More 55s

When I was young I used to ask: “How do you know if you’re in love?” And they answered: “If you aren’t sure, you’re not.”

I didn’t understand. Not then. But I do now. Every moment of every day I understand and know I am in love. And even better, I know I am loved.

13 April 2012

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“Hand it over and tell me where you got it, please.”


“Shan’t.”

“I’m asking nicely. Please let me see it.”

“It’s mine!”

“I really need to look at it, young man. Now!”

“Officer, leave my son alone. He’s only playing marbles. What’s wrong with that?”

“Well, Ma’am. That’s not a marble, it’s a glass eye.”
April 6, 2012

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There’s something about the eventual arrival of Spring weather after a long and miserable winter that brings out the best and the worst in people. I’ve seen how everyone has a happier expression and they are smiling at each other again. But have you noticed how awful their pasty skin looks in such bright light?
March 30, 2012

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Signs of Spring

Wood pigeon.
Magpie. (Morning Sir.)

Blackbirds.
Some sort of crow.
Unidentified, large, brown, bird of prey.
(Must look that up when I get home.)

Pied wagtail.
Collared dove.
Another magpie. Two for joy!
Lots of small twittering things in a tree.

More blackbirds.
A second crow, carrying a twig.
Squirrel!

Sparrow.
Robin.
Squashed young badger.

March 23 2012

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February 17, 2012

‘So, traditional tales are too scary for children,?’ Brian queried after gathering his family in the kitchen.  His young sons looked on, fascinated.

‘No more Brothers Grimm. No more Fee Fi Fo Fum.

‘Maybe we should show them a slice of real life, then,’ he sneered, and plunged the bread knife into his wife’s chest.

#Inspired by a news story. Are fairytales too frightening for children?

The tale of the Lancashire witches (in 55 words)

Fear and superstition were rife in early 17th century England so it was all too easy to misinterpret a glance, and link it to later misfortune. And that’s why ten people of Pendle were hanged for witchcraft. Device, Chattox, Demdike, Whittle and Co. No black cats, no pointy hats; just accusations and misdirected religious fervour.

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The Lancashire (or Pendle) Witches are among the most famous in England. Like their US counterparts in Salem, Mass., the group were victims of over zealous neighbours who were quick to accuse at the first sign of trouble. Alizon Device was called witch after she had dealings with a peddlar who refused to give her some pins. He collapsed, paralysed, and later died (probably of a stroke) and Alizon was blamed. She was said to have cursed him, with the help of her large black dog familiar. Friends and neighbours were soon rounded up and branded as a coven, who were said to meet for Sabbats at the home of Anne Whittle, known as Old Chattox.

In spite of common belief, witches were not burned at the stake in England. That treatment was reserved for heretics, and the fires wee kept alight by throwing on homosexual 'faggots' (which actually means a bundle of sticks).

Victorian philanthropy

Since the earliest days of industrialisation, factory owners created communities for their work forces, based around a centre of production. Their apparent generosity earned them the title of philanthropist. In truth they were just maximising performance. A healthy workforce is a productive one, so looking after staff meant individuals worked harder and longer, increasing profits.

Billy's challenge

Big Mike Bigelow stared at Billy’s offering  for half a minute that seemed to stretch for hours.  If Mr Big accepted the gift, Billy knew he’d be accepted into the gang.  This was his only chance. The big man opened a cigar box and proffered it, nodding a direction to drop the severed finger in.

10 August 2012

Blind faith

She was almost blind and her limbs trembled constantly, but she knew she was doing holy work. She knew her god would guide her hand if she was weak, so she continued with her mission. But gradually she began to doubt. Perhaps trying to restore the church fresco wasn’t such a great idea after all. 

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16 august 2012
An 80-year-old Spanish woman has ruined a painting of Christ on the wall of her local church by attempting some 'restoration' work.  The image by painter Elias Garcia Martinez now looks more like "a very hairy monkey in an ill-fitting tunic" according to one observer. More details here. 

Further 55s

An explanation can be found here. 

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There is no way through. So, having no dynamite, I must chip my slow way, painfully, until I can be free. I can smell fresh air and there are bright lights through the narrow chinks but I am still trapped. Is anyone digging toward me or do I have to dig my own escape? Again.

Living history: the past brought back to life. Were the good old days really so great? Or do we look at them through rose coloured spectacles? Whatever the real story, the picture painted by modern, interactive museums is attractive. And I plan to enjoy my old fashioned fish and chips when I visit one today!

The past is dead, and so is every person in it. So why am I fascinated with history and all its tales? Do we learn its lessons or are we doomed to repeat mistakes because of human nature? Should I try to better them or just relax and do what I want?

I don’t know.

Every year I promise myself that I’m not going to go berserk in planning the yule celebrations and yet each time I wear myself out buying and wrapping presents, cleaning the house so I can put up decorations, trimming the tree, planning and cooking meals, and all the hundred other jobs. So – mince pie anyone?

Fifty five words of seasonal thoughts. What are the essential ingredients for this time of year? Turkey, mistletoe, pork pie, presents, egg-nog, tree, baubles, lights, mince pies, candles, cheesy songs, cranberries, crackers, paper chains, pudding, stocking fillers, trifle, a pair of socks, wrapping paper, chocolate coins, wine, energy and patience!

So, have I forgotten anything?

Journey

Everyone is on a journey these days; actors, wannabes, slimmers of the year, they all say it. “It was a tremendous journey, but I made it”. Well, good for you, but what you had was not a journey, it was a challenge, and I can appreciate that whatever you did probably took guts, determination and effort (and possibly botox and cash) but please stop calling it a journey. Life is not a journey. That is a metaphor. This is a journey. Or at least, it would be if the traffic ever moved.

Here I am, third time this week, stuck in a mid-price, mid-range, mid-coloured saloon, midway between junctions on a Midlands motorway, aiming for home. Overhead a number forty shines from a red light circle on a gantry, telling me that I must not exceed that speed. Oh how I wish! At forty miles an hour I would arrive in fifteen minutes, but no amount of guts, determination or effort will help me move a single inch along the black-topped, pitted highway, because, although it is a challenge, it is also a real distance-to-be-covered journey.  

In an effort to pass the interminable time I have already tried three radio stations: inane music, inane chat or local traffic reports that tell me there is a hold up on the motorway. Unless things improve there might just be a hold up. Up ahead, three cars away, I can see a lorry painted with adverts for beer, and it might be worth hijacking the driver, just to kill time, although the getaway could be the slowest that ever featured on Crimewatch. I could wave a torch at him (kept in the glove compartment in case of emergencies) and tell him that I shall shine it in his eyes unless he drives me to somewhere – anywhere – that is not this motorway. But who would retrieve my car when the traffic finally clears?

I have no idea how long I have been here because, as usual, I failed to check the clock as I pulled up behind the BMW in the centre lane, with its impatient cargo in the driver’s seat. The man is tapping the steering wheel rhythmically, perhaps in time to some unheard in-head music, but more likely in time with his rapidly increasing heartbeat. Dressed in a blue shirt, with a suit jacket suspended from a hook on the rear passenger-side door, his patience gauge is reading almost empty, and he is not alone. Many faces in this jam show signs of stress, except the long-haired, bearded youth at the wheel of a camper van in lane one, who is singing, mouth wide as he expels the notes, and his head rocks side to side like a metronome. It must be a happy song because his eyes are sparkling, unless they are full of tears of tedium.

 I must call on dwindling reserves of patience to see me through.