tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83417548899344644262024-02-20T12:36:28.975-08:00The Man on the Clapham OmnibusAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06468659807005579870noreply@blogger.comBlogger13125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8341754889934464426.post-47426943096729752692014-06-11T00:08:00.001-07:002014-06-11T00:11:26.123-07:00<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It really doesn't matter to me if you
believe in God.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It just so happens that I don't. I do
not believe that there is a god, or a 'supreme presence' in any form.
I am not superstitious, I do not believe in spirits, ghosts, life
after death, or a the entities of 'good' or 'evil'.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I do believe that everyone has the
right to make choices, and if you have a faith in any of the above,
it isn't my job or right to try an make you change your mind. Why do
so many people spend so much time and energy trying to impose their
thinking on others?
</div>
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<br /></div>
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I'm sort of OK with doorstep
evangelists, because I can appreciate that if you have this 'great
idea' in your head, then it is quite natural to want to share it.
Just so long as they accept that some of us just don't want to join
their club.
</div>
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<br /></div>
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Just as I have the right to tell you
what I think, you have the right to tell me your thoughts. Neither of
us has to listen to the other, and we are free to listen, to
understand and then make choices. This is true not only about
thoughts on faith, but also about how much weight we place on choices
presented by television commercials for stuff we don't need. It is OK
to be exposed to the idea; we don't have to listen, and if we do, we
have the choice about buying into the idea.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I really am baffled as to the thinking
that drives followers of any faith to think that it is right to kill
those who oppose their views. To wage war in the name of your faith
to spread your faith, because your religious leaders tell you to do
so, and so that you will have a reward in 'the after life' is all a
sort of mass madness. It is the result of blind belief without
thought, brought about by generations of brainwashing.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
What was Pope Urban thinking when he
launched The Crusades? </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06468659807005579870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8341754889934464426.post-17384618844952014282013-12-22T02:31:00.000-08:002013-12-22T02:33:49.846-08:00Hand Written Envelopes<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Christmas card envelopes; hand written or computer
generated? It’s Christmas time; the postie pushes a bunch of cards through the
letter box and it’s time for another game of ‘guess the sender’. I don’t
actually play this game, but Carol does. She weighs the card in her hand,
forensically examines the franking marks, and judges the handwriting on style,
colour and texture. Well, maybe not all that, but anyway; it’s time to guess
who it’s from, which has to be done before opening the envelope. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Have no fear my friends, your card does not just get ripped
open and thrown on a heap. Every part of it is used to build a picture of the
sender. Once the card is out of the envelope, the back is checked first to see
where it comes from, which charity it helped by the buying of it. Sometime
around Tuesday we discover who actually sent it. Every last thread of sense is
extracted from the cards we receive.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The handwriting on the envelope is a major part of this
discovery. It takes time to hand write every envelope. Therefore the person
doing it was applying thought to the process of creating the address, it would
be impossible to write an envelope to a friend without thinking of them. Each
handwritten envelope is a positive wish on its own even without the sentiments expressed
within the card.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So why do I use the computer to produce a run of labels? Because
I’m lazy. I know that a handwritten envelope is far nicer. I also know that my
writing is extremely bad; it’s so bad I could illustrate a GP’s prescription
like a medieval scribe embellishing the written word to magnify it. When I was
at school I had a lot of trouble with spelling and taught myself to not write
letters, but to use ‘word shapes’ so that the teachers couldn’t see the
spelling. It’s a difficult habit to break. So, I apologise for my computer
generated labels that were a novelty when I started to de them, but now just
look that a reminder from a mail order company.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And to all those who hand write their envelopes, I salute
you. You are sending something creative and far more personal than just a label
peeled off and slapped on. Do you want me to show you how to do them; you’d
save a lot of time?</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06468659807005579870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8341754889934464426.post-39544271029535391072013-06-22T06:53:00.000-07:002013-06-22T06:59:56.385-07:00The taste of Food<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 16.888019561767578px;">I do like my food. Not quantity, but quality. I define quality as taste; which means that, if it tastes good – I like it. I over eat on food I like. So, at over 60, I’m short and stout like Pooh Bear. A suitable epitaph would be: “He liked his food”.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 16.888019561767578px;" /></span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms, verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16.888019561767578px;">Take salmon. There is a lot of salmon about for you to buy. There’s bright pink soft fleshy fish in the supermarket now which is OK. It’s fish, it’s high in omega whatists isn’t it? It doesn’t taste a lot, but you console yourself with the thought that it seems pretty good value, and is supposed to be good for you because it’s high in fishy oils. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms, verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16.888019561767578px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms, verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16.888019561767578px;">Then there is the organic salmon lying next to the bright pink salmon. The organic salmon is delicately coloured, a subdued flesh, less Technicolor, more like ‘English Rose’ than ‘Mediterranean Beauty’. When you cook it, the flesh is very delicate, the taste is very subtle, you get a glow from knowing it is organic, but it </span><span style="line-height: 16.875px;">doesn't</span><span style="line-height: 16.888019561767578px;"> actually taste particularly different from its bright pink neighbour on the slab.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 16.888019561767578px;" /></span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 16.888019561767578px;">Then there is wild salmon. Dense dark rich coloured, exotic and heady, the taste is robust and of the wild sea and tumbling rivers. The taste, like the appearance of the meat is defined, not flaccid. This fish has had to work for its food, it has grown naturally, working for a living, not sculling around in some cage in a Scottish loch, and I can both see and taste the difference.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 16.888019561767578px;" /></span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 16.888019561767578px;">So what is it about ‘organic’ meat? If we chose our meat solely according to what it is fed on, then maybe we are missing a vital factor. For like me; if the food is too easily come by, and in too great a quantity, then the animal is over fed. It will be fat, flaccid, lacking in texture and taste. (Believe me, I do not taste good). </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 16.888019561767578px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 16.888019561767578px;">However, if the fish, chicken, lamb, or whatever, has to work for its food, gets plenty of exercise, grows at a natural rate, then it will taste better. Maybe natural growth it is just as important for the development of food as the ‘organic’ label.</span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06468659807005579870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8341754889934464426.post-53085033776761004722013-06-21T10:07:00.000-07:002013-06-21T10:07:20.234-07:00The sound of protest<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">It is 5 to 7 and we make a Skype call to our son </span><a data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=748110625&extragetparams=%7B%22directed_target_id%22%3A0%7D" href="https://www.facebook.com/miles.drawmer?directed_target_id=0" style="background-color: white; color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-decoration: none;">Miles Drawmer</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">, who lives in Kadikoy a suburb on the Asian side of Istanbul.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">“Oh good.” He says, “You have called at a special time.”</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">It was just before 9pm local time, and Miles took us to the open window. The computer camera accentuates the evening light and we can see down into the street.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">At 9 o’cl</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">ock the sounds started. Hundreds of residents of one of the world’s mega cities, leaning out of their windows at the same time every night and registering their protest by banging pots and pans.<br /><br />Miles tells us that it has been going on for two weeks now. Every night at the same time, this noisy citizens’ protest against their government.<br />This isn’t a bunch of hooligans and foreigners; this is the people of the city raising a clamour for change.<br />The noise is both jarring and moving as one realises the number of people involved, and that there’s probably very little the police can do about this with their water cannons and tear gas.<br /><br />“I’ll call you back.” He says.<br />Good job too, it was far too noisy to make conversation with. Prime Minister Recep Tayyip Erdogan told hundreds of thousands of supporters at a rally in Istanbul on Sunday that the protesters were manipulated by "terrorists". These citizens aren’t terrorists, and they’re not listening to him.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06468659807005579870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8341754889934464426.post-75035273494754036002013-05-27T09:54:00.002-07:002013-05-27T09:54:59.253-07:00Toilet Roll Runner Beans<div class="MsoNormal">
I never was a gardener. As a hobby, gardening passed me by.
My father said to me soon after our wedding: “Never have a garden bigger than
your wife can cope with.” A phrase I repeated rather too often for Carol’s
comfort. In fact I used to proudly state that I was a: “non-gardener and a
non-smoker”.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
However things change, particularly since we moved to this
house which, as it turns out, has a garden that isn’t bigger than I can cope
with. I now find that since it no longer takes half a day to mow the lawn, and
working on just a small bed makes a difference that one can see straight away;
that I’ve actually begun to enjoy being in the garden.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today I planted out our runner beans. These are ‘toilet roll
beans’. I saw somewhere that toilet rolls could be used instead of those
expensive fibre pots for raising seeds. So we collected toilet roll centres for
a year, and then I sowed the beans singly into the cardboard tubes full of
compost.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7296/8856376774_a9ff1ba1d1_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7296/8856376774_a9ff1ba1d1_b.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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Some of them started to undo when they were watered, so I
stood them all together in a seed tray and run some string around them to keep
them in place. Today I set up the bean sticks, scooped out holes and dropped
the bean plants in. </div>
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<a href="http://farm4.staticflickr.com/3674/8855764253_77b167ef74_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://farm4.staticflickr.com/3674/8855764253_77b167ef74_b.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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They have developed into good plants with a nice root
growth, and have had minimal disturbance to be planted complete with their
cardboard tubes which will just breakdown in the soil.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="http://farm6.staticflickr.com/5441/8856377454_e99e4fe75a_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://farm6.staticflickr.com/5441/8856377454_e99e4fe75a_b.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06468659807005579870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8341754889934464426.post-76055980140051735322012-06-03T02:03:00.000-07:002012-06-03T02:27:12.326-07:00Wooden boats, jubilee nostalgia<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Queen’s Diamond Jubilee.
There’s to be a river pageant on the <st1:place w:st="on">Thames</st1:place>
today, it’s a bank holiday weekend, and there’s little news. So, despite the
continuous rain, the Jubilee obsessed BBC is showing continuous coverage of
damp people preparing for the event. A wave of nostalgia washes over me, there’s
a flotilla of sailing boats, and some of them have been based at St Catherine’s
Dock next to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Tower</st1:placetype>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Bridge</st1:placetype></st1:place>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Some years ago (1990?) I was invited
by Ian Wollen to be part of a crew to take a sailing Brixham Trawler “Regard”
from St Catherine’s Dock to the <st1:place w:st="on">Isle of Wight</st1:place>
to take part in a Cowes Classic rally. Regard was built in 1933, originally
named “Our Boy” and changed to “Regard” in 1954. Wooden boats have a ‘character’
all of their own, some love it, and some put up with it. There’s a history of
her on this page, but as the boat is sold I don’t expect the link will last for
ever.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"><a href="http://brixham.boatshed.com/brixham_sailing_trawler_yacht-boat-12170.html">http://brixham.boatshed.com/brixham_sailing_trawler_yacht-boat-12170.html</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Regard had been kept in dock
for several years, and was suffering from a lack of maintenance and a surfeit of
decay and dirt. It was arranged to take her out onto the river (<st1:place w:st="on">Thames</st1:place>) for a shakedown trip before venturing out to sea.
I really don’t remember much about it apart from getting very dirty, as
everything we touched was covered in grime. Wood swells when it gets wet and
this is what makes wooden boats waterproof. If the wood dries out, it shrinks
and gaps appear between the planks. Gaps had appeared in the deck and all that
part of the hull that is above the static waterline whilst just floating in the
calm waters of the dock.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The original design had not given a lot of thought to an engine, the consequence of which was that the
propeller was to one side of the substantial rudder. This meant that turning to
port was inevitable and rapid, whereas turning to starboard was recalcitrant
and slow. This made the tight manoeuvring required in St Catherine’s quite
interesting, and I was only watching. Once out on the river, we motored down river
towards the sea.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">As soon as Regard started to
move on the water, and roll in the wake of other boats, the water started to
come in. Lots of it. We had to clear everything away from the hull sides and
man the pumps. It wasn’t threatening but it was wet. We also found that the
deck leaked. In heavy rain lying in your bunk getting dripped on is not fun. I
remember Ian remarking about: “That’s the reason we have fibreglass boats”, and
some die-hard traditionalist crew members muttered about his suitability as
Captain if he didn’t appreciate the ‘Character’ of the boat. The other members
of the crew were two guys with a vast amount of experience, tales and fun, and
one twat who actually knew everything; but nearly ran us onto the well marked
submarine defences off Southsea.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">On the trip around <st1:country-region w:st="on">Kent</st1:country-region> we found a <st1:place w:st="on">Thames</st1:place>
sailing Barge with an Aga for cooking and real ale on tap. We also found that
old engines in boats can give up at any time. I earned my keep by making water
pump gaskets out of brown paper with a ball pein hammer. It was a great trip
for me, and I got treated to a most spectacular thunderstorm at night over a
dead calm sea. It was my first sailing passage, as prior to that I had only
done day trips. Thank you Ian for the experience. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06468659807005579870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8341754889934464426.post-65713767945805800622012-04-26T10:08:00.003-07:002012-04-26T10:08:30.709-07:00<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mystery Shoppers. Fake buyers who waste your time; or a
valuable way to assess real performance and find out how buyers see you? On
balance, I’m in favour of mystery shoppers. I work in a regulated industry, and
the company has a right and duty to make sure that the point of sale activity
is effective and compliant. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">However, I get VERY PI55ED OFF when my time is valuable, and
the ‘shopper’ is no good. I accused a caller today of being a mystery shopper
(little things like the pronunciation of the town, Bicester): “Have you lived
there long?” well, in 10 years you’d think she would get it right, wouldn’t
you?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Anyway – she denied it; so I rushed through the rigmarole of
a sale and yes, just at the point where I collect the money – she declares
herself to be a mystery shopper. What upsets me is that I don’t get the choice
to say that I don’t want to play your games ‘cos I’m busy; and worse than that;
there’s never any bloody feedback! </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And breathe; Friday tomorrow.</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06468659807005579870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8341754889934464426.post-25591994190659941462011-12-03T01:10:00.001-08:002011-12-03T01:12:32.291-08:00Cookery Books<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I like cook books. That’s because I like my food, I enjoy
the taste the texture, look and smell of a well prepared dish. I also enjoy
cooking, it isn’t always successful, but for me, there is a real pleasure in
presenting a good dish of food to my friends and loved ones.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some years ago, Carol and I borrowed a book from the local
library, <b>The Sunday Times Book of Real
Bread</b> (ISBN 0-87857-368-2) is a fantastic collection of recipes for and
stories about bread. We enjoyed the book so I decided to get Carol a copy for a
present. It took a little while for a bookshop to source one for me, and we had
both forgotten about it when it arrived. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We both like books, but enjoy them for the reading and in
the case of cookery books, the using of them as well. In the Real Bread book,
we were amused and pleased that when we turned to the index for one of our
favourite loaves, a previous reader had starred favourites, but the one were
looking for was both starred and underlined in the index. Finding this
confirmation of good taste from a previous reader, was for us a bonus about the
second hand book we had acquired, not a blemish.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Today a similar thing has happened. My good friend Tom has
given me a good copy of <b>Plenty</b> by
Yotam Ottolenghi (ISBN 978-0-09193-368-5). I was reading through it, imagining
the preparation and smell of the dishes, and admiring the fabulous photography;
when I realised that a couple of the pages had red marks on them. Puzzled, I
turned over the pages before I understood. It was a beetroot dish! </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I like cook books, and I enjoy knowing that others like them
too.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06468659807005579870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8341754889934464426.post-15427317098000406962011-09-17T02:22:00.000-07:002011-09-17T02:40:26.031-07:00Getting eggs from the local shop<p class="MsoNormal">The washing machine is going: “Clunk, clunk, clunk”.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">That’s because my rucksack is having a wash. Yesterday, when I got home, I suddenly realised that I’d like some eggs. So I got back on my bike and went back to the village shop.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">At the checkout, the girl asked if I’d checked the eggs. They really good in our local Coop. I said that yes; I’d checked the eggs, and they’re all good. Unless, of course, I managed to damage them on the way home. Wildly amusing.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">When I’m nearly home, I need to turn right into our road. The trouble is that when the wind is blowing a hooly, I can’t hear if there’s anything behind me. My rucksack was bit heavy what with the milk, eggs and bananas, so I stopped at the kerbside to look back.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">There were quite few cars coming up the <st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on">Hempton Road</st1:address></st1:street>, so I stood, half on the bike, with my back foot on the pavement, waiting for the traffic to pass. For some reason I moved my leg, and then needed to shift my position, but the bike was in the way, and I lost my balance, falling in an untidy heap backwards onto the pavement.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The cars passing didn’t stop to help, maybe because they could see that the old fool on the ground was giggling uncontrollably, but anyway the rucksack broke my fall.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">My left knee is bloody sore this morning, and the washing machine is going: “Clunk, clunk, clunk”</p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06468659807005579870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8341754889934464426.post-37081176538344339742010-06-08T04:23:00.000-07:002010-06-08T04:24:42.473-07:00Reading matter in the toilet<p class="MsoNormal">What book do you have in the toilet?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>My left leg is in an extension brace, which means that I can’t bend it. To sit down, I need a chair with arms to take my weight, and it mustn’t be too low, else my ‘good’ leg will have to bend too much with all my weight on it. When I’m on the chair, I need a support under the left leg because the brace won’t let it bend down to the floor.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>So, not that you want to read this, but here’s how I go for a Tom Tit. First of all, I get the toilet seat raiser. This fits on top of the pan and is a couple of inches higher than the usual seat. Fix securely with adjusting screws. Then arrange the frame around the toilet. This gives me an armchair toilet, so that I can lower and raise myself with my arms. Now get the support to take my left foot a couple of inches up from the floor. OK, all set, lower away bending the good right leg and sliding the left heel on its support as get down onto the toilet.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>When done, dissemble all the bits and return toilet to normal. Bloody glad I’m not female and need to sit down for a pee.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>The book? Fowlers Dictionary of Phrase and Fable is exactly the right thickness, and wrapped in a plastic bag, it slides easily over the floor under my left foot.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06468659807005579870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8341754889934464426.post-16244712633500810302010-06-08T03:38:00.000-07:002010-06-08T03:40:04.148-07:00Entertainment on the NHS<p class="MsoNormal">Free Entertainment in NHS Hospitals</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I had a short stay in one of our tax paid hospitals last week. Whilst immobile, I had some amazing entertainment to keep me amused.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Steven is about 80, pretty fit overall except that he appears to weigh nothing at all. He’s here because he had a fall and broke his wrist. Unfortunately he’s a little confused, isn’t sure what town he’s in, and thinks this is an odd hotel. He looks quite striking as he has a magnificent shock of straight white hair, and as he gestures with theatrical enthusiasm he reminds me of one of the Muppets. And to make it all harder for him, he had a tracheotomy which deprived him of speech as he could no longer pass air through his voice box. Steven communicated with the aid of a buzzer which he placed against his throat and his speech was like Steven Hawkins, except that he wasn’t very good at using it yet.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">My first fit of the giggles was during the night. I had realised that Steven; in the bed opposite from me, was likely to be ‘active’ during the night, since he had been spending much of the day being persuaded by nurses to undress and get into bed. He would do this, only to shortly arise, get dressed, grab a zimmer frame and walk up and down the ward. His navigation was somewhat lacking, since he seemed to stop by crashing into a trolley, chair, bed or door. He would then get back into bed, keeping his clothes on for a quick return trip a few minutes later.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">So; I closed the curtains around by bed and settled down. The trouble was, hearing Steven crash about with his zimmer was funnier without the vision. I imagined a frantic ‘Animal’ from the Muppets with white fur, tearing up and down the ward pushing his piano. The trouble is, once you start giggling, it’s difficult to stop.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Next to me was Jim, poor Jim really was confused. Dementia takes many forms and in Jim’s case it had deprived him of some powers of reasoning, memory and speech. However, it hadn’t turned him into a vegetable, it was just that conversations would follow unexpected paths, and a response to a question wasn’t always conventional. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It was interesting to watch the reactions of nursing staff to meeting Jim for the first time. For some, they just didn’t get that he was confused. They’d just ask the same question in a louder voice, taking Jim’s response as if he was being deliberately awkward. Others would understand that he needed help in understanding, and would engage with him, gaining trust and approval from him.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Jim had fallen and broken his hip, which had been replaced. He was now recovering from the operation and the anaesthesia, which meant a whole new world of drips, catheters and a bed with sides to stop him falling out. So; from time to time, Jim would make a bid for freedom. Various nursing staff would come to his aid, to try and persuade him to not get out of bed, not to pull his catheter out, and that everything would be all right, his wife would be there soon, etc etc.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">On this day, Steven is very concerned about his car. His written down the make, colour and number and wants me to go and look in the car park to find it. I point out to him that the reason we’ve been sharing the zimmer frame is ‘cos I can’t walk. I try to take the problem from him by promising to speak to one of the nurses about it. They aren’t convinced that he even came by car with a broken wrist. But he’s insistent, and can’t stop worrying about it. Lots of head shaking, holding his brow and sighing. Steven really should have been on stage.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Jim struggles to sit up, grabs the water jug and tips it over himself. Several nurses surround him and attempt to get him changed, the bed changed, and floor dry. Quite a lot of activity. When Jim doesn’t understand he tends to reach out and grab something. Anything, ID badges are good, or a hand. He has a strong grip, the nurse appeals to him to let go. Jim says ‘Yes’ but still hangs on tight, or will swop hands if he can. The staff are wonderful and patient with the patient, but it’s amusing, there are laughs in-between the appeals to ‘let go pleeeese Jim’.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Steven is hovering around the periphery of the action, buzzer at his throat, trying to convince a nurse to go and look for his car. Eventually he gives up and goes away. There’s a lull in the activity, and Jim’s voice is clearly heard:</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Now what you don’t seem to understand, is that it’s me that’s trying to get out of the garage”.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">There’s a silence. One of the nurses looks out of the window.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Good heavens, I’ve just seen someone fall over!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Oh, it’s OK, there’s someone to help them”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Look, it’s the old man from this ward.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Steven, frustrated at not getting anywhere with his car search, had decided to take matters into his own hands and had tumbled down a substantial grass bank.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">He was brought back in a wheel chair, rather quiet and suffering only from grass stains on his chinos and a conviction that this hotel wasn’t any good at all.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Jim got sorted out and everything dried off properly. Peace broke out on ward F.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Conversations with Jim were fun. Moments of lucidity with sidesteps. He had been a very keen golfer. I found out that he had at his best got down to a handicap of nine. It took a lot of playing to keep at that level. But it was OK, Jim was convinced that we were on the winning team. At one time he suddenly asked me:</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Do you think we could do it?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Do what, Jim?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“You know, make a break for it”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I feel sure that I’d have really liked the complete Jim. He didn’t lose his temper, or swear at anyone, and tended to talk to himself quietly. I heard him call his wife’s name, and than he said: “You’ve got the most beautiful hair”. In one of his golfing conversations with me he asked how many clubs I played with.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’m sure that he would have played with a full set.</p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06468659807005579870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8341754889934464426.post-2525363935704107672010-01-16T13:46:00.000-08:002010-01-16T13:56:55.054-08:00Unelected Ministers and democracy<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">How come Mandleson is a minister? How can it be that a man who lost his job in government twice due to a inappropriate actions, is now called 'Lord' and when our Prime Minister is on holiday, is acting PM? </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Why is it possible that we can have members of the government who have never been elected?They don't represent anybody except themselves. They can't lose their seat.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Unelected, unaccountable, un bloody believable.<br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Have we got the government we deserve? </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">In which case what have we done to deserve him?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">A good way to ruin the House of Lords, fill it with appointees who are truly unfit to govern.</span></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06468659807005579870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8341754889934464426.post-17861354253096126192010-01-16T13:33:00.000-08:002010-01-16T13:46:08.885-08:00Needless and terrible loss of life<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Once or twice in the past few weeks when I've listened to the amazing courage and pride of Christina Schmid, widow of Olaf Schmid, when she has been talking about the death of her husband, I have found myself almost in tears. It's listening to her quiet fortitude, and the overwhelming feeling of impotence to do anything about this terrible war which have been dragged into by our government. </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">We got taken into a war we didn't want by a Government who I think were less than genuine about the motives for the war, and like all those in power, don't actually have to personally face the consequences of it. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">If we're so bloody clever, then how come we ended up starting the violence? Who were we protecting, and who are we now protecting?</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06468659807005579870noreply@blogger.com0