Resolution

So here I am on a Monday morning, having let myself down again. (Clearly I haven't been writing my Blog regularly on Sundays - and I have disappointed myself). I was just walking the dog and I felt a vibration in my pocket as my smartphone received a message. I had a quick look and the phone displayed (no idea why) my average usage: turns out I spent nearly three hours per day last week just looking at my screen. Three bloody hours! And it's so easy to do; what with emails (most of them unwanted - seems that when I 'unsubscribe' from a sender who is trying to make me invest in something about which I haven't a clue, another 'bot' (or whatever) picks me up and then adds me to their email list. AAArgh! 

Anyhow I will now attempt to get organised: and I now have good reason to do so.  My wife has agreed that we should sell up here in Cold Norton and move to our holiday flat (bequeathed to my sister and I by my wonderful late father), put a large-ish wad in the bank and live fairly comfortably. (As opposed to spending huge sums on Council Tax, heating oil etc., as long as we live in this 5 bedroomed, decaying pile. A pile which my family - and I am not altogether innocent - has filled to the gunnels, making us look like clutterers of the decade. I have been known to say "I hate this place": not true really, but the untidiness brings out the very worst in me. And it is largely due to my wife's job (Parish Councillor): we store paperwork here which makes the place look more like a warehouse than a home. I truly loathe it. We will be living in a smaller space. My wife (I hope) will accept that storing clothes, shoes and various other paraphernalia on floors must become a 'no no'. I'll miss the space, but I shan't miss the endless and unnecessary expenses. And we shall be beside the sea.

So I hope to make at least a couple of weekly trips to the tip between now and whenever we leave. It won't be easy: chucking stuff one has owned (even if not used for years) for a long time somehow grates against human nature. I shall therefore try to keep a photographic record (here) of what gets thrown. 

Wish me luck.

Please follow me as I embark on my own 'End Game' as this is likely to be the last move I make . If I, in doing this, amuse, assist or enlighten you in any way then please share my ramblings. And don't forget to shove a pound or two my way. Having an alcoholic son at home is something of a burden, not least financially, but he's bloody lovely when he's sober. (we just replaced yet another toilet seat he managed to demolish whilst being completely outwith any control of his physical faculties!) I shall keep you posted . Here's the link: https://www.paypal.com/donate/?hosted_button_id=NG5HGGTVT789L 

Meanwhile I shall keep benefiting from the company of my dog. 'Mr. Phelps' and posting the odd tune on my YouTube page, which is always there for you to enjoy a laugh - maybe one day I will be able to hold a tune??? Click Here: https://www.youtube.com/@PaulCDyer

Pip pip

Trumpety trump trump

 "Hello There" (as broadcaster David Jacobs used to say). I've been writing this blog for a few years now, but intermittently. I am a rather lazy old thing: not to mention 'grumpy' - something which age tends to bring to a fellow, and I'm 71 now. 

So I thought I'd start to it properly and regularly. That thought came because I've witnessed a great deal of wailing and gnashing of teeth since Mr. Trump became the 47th President of the USA this week: and so I just wondered if, through a touch of diligence, possibly peppered with a seasoning (I can't guarantee it) of common sense (the trouble with common sense is, as a very good friend of mine once said, "it ain't that bleeping common) and a touch of humour, I might lighten your mood a touch?

My plan is to write a blog post (or even two) during the week, read my scribblings into my computer's camera on completion, and publish on my YouTube channel every Sunday. I try to watch the 'LK on Sunday' programme each week, and so I may add a comment or two on that.

I hope I leave you smiling. I am a greedy bugger, and so if you can spare a pound or two to help me keep up with the technology required, do send it to my PayPal account at pc.dyer@yahoo.co.uk: here's the link which you'll find each time I upload to Youtube:

 https://www.paypal.com/donate/?hosted_button_id=NG5HGGTVT789L 

Begging bowl now put away!

Politics now interests me - and can make me cross (the 'grumpy' bit to which I referred earlier). I am pretty sure I'm not alone. I have never voted Labour and so when our Rachel pinched my Winter Fuel Allowance I was miffed. As luck would have it, this isn't going to ruin my life, but it will have a seriously detrimental effect on some. It was something only older people were given. If they are still eligible for it, they'll have to work very hard, possibly use technology with which they may be unfamiliar and complete a form: the sort of form that mimics sadism in the nicest possible way. Here is a resume of that form (I found it on the internet).

The application for Winter Fuel Allowance in the UK has 243 questions:

• The application is 22 pages long and has 15 sections

I was also pretty upset about "our Rachel's" decisions on inheritance tax - specifically where it affects farmers. As I write, I understand that Downing Street can expect a petition of two on that subject. 

So here's my view on "Rights": - and that's a knotty topic to say the least. Politicians, influencers and many others (particularly those who are fans, supporters and employees of the European Court of Human Rights) will, tell you that you have rights. Well, as my late Mum would say. "you're born with 'nought' and when you die you take 'nought' with you". Please comment if you have an argument with that. But what you've spent your life working for and building should surely not suddenly become the property of a government. Unless you did not pay your taxes: it's paying your taxes which enables the government to keep up roads, schools, hospitals and other basic infrastructure to enable to you run your life (or business or farm) so that you can be connected (and recover from any illness) with the rest of the country/world: without that 'thriving' would be almost impossible. 

Therefore your right to keep your health, run your life, communicate with all and sundry and make a profit is something for which you pay in your taxes, phone bills, fuel costs etc. It does not come from being born. So you really are not born with rights. If you were born in Britain (or another 'so-called 'free' country), you are born with certain privileges (freedom springs to mind); moreso than if you were born in some African countries (just one example). Try telling them they have rights! Ask the victims of rape, torture and other abuses in certain countries to 'claim their rights' and see if they even make it into daylight!

Enough of that. Let's get back to cheerful. I had lunch this week with a very old and close pal of mine (I was best man at his wedding). We enjoyed curry together in the city (a risky move - I'm already humming Johnny Cash's 'Ring of Fire' in my head). I digress. He (also not a young buck) still works, and told me that he'd recently been summoned by his boss to a meeting, at which the company's 'HR' representative would be present. Although the subject of this meeting remained unspoken, my pal - on arriving at said meeting - soon deduced that the meeting was to be about his retirement. But not because the word 'retirement' was used. The first question he was asked was (my words, not his) "are you comfortable discussing your 'managed exit' from this firm now that you have had your 70th birthday" Of course he caught on immediately. He gave me the gist of it all but not without admitting to me what was actually going through his head. He explained that his first thought was to react to that opening question was to answer the question with this: "are we thinking a five star, one way trip to a reputable clinic in Switzerland?" He didn't (of course he didn't), but it made me smile: not least because it was funny, but also because it's a great example of 'modern speak'. 

I used to run my own business, diagnosing hearing loss and selling private hearing aids. I once tried to advertise on the internet by asking people (my Headline for my advert was:) "do you struggle to hear the TV clearly?" Google rejected my advertisement on the basis that it conveyed 'negativity'. Rights eh? 

Next time I'll talk about Mr. Trump and the grief and the joy his victory has caused. That'll be fun! Feeling down still? Pick up a ukulele or sing a bar or two of Monty Python's 'Bright Side of Life' Pip pip.

Time

 Five years - I began the last entry in this blog with a comment about the last five years. Well, guess what! It's actually seven. You see that is exactly what happens with age: time just travels more quickly (or at least appears to). 

A few years ago (please don't ask how many) I made a donation to Wikipedia. I must have been feeling flush and generous, but having done that I do genuinely admire an organisation which provides (mostly) useful information and is not plagued by advertisements. To this day I get reminders of how grateful they were - and please could I make a further donation? 

Anyway, seven years ago (on 17/11/2017) I attended the funeral of a former nurse at St Bartholomew's hospital, Caroline Jackson, who had died of cancer at the age of approximately 63. I met her and a couple of her closest friends, Helen and Fiona, in 1973 at a nightclub in Stamford, Lincs., called 'The Riverside'. (Yes, it was indeed located by the river in Stamford.) All three were nursing at 'Barts', I was working at a bank in central London but staying at the 'YMCA' Barbican, just a stone's throw from St Bartholomew's Hospital. I was 'clubbing' in Stamford as I had gone home to stay with my parents, who lived close to Stamford, that particular weekend.

Of course we became good friends, frequented a local pub (now demolished), eventually drifted apart but, with the advent of the internet, found a way to re-unite. 

Reset: my story of 71 years on planet Earth.

The last five years have been amongst the most frustrating in my life. And if I've learned anything, it's that frustration is often home-grown. 

At the same time these recent years have thrown up some truly wonderful memories. So my life appears to be turning into a personal soap-opera: with all the humour, disappointment, joy and pain (not too much pain) to  which anyone (possibly even you, dear reader) might succumb. 

I shall therefore attempt to chronicle the good and the bad of 71 years on planet Earth. Settle, back, relax and enjoy.

I was born in Oldham in 1953. My father was born in Bermondsey, my mother in Yorkshire. They met in Egypt during my Dad's conscripted national service. Dad was ambitious (against all odds he managed to succeed in becoming an officer - having been told by his superiors 'no chance') and was posted to Egypt during the 'Suez Crisis'. My mater had joined the 'NAAFI' to escape her somewhat 'Victorian' step-father, whose beliefs (not uncommon in that era) were that women are meant to be wives, mothers and carers: nothing more nothing less. I only learned this from my Mum as I grew up. To me he was simply a delightful man with whom I could play games, indulge in fantasies and who would tell me daft stories and recite silly poems  (One of which was the infinitely repeated tale of Antonio and Marino on a dark and stormy night). 

As I recall:

"It was a dark and stormy night

The rain came down in torrents

The brigands and their chiefs were in their cave

And Marino said to Antonio

'Antonio, tell us a tale'

and the tale began as follows...

'It was a dark and stormy night'

and repeat....

I could listen again and again. Alf (my maternal grandfather) was a plasterer died fairly young (around age 68) within just a couple of years of retiring. This was not uncommon back then as so many men of that era saw retirement as an opportunity to put their feet up in front of the television and be waited on by their spouse. Things are very different today.

At the age of three, my father put my name down to become a student at a famous public school, when the fees for such an education were roughly five times his annual salary. Driven by ambition, he succeeded in this and so I went from 'northern lad' (with the regional accent - we lived in Lancashire) to public schoolboy where my northern accent was almost literally beaten out of me, to be replaced by what was (in those days) referred to as 'RP' ('Received Pronunciation'). 

Above and beyond the excellent education I received, one of the lasting benefits of those boarding school days was an exponential growth in self-confidence. This enabled me to make friends from all walks of life: many of those friendships are still alive and well as I write. I still have, and frequently meet with, friends whom I have known and loved for over fifty years. 

I retired in 2019 following (successful) brain surgery. There is a post somewhere here which tells that tale.

To end this first bit of pure self-indulgence, I'm going to make a a simple but sad observation. I was lucky to be born in a free country. I have seen those freedoms diminish during my lifetime. The invention of the internet allows me to do what I am doing now - writing and publishing my story: it has also created some problems. 

Since I retired I have occupied myself by learning to play the Ukulele, and to learn how to use software to enable me to publish the recordings I make on YouTube. You can find them here: https://www.youtube.com/@PaulCDyer

Some of it is good, some of it is awful, but it is fun. During my happy school days, I became a fan of the poet Edward Lear. My 'boarding school' education began (in 1960) at Hampton House School, Tarporley, Cheshire, run by the wonderful 'Saunders-Griffiths' family (from South Africa). Sadly the building was condemned in 1963 and so I had to commute to 'St Andrews School, Eastbourne' from 1963 (we still lived in Lancashire) until 1966 when I entered 'Public School'. As a nine-year-old boy I can tell you that the train journey from Manchester to Eastbourne was 'exciting'. 

I'm uncertain as to whether or not children can make such a trip these days?? I, too, now watch daytime TV, but unlike the actors in the advertisements for cremation services I now see on a channel called 'TPTV' I do not have conversations with my wife, whilst I am in the bath, about the delights of planning (and paying for) my funeral some years ahead of that inevitable event. Not least because I am uncertain that such companies will still exist when the grim reaper doth call! (I'd hate to have wasted my money.)

Comments are welscome.

PS. The follow-up to my South African trip is also available on my YouTube site here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KHkjl9O6a18

South Africa

24/8/22. 07:30hrs

 Ah - just a tad nervous, as well as excited, about my trip to South Africa today: probably only because it's 'Africa', a country I've visited rarely. Once in 1976 I went to Tunisia with my mates, been to Morocco  where someone (rather forcefully) tried to sell us a chicken on a day trip from Spain, but never the Deep South, whose history is, well, let's say 'A BIT BLOODY'.

So I'm staying with my very good friend, Laurent, on there Gondwana Game Reserve, near Mossel Bay, returning on the 5th September. 

I suppose 'flying' post-Covid (although that has hardly disappeared), post Brain Surgery and three flights are good enough reason to bring the nerves up - and leaving Mr. Phelps (my dog - a Chinese `Crested Hairless' for a fair period to boot.

So I hope the time goes as well as I anticipate (been a while since I saw Laurent, and we've had some fine times) and not too quickly!

I shall enjoy writing up the sequel, showing off my photographic trophies and wallowing in glorious memories on my return. May the wind be at my back!

Delia Christmas cake pt ll (Long long time)

Review Smiger Tenor Ukulele

SomethingI love!