My moment as a hero

It is, I suppose, possible that I have related this tale before. If I have, then I have forgotten when it was. If I have and you read it the first time round, you are hereby forgiven if you just click on the "next blog" link up the page or wander off to put the kettle on or even prepare the Sunday lunch. (Yes, I know it's Monday. So what?) Either way, you are going to get the story. Again - or for the first time.

It all happened on a Saturday morning about 30 years ago. That's right - 30. It might have been only 27 or, on the other hand, it might even have been 33 years, but that is completely irrelevant. It was certainly a Saturday. I know that because I was still working ... No, hang on. I suppose it could have happened on a weekday if I was on holiday at the time ... Oh well, never mind. It might have happened on a Saturday and it might have happened about 30 years ago, but it definitely happened.

I wanted a new pair of shoes so I went into Brighton to see what I could find. I can't for the life of me remember if I drove into town or caught a bus but I know I started at the Clock Tower and made my way along Western Road towards Hove, looking in every shoe shop that I passed. Just before I reached the end of the bigger shops a police car passed me at high speed. It stopped outside the Argus store - a catalogue store with a jewellery counter - on the opposite side of the road. I assumed the police had been called to an attempted robbery and carried on. I reached the next road junction and turned back. I had gone only a couple of yards when I saw a youth dash out of the Argus shop, pursued by two policemen. The youth darted into the road and was heading straight for me.

From then on, time slowed down. I actually managed to think about what I could and should do. It was axiomatic that I should attempt to apprehend this (probably) highly dangerous villain, but how to do it? (Actually, it didn't cross my mind that he might be dangerous; I just knew I should try to stop him.) My first thought was that I should just stand in his way with my arms spread wide, but I quickly dismissed that idea as impractical. Then I decided that a rugby tackle would probably see me sprawled on the pavement while the escapee simply side-stepped. By now it was very nearly time for me to take some form of action if I was ever going to, so I just stuck out my leg and tripped him up. The youth fell on his face. A passing driver leapt out of his van and sat on him until the police arrived.

Although time had slowed sufficiently for me to think of - and reject - a couple of ways of stopping the escapee, and even a third way which proved remarkably successful, there had not been enough time for me to think through the full likely outcome of sticking my leg out. Sure, it worked in that the youth tripped and was caught. But what I had overlooked - or not had time to think of - was the fact that by sticking out my leg, I would be putting myself off-balance. Or rather, balanced on just one foot. What happened was that the force of my right leg being struck by the youth caused me to fall. As I did so, I instinctively put out my hands to break my fall. I landed awkwardly on my right hand, hurting the wrist badly. The pursuing policeman inadvertently trod on my left hand, as a result of which the thumb was extremely painful.

Fortunately, I knew somebody who lived in one of the side streets not too far away and I made my way there, hoping somebody would be at home. She was, and she persuaded me that I should have a hospital check-up. She rang my wife, who drove me to the accident and emergency department where it was confirmed that I had broken my right wrist as I landed - and the copper had broken my thumb when he trod on it!

So much for being a hero!

There is, however, a postscript to this story. It was a week or ten days later that I happened to be speaking on the phone to my brother, not a particularly common occurrence in those days although it happens quite frequently now. Brother was then a serving police officer in another county.

'Have you sent off the forms to the Criminal Injuries Board?' he asked.

'Do what?' I replied.

It transpired that the local police should have informed me of my right to lodge a claim with said Board. They had not done so, possibly in an attempt to save themselves some work - or maybe because they simply hadn't bothered to check that I was OK. Anyway, I duly obtained the forms and sent them off. In the fulness of time I received a cheque for no less than £500!

As I said, so much for being a hero!

Yesterday once more

It was one of those Lions days, the sort of day when Lions activities take up most of the time. Being the first Saturday of the month, we had our regular book fair when we sell second-hand books in the community room at Lions Dene, one of the blocks of flats owned by Brighton Lions Housing Society.

This is Lions Dene, a block of 37 flats with a community room used as a meeting place by Brighton Lions Club.

Selling books at 50p each means that we don't take an awful lot of money as a rule: £45 is probably about average for the two hours the fair lasts. Yesterday, however, we took £73. The monthly book fair does tend to be treated almost as a social occasion for the Lions. Yesterday, no fewer than 30% of our members turned up to do a little work, drink a cup or two of coffee and chat.

Meanwhile, a good proportion of the other members of the club were preparing for the evening's fireworks display ("remember, remember the 5th of November etc"). Whichever deities are responsible for the weather pulled out all the stops for us and we had a dry day (which is almost as important as a dry evening) and evening with the wind neither too strong not from the wrong quarter for safety. Despite stiff competition, there was a good crowd and we took slightly more cash at the gate than we did last year. Advance ticket sales are believed to be up on last year and there is a good chance that the total income will be in the region of £60,000. If so, the profit to be shared between the Lions and the Sussex County Cricket Club should be in the region of £40,000.

From about 3.30 in the afternoon until the display started at 7.30 I was manning a ticket sales booth and it was noticeable once again just what a friendly, good-humoured atmosphere surrounds this event. All the teenagers who came to buy tickets were well-spoken and good-mannered; the adults were, almost without exception, cheerful and smiling. Tony (who shared the booth with me) and I thoroughly enjoyed the banter.

One of the odd things about Lions Club activities is how there is always something humorous or enjoyable about them. What might seem at the outset to be a boring job but one that needs doing, always turns out differently, either because of the banter between a group of friends or because of interaction with others. Whatever, this is definitely one of the benefits I get from being a member of the local Lions Club.

Two other events this weekend - one of them a major event - are taking place in Brighton. Neither has anything to do with Lions. Yesterday there was a car rally in which cars of the future, ie low emission cars, were driven from Brighton to London. Today sees the annual London to Brighton veteran car run. Think Genevieve, if your cinema memories go back that far. The run started many years ago when the speed limit was raised from 4mph and the need to have a man with a red flag walking in front of the horseless carriage was deemed unnecessary. In celebration of these twin events, a number of motorists drove from London to Brighton and the event has been a hardy annual ever since (although I suspect it didn't take place during the war). Cars taking part have to have been made before 1921 and it's quite a sight to see them trundling along the road into Brighton.

Dog days

The Old Bat and I have owned dogs since just a year after we were married. We have never owned more than one dog at a time, and there have on occasion been gaps of several months when we have been without a canine companion. Owning a dog is not something that should be undertaken lightly or without due consideration: as one of the country's leading dog welfare charities says, a dog is for life - not just Christmas. Dogs are demanding pets. They need feeding, naturally, and regular visits to the vet for innoculations - and these don't come on the National Health. What's more, dogs need regular exercise.

For me, that last is one of the benefits of dog ownership. Before I retired, I walked the dog only at the weekends - or occasionally during summer evenings. After I retired, the Old Bat and I shared the pleasure of walking our golden retriever. She (the dog) was getting old by then, blind and suffering from arthritis - but she still wanted her walk every day. We now have a springer spaniel which we acquired as a pup. Officially she is my wife's dog, but Fern doesn't realise that and is happy to accept that she belongs to both of us. She would prefer to belong to my daughter, who lives more than 100 miles away so is seen by Fern only infrequently, who is worshipped by the dog for reasons none of us have managed to work out.

Anyway, Fern joined our household after I retired but while my wife was still working, albeit mornings only. As a pup, the dog needed more exercise that our old dog and we fell into the habit of walking her twice a day. I took her in the mornings and, on three days a week, my wife took her in the afternoon. We have never broken the habit of twice-daily walks but the Old Bat can no longer manage them so both walks are down to me. The morning walk is just to our local park but in the afternoons I vary our route and head for the South Downs which lie just behind our house. I really enjoy those walks in the glorious Sussex countryside, walks I would never bother to take were it not for the dog.

I stumbled across a blogging community calling itself City Daily Photographers or some such - the idea being that each should post a picture of their city or town on a daily basis. I decided to join in, mostly with pictures of the local countryside but occasional shots of Brighton appear. Since I started doing this I have found myself seeing things I was only looking at before (if you see what I mean). Anyway, the pics are over here at Stanmer & Around.

Those were the days

I very much doubt that any reader of this blog will recall the dark days of the early months of 1974. I call those days dark because that is what they were for hours at a stretch. The coal miners had been working to rule and, as a result, the generation of electricity was severely limited. To conserve power, commercial users of electricity were limited to three specified days' consumption each week. In addition, power was cut for all users during certain hours. Back then I was in the habit of using an electric shaver so, as my effort to assist the country, I resolved to stop shaving for the duration. I never did bother to start again so my daughter (who was born a couple of years later) has never seen me clean-shaven.

Although we did have advance notice of when power would be cut, the cuts caused considerable inconvenience. We had two children aged three and one and getting them dressed and breakfasted on days when we had morning power cuts was quite an effort. Not that I had much to do with that side of things. I left my better half to deal with the children after I had gone to work.

Of course, offices and shops were also subject to power cuts. I was working in a bank and recall that when we lost power in the afternoons we had to resort to portable lamps of all descriptions. We also had to make alternative arrangements for doing the book-keeping as the accounting machines ran on electricity.

I seem to remember that the general population as a whole took all the inconvenience pretty well - but maybe those rose-tinted spectacles have something to do with that! Actually, it all reminds me of that old Chinese curse: may you live in interesting times.

Talking of interesting times, tomorrow sees the annual Brighton Lions fireworks display which commemorates the failed attempt to blow up the Houses of Parliament back in 1605. We are anxiously watching the weather forecasts. A few days ago - indeed, even last night - the forecast for tomorrow evening was intersting if not downright iffy. It's amazing that in my 25 years as a member of Brighton Lions the event has been cancelled only once because of inclement weather. This is our biggest fund-raiser of the year and we have £10,000-worth of fireworks ready to go so we are hoping for the best.

I can't ride a bike

They (whosoever "they" might be) say that many actions are like riding a bike: once learned, never forgotten. But I never learned. That is, at root, down to the fact that I never had a bike. I don't know why that should have been. I don't think it was a lack of money as my parents always seemed to have sufficient for other things. I did have a tricycle.

It was only about two years after the end of the war that my father took me to Maidstone by bus one afternoon. (That sentence alone contains four pieces of information that would benefit from further illumination. This parenthetic note could stretch to several paragraphs. To start with, I should explain that to many people of my generation - and my parents' generation - "the" war was the Second World War. Why other conflicts such as the Korean War and the First World War are relegated to "other" wars is something I don't understand and am therefore unable to explain. You'll just have to accept that the war means World War II.

It must have been two years after the end of the war that this momentous bus ride took place because my father served in the Royal Navy and, in 1945, was in the Far East. It was not until 1947 that his ship returned to England.

Maidstone was - and still is - about eight or nine miles from where we were living in Gillingham. To get there involved a walk of about half a mile to catch a bus at the Jezreels. This took us to the bus station in Nelson Road where we would change for a bus to Maidstone.

Oh dear. Now I need to explain Jezreels. But I'm not going to give you chapter and verse as might be found any where on the web. Instead, I'll tell you what my mother told me. The Jezreelites where members of a religious sect who established their world headquarters in Gillingham. Here they bought a piece of land on which to build a great temple where many of the members could live. The aim was to build this temple high enough to reach Heaven so that they would have a stairway they and they alone could climb. Unfortunately, they were unable to finish their tower for reasons my mother either could not or would not explain (and I probably never asked) and the remains stood there. A nearby road junction became known as Jezreels, after the tower. And I think we can close these parentheses and get back to the original story now.)

So we caught the bus to Maidstone. It must have been in the afternoon because I distinctly remember it being dark when we came back home, so it was probably fairly late in the year as well - about this time of year, maybe. The reason for this expedition - and it was an expedition rather than a mere journey or trip - was to buy a tricycle. Presumably there was no tricycle to be bought in any of the shops in Gillingham, Chatham, Rochester or Strood - three adjoining towns and a city making up the conurbation known as the Medway Towns. This was, after all, only a couple of years after the war and there were still shortages of many things in England - even rationing of various foodstuffs was still in force. Anyway, that was presumably why the trek had to be made to Maidstone.

Bringing the tricycle - it was blue - back from Maidstone was something of a challenge. Like the outward journey, the return was made by bus and I have a feeling that the bus was pretty crowded. My father made the journey on the platform as the trike wouldn't fit in the luggage space under the stairs.

(More explanation. In those days buses in England were mounted at the rear. On double-decker buses there was no door, just an open platform from which there was a step up onto the lower deck and a winding staircase to the upper deck. Luggage could be stowed under the staircase. Standing was allowed on the lower deck if all seats were taken but passengers were not allowed to stand on the upper deck or ride on the platform or the stairs. Smoking was allowed upstairs only.)

And you can blame Skip for this trip down memory lane as he was recently waxing nostalgic about his bicycles.

Busy day

I have a seriously busy day ahead of me so I will just copy an old post complete with pictures of our French house as it was when we bought it.

Open the front door, and this was the view of the hall, except that I had brought in pots of paint before taking the picture. The ladder had been left by the previous owners.


Turn sharp right and we enter the downstairs bedroom. Blue and pink? Note the plastic sheet covering the radiator.


Back across the hall we come to the living room. There was a sliding glass hatch between this room and the kitchen, but it was almost at ceiling height.



Another view of the living room. The dark door leads out to the courtyard and the partly open door into the kitchen.


And on into the kitchen.




From the hall, there was a steep, winding staircase...


...leading to the upstairs bedroom.




Complete with a dodgy bit of floor under the lino.

Time

That's enough of this tomfoolery. Pictures, indeed. Let's get onto something more serious.

We came home on Friday so the first newspaper I had seen for a week was delivered on Saturday morning. The verdict in a murder trial was splashed on the front page, a murder that had aroused a lot of interest across the country. The Commonwealth countries had all agreed to the ending of male primogeniture in the Royal Family. More problems, or rather more of the same problems in Europe. But what really grabbed my attention was a small piece at the foot of the page. It was just a couple of paragraphs, continued on page 4 or 6 or soemwhere towards the middle of the paper. The Prime Minister had said he was happy for the Government to consider changing the clocks so that we are in line with the rest of western Europe. Now this, oddly enough, is something about which I feel quite strongly.

What it basically means is that we would put our clocks forward one hour - permanently. During the winter months we would be running on Greenwich Mean Time plus one hour and in the summer it would be GMT plus 2 hours. This would mean that dawn would be an hour later than it is now - and sunset would also be an hour later (obviously). So what are the pros and cons?

Well, it would stay light later in the evenings. During mid-summer weeks, it would still be light at 10 o'clock in the evening. I'm not sure just how that would be of a great benefit other than for keen gardeners who would have longer to spend in their gardens after coming home from work. The main benefit would be in the winter months when children would be coming home from school in the light so there should be fewer accidents. On the other hand, they would be going to school in the dark.

I don't remember it personally, but there was a trial some 30 or so years ago which is being referred to in the arguments/discussions about this proposal. It would seem that the number of road accidents fell during the trial, a trial which was abandoned after complaints from people living in Scotland and the north of England who were more affected than people living in the southern parts of the country. That fall in the number of accidents is one of the main arguments used by those in favour of the proposal.

Another so-called pro is that businessmen in England would be on the same time as those in, say, Paris and Frankfurt. But that seems to me to be a particularly puerile argument. If a businessman who deals with people in Paris can't adjust his time mentally, there's not a lot of hope for him, in my opinion. After all, what about New York, Tokyo, Sydney?

I do have personal experience of putting the clocks forward permanently - other, that is, than the trial I can't remember. Our house in France is actually further west than Our English home, although by not a lot. The clocks there are an hour ahead of the English clocks so I know what would be the effect of permanently changing the time. And I like it not.

While we were in France last week I watched the sun creep over the horizon several mornings. At about 8.30. I do not like getting up in the dark and having twilight until 9.30 - or even 10.00 on really dull days. No, I think we should stick with GMT, plus an hour in the summer. It has served us well for centuries and it ain't broke so why try to fix it?