How to stop traffic

Dangerous situations: being held at knifepoint, being in labour with complications, crossing the road…of these three I think the road was the actually the worst.

Picture a suburban road in 1962, with semi-detached houses and neat front gardens. There are wooden double gates allowing the lucky owners space to park a car, should they own one. There are scarlet salvias in the bed edging the lawn and gladioli against the dividing wall. The sun is reflected from gleaming tiles at the front door.

Of course, I don’t know this is true, but it is how my house would look on a sunny summer’s day, and I suppose it was at least fairly dry and warm for the following to have happened.

Adults must have been busy elsewhere, because somehow the baby gave them the slip. She was too young to walk yet, so she crawled down the path in front of the house. The gates were wide open, and through them was an enticing new world ready to explore. She had tough knees, because she crawled across the pavement and straight into the road, and then started to cross that too. On the other side was a park with trees and grass. It looked more interesting than the pavement.

The first sign of a problem for her mother was the fact that the large red double decker bus had stopped in front of the house. The bus stop was down the road, so it was unlikely the bus would stop where it was unless something was wrong – a flat tyre or a medical emergency perhaps? Curiosity drove her to go out and have a look.

To her amazement she discovered her daughter sitting in the road in front of the bus, obviously concerned that she did not have the correct fare. The bus driver was a kindly soul who preferred not to run over passengers, actual or potential, so he had applied the brakes firmly when he noticed the small bundle ahead of him in a place where by rights a small bundle should not be.

This is why I continue to have a soft spot for bus drivers to this day, even the grumpy ones.

Against all odds – Five Reasons to celebrate being English

When things go wrong in a country, that is often the time to think about why it is worth trying to put them right, So now is a good time to remember why it’s great to be English.

A nice cuppa

Article 1: Tea drinking. It might not be as sophisticated or gracious as in, say, Japan. No matter the occasion it can only be enhanced by a cup of tea. Ideally with a biscuit to dunk.

Article 2: Humour. Despite recent appearances to the contrary we actually have a great sense of humour. It is often quite dry. Unlike…

Article 3: The weather. There is lots of weather in England, much of it terrible, and most of it moist to some degree. That is why the humour has to be dry and the tea plentiful. It also is an important ice-breaker when meeting new people. Without the weather we would have only one other thing to talk about…

Article 4: The BBC. Television without adverts, who could resist? And look at what it produces: Dr Who, David Attenborough, Mastermind and Strictly Come Dancing. Not to mention Eastenders and Royal Weddings. If there were ever, say, riots, as a nation we would turn to the BBC to keep an eye on their progress. We don’t call the BBC “Auntie” for nothing.

Article 5: Manners. When you tread on my foot I will apologise. When I am waiting for something I wait in a queue. Even if I am the only person there. The English can form a queue of one person, it’s quite amazing.

Waxing lyrical

If I were an inanimate object, what would I be?

Candle flame

I would be the thing that is alive without living, that meets the criteria of life such as moving, reproducing, growing, consuming. I would have meaning and be intimately involved in the lives of those around me.

I would be a candle, and I would be your most constant friend.

I would shine a light under the bed to chase away the monsters. I would beam over your shoulder as you read, lighting the words on the page and learning in your mind. I would comfort your soul as you meditated or prayed. I would burn steadfastly in your window to guide your lover home. I would watch your babe as she slept in my golden glow. I would keep a vigil over your sickbed. In the end I would melt away with you in your final resting place.

If love were a thing you could hold, it would be me. But beware because I can also burn.

At least he was happy!

A child’s first touch with Death need not be too traumatic….

Scotch Night

My first experience with death occurred traditionally (I’m glad to say) with the death of my goldfish. As befits such a traumatic event, it was tinged with farce as well as tragedy.

In summary, my poor little fish was displaying symptoms of distress in its tank, swimming upside down and so on. For some strange reason it seemed to my parents that the best thing to do would be to call in our next-door neighbour for her sage advice.

Auntie May, the neighbour in question, was from Aberdeen and this made her advice very noteworthy indeed as far as i could tell. Naturally she had a good idea of how to help. I am completely serious here – she gave my fish whisky. From a teaspoon as it scudded along near the water surface.

The fish died anyway.

Perhaps if she had used a good single malt rather than a blend it might have had a better chance. It’s hard to know,

Far from warning me of the perils of the demon drink, all I learned from the experience was, as my grandmother remarked, that if you are going to go, you might as well go happy.

30DC-25 – A picture of your day.

It’s been a busy day but most notably I have been clearing out books to be sent to new homes. Some of them are in the picture, but in total I reckon there are at least as many again piled up nearby.

I’m not good at getting rid of books but recently decided I needed to focus my interests a bit more. So out go the books on topics I no longer plan to work on, leaving me more shelf space for the books in areas of interest. The other criterion was: can I get this information (or more up-to-date information) easily on the Internet? If so, I don;t need the paper version.

I think I could have been even more ruthless but this is a pretty good start. I did this kind of thing once before but regretted it almost at once, so this time I have decided the rules I am using so I know why the books are going. Last time I made the wild assumption I could still get hold of the books at the library, but I now know better.

30DC-09 – a song that you can dance to

Oh go on then

30DC-24 – A picture of something you wish you could change

Once upon a time there was a happy family of 2 parents, 2 little boys and a beautiful cat. One day one of the parents (it was me, did you guess?) discovered she couldn’t actually live with the cat without sneezing and itching and having watering eyes, a sore throat and general cat-related issues.

The family acquired a little girl as well, but still the cat symptoms did not go away. Which was a shame; I mean about the symptoms, not the little girl. So the cat had to go and live in Essex.

Rather unfortunately the cat went to live in Essex with a family friend, which then meant that I couldn’t go and visit her any more either. Doh!

Anyway, I liked having a cat and wish I still could.

30DC-08 – a song that you know all the words to

Let it be known to all the world that I am very happy being English. But there is one single flaw, and that is the National Anthem. It is really a bit dull. I mean, nursery rhymes are generally more complex rhythmically and offer a more challenging vocabulary. I’m sure it sounds suitably imposing when we win a medal or a World Cup – but as we rarely do that it seems a bit of  waste. I much prefer the Flanders and Swann alternative English National anthem….much jollier.

However, possibly the one benefit of attending the school which I did, in fact, attend was that we had to learn the Welsh National Anthem. In Welsh. And I remember it to this very day. In fact I find it very handy for joining in at rugby matches (where the English, bizarrely, get to sing “Swing Low Sweet Chariot”, demonstrating yet again the general unsuitability of the official anthem). My experience is that rugby matches involving the Welsh team occur more frequently than an English medal ceremony.

30DC-23: A picture of your favourite book.

Some of you will be aware that I quite like the odd book or two. I own a few of them and keep them handily about the house, acting as additional insulation, convenient dust collectors and general well-being generators. Alice said "What is the use of a book without pictures?"; I say "What is the use of a house without books?". If you are especially perspicacious you might have noticed that a few of them have crept up behind me in my profile picture. These days some more have even infiltrated my actual computer through the cunning ploy of being instantly downloadable from the Internet. No more waiting a day or two for the post; I can get my eyeballs on fresh text in seconds.

Given the choices I have in selecting a favourite book, the casual observer may be forgiven for thinking that it would perplex me beyond all reason to frame a response to this prompt. The casual observer would, of course, be not only observing casually, lounging on the sofa as if he owned the place, but also making baseless assumptions. I have a favourite. Oh yes. My precious, precious favourite.

30DC-a song that reminds you of a certain event

When I was 11 we went to spend Christmas with my aunt and uncle in Canada. My grandmother had died the previous Christmas, and my parents were able to take a holiday. Things were going well for them financially so they could afford a family trip across the ocean.

Our plane was the last one allowed to land at Montreal due to heavy snow, so we were lucky not to be diverted to Toronto. Back home in England the country was enjoying strikes and power cuts and shortages; in Canada we were treated like heroic refugees, and provided with cakes and sweets and inquisitive sympathy, much to our bemusement.

However, there were no other children to play with so I kept myself busy on my own. The snow was a revelation; we never had heavy snow at home in London’s suburbs, although what we did have was wet and made excellent snowballs. The Canadian variety was dry and powdery and my uncle had to water it for me before I could build a snowman.

When I wasn’t outside exploring the strange new world of toboggans and ice hockey, I was in the basement with the record player. For some reason I had brought two records with me from England. Both were chart hits, and the better of the two was this song. It was a voice from home, alien to the new world I found myself in, but robustly linking me to England and English Christmases, the best in the world.