for my brief stay in Southampton when the radiotherapy treatment I shall undergo begins on the 6th of next month.
There was then only the CT scan left on my appointment list. Ah...yes...the CT scan...
After a further wait in reception  that would, I'm afraid. have tested my elderly bladder beyond breaking point had it been even partially full, I was handed a cup of liquid by a member of the CT team, asked to down it in no more than ten minutes, and told that a short while afterwards I would be called in for the scan.
Initially all went as planned: two young ladies of the team finally got me the right way round on the examination couch and the gentleman with the instruments, who had tried without success to elicit from my befuddled brain whether I did or did not have a full bladder, then checked for himself: I did not have a full enough bladder. It would have to be another drink and another wait.
Another drink and another full bladder question later I was back on the examination couch and, irksome though it obviously was, still not blessed with a full enough bladder.
The team debated and decided to adopt an alternative procedure.

For me the moment of acute embarrassment was nigh.

Anyone who may have seen the President of America's meeting with the Duchess of Cornwall recently, will have been made startlingly aware of an elderly man's propensity for flatulence.
I started out that day with a biscuit and a glass of water and the hope that I would get through it without discomforting myself. my companion, or anyone I met.

On a 'needs to know' (and if you don't need to know don't read this bit), a particularly unpleasant effect of bowel cancer can also be the tendency to break wind indiscriminately and wetly.
Well, I held out as long as I could on that examination couch: but I had been there a long time.
It made no pretence at subterfuge. It was a loud fart.
I remained supine, still, and silent.
And then, bless her, one of the team's young ladies said: "At least it was a dry one"

I have no idea whether I apologised or what I babbled when I was assisted down from that couch.
Neil had made a quick tour of the hospital and was back in the waiting room when I returned. I think I simply said; "All done."
With luck and a following breeze we just caught the 4.30pm ferry home.
I did not talk about the scan.

But I like to think that, as she was eyeing the rear of a departing President Joe Biden, Camilla, Duchess of Cornwall may have murmured the words; "Well at least they were dry ones."
Oh, just in case you are facing a first time hospital experience, a final word of advice.
Forget your dignity, my friend, forget your dignity.

Final final word. I am twelve years older than Joe Biden, which could explain why, in the first published draft of this post, I somehow transformed the Duchess of Cornwall into H.M. Queen Elizabeth 2 (an elderly lady who has done me no harm).
I will apologise at the next garden party to which I am invited.