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 sold 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 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!

Covid - weaponised

 Interesting last few days.

I noticed a fairly authoritarian attitude on a visit to Costa Coffee last Friday. My son and I were not asked but told to wait our turn at a certain spot withing the shop and then told to complete the 'track & trace' information which, quite rightly, the shop staff had been asked to maintain.

Thought little of it until we had the same instruction at the pub where we decided to take lunch (we were in Rayleigh, Essex); but in this case delivered with politeness and a more 'human' approach. You know 'we're all in this together'. And it is a pain. However. today I had a similar experience to the 'Costa' one: this time in Barclays Bank, Maldon. Before I run through that, and because of it, I am considering the possibility that employers are failing to treat and train their staff to deal with the pressures placed upoon them by Covid. To explain:

I had trouble this morning with Barclays online banking: couldn' log in/got lots of 'error' messages - I eventually used their automated telephone banking service to pay a bill, after which I was unsure that I had been succesful. So I decided to visit the local branch. I was, to all intents and purposes. 'interrogated' on entering, and not in the friendliest or politest of manners. I was allowed in (after a 'covid lecture) and explained the issues I had faced 'online'; and therefore should be grateful to have my account checked. It took some time (3-4 minutes) for the lady staff member to log in - even then she seemed unsure. So I mentioned that holding the phone for 20 minutes or longer is frustrating (as is being apologised to by a recorded voice) and was told that Barclays had recently 'lost' a call-centre somewhere. 

My reponse "hardly my fault" was met with something like (I do not quote, but give the gist) "I'm doing far more than I should be doing under the pressures of Covid, still can't find your details online and so you must wait longer." I politely sympathised with her, but couldn't stop myself from mentioning the fact that I am a customer of Barclays, who keep my money and I therefore do not believe that I am being excessively demanding in making such a request in branch. At this point she expressed that I had put her under so much stress that she would leave and ask another member of staff to deal with me. 

I picked up my belongings and left. (I had to vist another business and, like most businesses, they were not open 'normal hours', due to Covid, which obliged me to leave in order to get there before they closed.)

So is Covid 19 now more than just a virus? By that I mean 'is it a stick with which banks (and not just banks) can metaphorically beat us? I.E. is it causing a serious and pejorative change in the usual business-customer relationship to the effect that customer is not always right, but actually wrong to expect a a degree of service which suits the business (and its staff), however poorly treated we (the customer) may feel? 

I rememember some time ago the introduction of signs (in businesses which would be frequently visited by members of the public) telling us that abuse would not be tolerated/would be reported to police where waiting times, queues and lack of service might be forced upon any visitor simply becasue not enough staff were present to handle the requests made.  In other words we had to grin and bear bad service, waiting times and queues created by the business itself, rather than the customers; but complaint (especially verbal remonstrations) and irritation might (would?) now be considered abuse. Robotic telephone sevices have solved this brilliantly: shouting at a recording has no effect at all! 

(What damage such services - robotic telephone systems -  have caused to elderly/hard-of-hearing and mentally challenged members of the public I just cannot imagine!)

My real fear is that this has the potential to erode the old adage 'innocent until proven guilty'. We, the customers, are, I feel, being manipulated - and that is sad. Thoughts anyone?

Apps

 Of course I am suspicious of 'Apps'. I read '1984' long before 1984, and whilst I am reasonably sure that 'Big Brother' is not specifically targetting me, something not unlike said character is now fairly omnipresent, and perfectly capable of finding out more about me than I would like: I believe many 'Apps' are active in this field, but of course I can't prove it.

So why on Earth, I hear you ask, did I download another such App recently? In truth - to earn a buck. I awoke this morning, looked at the piles of my wife's clothing, handbags, shoes etc., adorning our bedroom floor and uttered the words "this place is such a mess, has been for years: no wonder I hate living here now". (FYI my wife has filled a wall-to-wall wardrobe in a spare bedroom - about 7ft wide, built in - but clearly that's not enough). Oh dear - not a great move. But, thanks to my latest 'App', I can escape this place for a few hours at least and deliver Amazon's little (and medium sized) boxes to people who, mostly, smile and are welcoming. The pay is poor, but it is an earner and gets me out. 

I once tried to take it upon myself to 'clear up/clean up' radically, because 'radical' is now required: I got into some trouble when 'management' - a term I acquired from the late broadcaster Ray Moore (it's how he described his wife) discovered that I'd removed a piece or two of hers (probably hadn't been used for 20 years, but the principle....she was right) and took a serious metaphorical blow or three! So now I only clear my own stuff. Just to give some photographic evidence: below you sere my side of our bed (by no means 'perfect', I admit - but narrow and mostly books - the memsahib's dressing table in the bottom left corner).

And below 'her side': 

I'll leave it you you to make your own deductions.

If I haven't mentioned this before I owe almost every good thing in my life to my parents - particularly my Dad (RIP both). Thanks to him/ them, I just came into a little financial bonus which will be enough to make some significant repairs to our house (given that I'd sell tomorrow, if poss - CV19 might make that a bit tricky, but that is an unknown). On which subject, I have decided not to continue my profession as an Audiologist (it just cannot be the same dealing with clients whose hearing is 'below par' whilst both parties wear masks, I wear gloves and am unable (physically) to make contact to demonstrate how to insert a hearing aid.

So the Amazon 'Flex' App it is - gets me driving around (something I really enjoy - especially now that I've regained my driving licence post brain surgery) and out of the house. Of course I recognise that my life, compared to the average bloke in Zimbabwe - and I could have picked a number of countries: Zimbabwe comes to mind as an example only - my life really is a 'bowl of cherries'. And age brings grumpiness in ageing men (and I am one), I'm only too well aware. You catch my drift, I hope? Onwards and upwards then - just got to sort out the young thing (and associated problems there, as mentioned in a previous blog) I/we spawned - look forward to moving out before rigour mortis sets in, and I shall be 'in clover'! Pip pip.