Creating good memories

Life is good!

Over the past few years our family has had 'interesting times' at Christmas. Variously a cancer diagnosis, fallout from a heart valve replacement, a broken neck etc, with one or the other of my parents in hospital just before the holidays, once even coming out of hospital unexpectedly - and thankfully - on Christmas Eve evening. This year we've broken the hospital tradition. Oh, we haven't escaped completely unscathed, my brother developed shingles in one eye a couple of days before Christmas - and he was the one taking over the Christmas cooking because I'm dangerous round a baking pan of goose fat and saucepans of boiling water because of neck, back and arm problems at the moment! He was an absolute Trojan though, producing a brilliant meal with all the trimmings despite feeling unwell himself. This time I played cook's assistant doing the washing-up and other drudgery as best possible, and heroically keeping my mouth shut (most of the time) when I thought he wasn't doing it right - in other words, the way I would do it!

I can't remember the last time I haven't spent most of Christmas Day in the kitchen. It was a real treat to be able to spend more time with the family, laughing, relaxing, concentrating on keeping the fire stoked and dressing the table. One of my great pleasures is dressing the table because one of my parents' and my grandmother's great pleasures is seeing a well-dressed table. This year I could take my time, I didn't forget anything; the Christmas tablecloth we've had for years, the candlesticks my brother and I bought for our parents many years ago with tall, dark red candles, the little stockings with a chocolate 'wish' in each place setting, the fine cut glass wine goblets that only come out on special occasions. And the tree! I could take my time decorating it, enjoying each bauble as it emerged from storage, showing it to my mother and remembering when we got each one before we put it on the tree; the ones I sent back from my Alaskan trip for my mother, the ones received as a present from a Scandinavian friend, the one my brother made out of the remains of a cracker one year over coffee after the Christmas lunch, the one mum and dad have had since they first got married coming up for sixty years ago. And the miniature tree crackers minus the one I insisted on pulling as a child many years ago because I wanted to see what was in it - I was convinced I was missing out on something and it was the only way mum could prove to me they were only decorations!

To make things easier this year we had decided not to buy lots of presents, we each contributed what we could afford to one present each. Mum got her hearing aids, my grandmother a worktop freezer, my brother a flat screen TV and I'll be getting a greenhouse when the weather sorts itself out enough to erect it. My dad got a subscription to HD TV channels (I think that's it, my brother sorted it because the rest of us are dunces in the world of technology) and time with his family because there was nothing else he wanted. And that was the key!

Yes, there were stockings filled with satsumas, nuts, chocolate Father Christmas, sugar mouse, new flannel, that sort of thing but not presents as such. The key was we were all together, spending time together, laughing together, reminiscing together. We were all doing things we knew the others would like, would give them pleasure and in doing so we were giving ourselves pleasure and making memories for ourselves for the future.

Yesterday we had friends round for a get-together and enjoyed being in the company of people we were comfortable with. Today, the day after Boxing Day, the house is quiet. My dad is sitting in front of the log fire content to look at the frost and snow outside from the comfortable depths of his armchair, mum's in her room taking a nap, my brother's taking some time for himself and I've time to do whatever I want. I'm feeling happy, contented and enjoying the gentle intimacy of family life.

So...life is good!

To everyone reading this blog, I hope you made good future memories for yourselves this Christmas and I wish you a happy New Year.

What is right and what is not

I've been hearing about a new film involving owls. Some people have been getting steamed up about it because children are asking their parents for an owl as a pet and they are simply not suitable as pets. They feel the film is irresponsible.

Why are they directing their ire towards the film-makers? Children want things, it's natural. They want sweeties, they want to go out in the snow in their pyjamas, they want to poke their fingers into electric sockets to see what happens. Just because they want things is no reason why parents should agree to them. The parents' role in these situations is to teach children which of their demands are reasonable and which are not.

Children have been told stories and fairytales down the years. They entertain and teach. They make childhood a wondrous joy, but we grow up. We learn what is real and what is fantasy, what is acceptable and what is not, first from restrictions imposed by our parents and later from our own experiences. Parental restrictions should impose a morality that ensures our later experiences do not come at the expense of others.

No, as I see it, the blame for any craze of keeping owls as pets lies at the feet of the parents, not the storytellers.

Unreasonable benefits

I'm getting very frustrated with the media and people in general. There are plenty of complaints about the Spending Review, about how unfair it all is, but how many complainants come up with alternative suggestions? Mostly it's the media; if the government jumps one way the media automatically seem to jump the other. I know it's about selling papers but what about responsible reporting? They can sway public opinion so they should make sure they're not simply rabble-rousing for the sake of profits.

The comment that finally tipped me into writing this post was about how the measures are not fair to poorer parents with large families.

Has it been fair that any single woman who wanted children - but didn't have them because she cared enough not to want them to grow up without a father - should have to fund single mothers who had children for the sole purpose of obtaining benefits. (Yes I have met at least one who did just that and know of others).

Has it been fair that any single or couple who wanted a large family - but couldn't afford and it restricted their family - should have to fund others who have chidren willy nilly?

Yes, bringing up children is costly and hard work and I've no objection to taxes going towards schooling, school clothing, school meals, health etc. Children are essential to our society's future (as well as being - mostly - a joy) and should be everyone's responsibility, but only up to a point. Paying for others to stay at home while the rest of us work to pay to raise their offspring is taking it too far.

It's only fair that long-suffering tax-payers should stop seeing their money being frittered away unfairly by those who do not want to work.

Sick leave

A new system has been introduced by the government to reduce the number of people receiving ill-health benefits. One of those is the switch from a doctor's 'sick note' to a 'fit to work' note. The old system was rather black and white, you were either at your job or not. The new system allows for shades of grey.

This is my first time on the new system and so far I approve.

After two weeks uninterrupted sick leave to see if rest will resolve the matter, I'm climbing the walls with boredom. The pain in my arm and shoulder mean I can't do anything for very long whether it's sitting, walking, standing, computer work etc - this post has been written in installments.

On the old system I couldn't have worked at all. My employers' insurance wouldn't have covered me for being at work. On the new system I can go in for amended duties for however long as I can manage. So I keep up to date at work, I manage to help my colleagues at least a little bit and it stops me festering at home until the probelm is sorted. I'm not sure how it works from the employers side since it must make it a little complicated claiming back the statutary sick pay from the government. No doubts the kinks will be worked out as the scheme progresses.

All in all I view it as an improvement.

Differences

I follow a blog that had been quiet for a few weeks and I was a little worried that either something horrible had happened to the blogger or my last comment had offended. Finally I received an automatic email to say my comment had been published. ‘Oh, good’, I thought, he’s ok and back in harness. I enjoy his posts, most of them, some of them go over my head or are outside my areas of interest but he has a sense of humour and turn of phrase that appeal to me so I immediately went to his blog to see if there were any new posts. There were, and part way down I’d been mentioned. At first I felt the thrill of a child being noticed, then of a child being told she’d done well, finally my usual insecurity took over; was he poking fun at me?

“‘Malmesbury’, you constantly enrich my blog with your visits. I’m humbled by your astute observations.”

It was the ‘astute’ and ‘humbled’ that rang alarm bells. I may be many things but I’m pretty sure my friends wouldn’t recognize ‘astute’ as one of them. I checked my dictionary for ‘astute’, just in case, and it gave me…

‘of keen penetration or discernment; sagacious: an astute analysis.’

… nope, definitely not sounding like me!

And ‘humbled’ seemed way over the top.

I had another look at my comment and it seemed innocuous enough but I figured I must be missing something.

Two possibilities then; either a compliment or he was having a dig. Since I preferred the compliment option, naturally, I had a think about that first and remembered an episode during my trip round Western Canada and Alaska.

An American tourist cornered me in an elevator shortly after I arrived, grabbed my hand, shook it vigorously and thanked me for helping them in Iraq. I was completely non-plussed…obviously I wasn’t helping in Iraq, I was on holiday in North America!...I smiled inanely, completely at a loss for words. His father had said the British wouldn’t help but he knew we would; the US had volunteered to help us during World War II so he was sure we’d help them now by way of thanks. Skipping over the ‘volunteered’ bit in the interests of diplomacy, I retrieved my hand and scuttled out of the lift as soon as possible. In many ways I am the typical reserved English-woman and I simply wasn’t prepared for this effusiveness. In the three months I was travelling I unwound quite a lot, meeting and getting to know some truly lovely people and learning to enjoy our differences; perhaps I’ve now fallen back into my old ways and should just accept the comment at face value?

On the other hand, perhaps he was having a dig? It’s certainly not unknown for me to be a tad pompous or miss the point of something completely. So if he was having a dig…? So what? His opinions and the robust way he expresses himself are what makes him an enjoyable read. It would be a pretty poor show if I wasn’t willing to be on the receiving end with good grace.

No, all in all, it doesn’t matter one way or the other and I shall continue to follow his blog with enjoyment.

Oh, and on the subject of not blogging for a while, sorry - poorly arm - just typing the above with one hand took ages…very boring waiting for the hand to catch up with the brain!

WW II reminiscences

I was looking through some old files and came across this. I'd put it together from conversations with my parents and their friends to help out a little girl with her school project on World War II


MARJORIE'S STORY

I was 11 years old when war broke out and living in the south London suburbs. At first we didn’t have an Anderson shelter so when the air raid sirens went off we would make a dash for the cupboard under the stairs. The cat and dog soon learned what the sirens meant and they usually got there before us. Later we had an Anderson shelter in the garden. Because my father was away in Belgium, helping with the Belgian underground movement, my mother had to build a bunk for my sister and me by herself. It collapsed during a raid and we thought a bomb had hit us.

I can remember doodlebugs flying overhead. They were flying bombs and everything was alright so long as you could hear the engine. Once the engine stopped they would come down and blow up anything that happened to be underneath them when the engine cut out. One day I was walking home from school for lunch and an engine stopped. I didn’t notice it but a man came running across the road and threw me to the ground. Luckily it came down on waste ground very nearby.

Rationing became tight and we kept rabbits and chickens for food. One of the things rationed were eggs. People had to register with a shop or someone else so the government could keep track of where rations went and our neighbours registered with us. Because of this we could buy special feed for the chickens. I would help pluck them for Christmas.

I was 17 years old by the time war ended but we still had shortages for years. Another item that was hard to get hold of was stockings. Stockings had seams up the back in those days so we would draw a line up the back of our legs to look like a seam as though we were wearing them.


MICK'S STORY

When the war started in 1939 I was 13 years old and, when not in school, worked with my friends as schoolboy labour from 1941-42 on the farms surrounding my home in Herne Bay, Kent. We did everything from weeding the turnip fields, to cutting wheat or tidying the hay that was thrown onto the hay-carts by men with pitchforks.

Having passed my scholarship exam in Herne Bay I was going to the Simon Langton Grammar School in Canterbury where we had a barrage balloon moored in the grounds. This was to damage aircraft that flew too near. During the war all competitive sports with other schools in Kent were discontinued as teachers were prohibited from arranging them because there was no insurance. However, various boys and girls arranged matches themselves. Two to three weeks prior to taking the school certificate, Canterbury suffered a horrendous air raid. As usual I had walked the mile from my home to get the bus from the front of Herne Bay pier. When it didn’t arrive I walked the mile home again, picked up my bike and cycled nine miles into Canterbury through the woods. As I neared the school I had to get off my bike and walk it through the streets with the smoking rubble all around me. Although the brick wall surrounding the school was intact the school itself had been razed to the ground. There was nothing left. All our notes and books had been destroyed. Parents and teachers rallied round, prepared abridged notes and helped us swot for the exams, which we took at Kings College on the top of St. Thomas’s hill overlooking Canterbury.

In 1942 I left school to work for the local gas company. Part of my duties involved fire-watching. Fire-watching meant spending all night watching the gas holders to spot and report on any damage during air raids. This could be hazardous as shrapnel from indirect hits would ricochet with a “ping, ping, ping” off the metal holders. Once I was sent to London on an errand and went to see my dad. Dad was too old for active service in the armed forces but had volunteered for the Fire Service. After training in Sheerness on the Isle of Sheppey he was put on the fireboats on the Thames. The fireboats did the same work as the fire engines on land, except they directed water onto fires from the river. When things got bad in London they were sent up the Thames to help out.

In 1945 I joined the air force. Apart from the odd errand to London I hadn't been out of Herne Bay before but I was sent first to Lancashire to be kitted out with uniform then to Compton Bassett in Wiltshire for “square bashing”. Luckily for me the war ended before I was needed to join the aircrew, although I didn't see it as lucky at the time, I wanted to "do my bit".


RON'S STORY

Ron is Mick’s best friend but as he is a couple of years older he spent quite a bit of time in the navy as a ship’s cook. He was a cook when things were quiet but when they went into battle his job was to hand bombshells from the hold up to the gunners on deck. One day a bomb dropped back down into the hold and landed on his foot. Luckily the bomb hadn’t yet been primed or Ron, and his foot, would not have been here now to tell the story.

He was a shy country lad who had never been out of Herne Bay before but was suddenly travelling all over the world, although never going any further than the ports. One day he was walking down a street in an Indian port when he heard his name called. Homesickness was a big problem for him and his shipmates so he was thrilled to see Norman, a school friend from Herne Bay, barrelling down the street towards him. They were amazed to have come so far, amidst so much trouble to find someone they knew from their home town.


NORMAN'S STORY

Norman had become a “Tail End Charlie” in the bombers when he joined the air force. Tail End Charlies were gunners who sat in the rear of the plane in a bubble, firing at enemy aircraft coming up behind them and it was a very dangerous position…in more ways than one! Most of the flights took many hours and the only toilet facilities in the cockpit were a funnel and a pipe. The pipe ended on the outside of the plane but because of the speeds the contents did not fall away. The force of the air pushed it back up the body of the plane onto the bubble housing the Tail End Charlie – not nice! But it was even worse for the ground crew who had to scrape it off at the end of each flight.


MARGA'S STORY

I grew up with my family east of the river Oder in Silesia. During the war I was sent to work in Vienna, Austria and was there when peace was declared in 1945, when I was 19 years old.

As part of the post-war treaty, Silesia was annexed by Poland. Poland took all lands east of what became known as the Oder-Niesse line. Over seven million people were thrown out of their homes; able to take only what possessions they could carry, and forced to leave the country. A great many of those refugees died of the cold during that journey. My mother was one of them.

At the time I knew only that I had no home to return to and no knowledge of where my family had gone. A friend invited me to go with her to her family home so we packed what few belongings we had into a handcart and the two of us pushed it 500 kilometres from Linsz towards Hanover until we managed to get a lift in a coal cart for the last part of the journey.

There were many scares and dangers along the way. In one of them, men coming out of a concentration camp surrounded us. We thought we were about to lose our few possessions to men who had no possessions at all. Luckily for us a German had recently joined us in our walk. He showed the men where he had been branded to show he had also been in a camp and managed to persuade them to leave us alone.

WOMAD comes to Malmesbury

WOMAD comes to Malmesbury next week when Charlton Park hosts the successful and, I'm told, really exciting event. After some problems in the first year it has been well run and organised; the organisers listening to the concerns of us locals to good effect. I hope the weather is as good for them this year as last because it makes a huge difference to the enjoyment of such outdoor events.

I haven't been there myself, I don't need to, I can hear the music from the comfort of my own home and as I'm not fond of crowds I don't feel the need to go for the ambience. I must admit to some curiosity and the thought of all the different world foods is a huge pull, but not compelling enough. Nevertheless, even I feel the excitement in Malmesbury while it's taking place and smile at the happy faces of the festival goers as they take the opportunity to visit our lovely town and stock up on essentials. I just hope the essentials this year don't turn out to be wellies and brollies as they were in the first year. Good luck WOMAD and have fun everyone!

A change of focus

Now the Government is running sites where people can make suggestions for improvement or change in our society I've got a better place to air my views on our society and how it's run. So there's no real point in my continuing this blog in the way I have. In future it could be about anything at all, whatever pops into my mind whether topical, historical, world interest, local interest, trivial or just plain general musings. "Oh good!", I hear you say, "yet another blog about nothing". Well yes, but it'll keep me happy.

By the way...the continuing story

I mentioned in an earlier post, 'By the way', about the government going to consult the people. Well for anyone who want to get out there and make their views known, go to this website http://spendingchallenge.hm-treasury.gov.uk/
Ther are some idiotic comments but most people are trying to make a difference by making suggestions, some good some bad (in my view!). However, assuming the government is really going to pay attention to what is being posted and we're not being conned, it's our best bet to be heard. Go for it. I'm an optimist...I posted my views...repeatedly!

Eilmer, the Flying Monk

a little light relief...

I was in the high street the other day admiring the banners. 'Eilmer, 1010 to 2010, 1000 years of flying'. For those not in the know, Eilmer was a monk in the Benedictine abbey in Malmesbury who designed himself some wings and launched himself off the top of the abbey. He survived with a couple of broken legs but the abbot refused him permission to try again, this time with a tail.

Well done Eilmer, 1000 years and people are still cheering you on!