I know some of us complain from time to time about our frustrations concerning Blogger and its glitches but let's be honest with ourselves, those are mere trivialities in life's rich tapestry. (Am I starting to mix metaphores yet?) Just think how much worse our lives would be if we were unable to get light at the flick of a switch or if we, like so many African people, had to walk miles to collect clean water. Yes, I know. That's a bit like when my mother used to tell me to think of all those starving African children when I refused to eat cabbage. I never could really see what good it would do those children if I did eat my cabbage or what harm would befall them if I didn't.
And those Blogger frustrations are as nothing compared to the frustration thrust upon me almost every day by my Internet service provider. My broadband Internet access is painfully slow - less than 2 mps - but I don't find that a problem. At least, not usually. I stream or download or whatever it is called films never and short videos only occasionally. Clips off YouTube are about my limit and a slow download speed is only a minor frustration then. Much more frustrating is the several times a day disconnection. Every now and then I will find a web site taking a long time to open and then I get the "unable to connect" message, or words to that effect. My broadband connection has become disconnected. This might last for just a few seconds or for several minutes. Either way, it is a cause of severe head-banging.
I called in at the Lions Housing Society office a week or two back and found they had a computer techie-type in doing some work to connect an extra PC to the web. I mentioned my frustrations with my IPC and he tried to tell me what the problem was. He talked about bandwidth and all sorts of other things I didn't understand. The upshot was that I should change my ISP.
I have, on numerous occasions, considered doing just that but every time I have considered doing so I have decided against it. It's not so much the little matter of changing my email address; that is not such a big deal. I already have two or three email addresses and all of them point to just one place. It would be a simple matter to switch the redirect from my personal domain and gradually notify people who have just the email address with my ISP. No, the reason for me not changing my supplier is simply that I am too miserly. My current supplier charges me comparatively little each month to cover phone line rental, unlimited broadband usage (when I'm not disconnected), a second phone number through my computer (which has been allocated to the 0845 number for Brighton Lions Club) and free phone calls 24 hours a day to all UK geographic numbers and 35 international destinations. For that, I'm prepared to put up with a little frustration.
Friday, 13 January 2012
Thursday, 12 January 2012
Pets
The Chubby Chatterbox and Uncle Skip have inspired me to cast my mind back in the search for memories of my first pet. I trawled back through a succession of dogs, oe cat, two rabbits and - for a short time - one lamb. Then, further back in the dim past, came the recollections of a budgerigar named Billy. He was a very smart, blue budgerigar and it had taken a great deal of persuasion before my mother agreed to admit a feathered creature into the house. It wasn't that she was particularly unfond of feathered creatures, or furry creatures either for tht matter. Her concern was for my brother and me. We boys were both quite severely asthmaticand our doctor had suggested that we would probably be allergic to fur and feather. As it transpired, Billy caused no problems. But he wasn't the first pet in our household. Before Billy came a succession of goldfish, fish carrying neither feather nor fur they were considered safe pets for us boys. Thinking about those fish has brought to mind the funny little shop in Canterbury Street where we acquired these creatures. I don't think it was a full-blown pet shop; in my mind's eye I can see only tanks of fish - tropical fish in the main part of the shop and cold water fish in a sort of passageway at the back and side of the shop. That was where the proprietor would lead us to gaze at the fish in the tanks as we decided which particular fish we wanted.
But even the goldfish weren't the first pets. I need to explain here that my mother's sister lived fairly close to us. She had three children - a boy a year older than me, another boy a year younger than me and a year older than my brother, and a girl another year younger than my brother. We sort of meshed agewise, but my boy cousins were allowed a great deal more freedom than were my brother and I. It was their back garden that was dug over in a series of trenches and encampments with a dug-out for a shelter. It was my cousins who were allowed to go off on their own and explore the chalk pits, the disused chalk quarries. Now I come to think of it, I don't even know where the chalk pits were (or are). It was through my cousins' chalk pit explorations that my brother and I acquired our very first pets - a couple of newts. Just how these unfortunate wild creatures ended up in our house I cannot say, but they did. Neither my brother nor I - nor, indeed, our mother - had the faintest idea of how to look after newts, what sort of habitat they needed and, even, what they ate. Given that I was probably about 8 at the time and my brother 6, our ignorance could, perhaps, be excused. Nowadays, of course, newts are protected by law and capturing any wild creature to keep as a pet is abhorrent to any right-thinking person. Things were different 60+ years ago when this all happened. Anyway, my mother found an enamel dish, about 9" x 6" and 2" deep, into which we put a few stones and an inch or so of water. We pulled up some weeds and grass from the garden and threw those in - and that was home for the newts. We must have put something over the top to stop them escaping but I can't remember what it might have been.
I suppose we had taken the dish into the garden to do something or other. That was when the newts escaped and dived down a drain. Goodbye newts.
But even the goldfish weren't the first pets. I need to explain here that my mother's sister lived fairly close to us. She had three children - a boy a year older than me, another boy a year younger than me and a year older than my brother, and a girl another year younger than my brother. We sort of meshed agewise, but my boy cousins were allowed a great deal more freedom than were my brother and I. It was their back garden that was dug over in a series of trenches and encampments with a dug-out for a shelter. It was my cousins who were allowed to go off on their own and explore the chalk pits, the disused chalk quarries. Now I come to think of it, I don't even know where the chalk pits were (or are). It was through my cousins' chalk pit explorations that my brother and I acquired our very first pets - a couple of newts. Just how these unfortunate wild creatures ended up in our house I cannot say, but they did. Neither my brother nor I - nor, indeed, our mother - had the faintest idea of how to look after newts, what sort of habitat they needed and, even, what they ate. Given that I was probably about 8 at the time and my brother 6, our ignorance could, perhaps, be excused. Nowadays, of course, newts are protected by law and capturing any wild creature to keep as a pet is abhorrent to any right-thinking person. Things were different 60+ years ago when this all happened. Anyway, my mother found an enamel dish, about 9" x 6" and 2" deep, into which we put a few stones and an inch or so of water. We pulled up some weeds and grass from the garden and threw those in - and that was home for the newts. We must have put something over the top to stop them escaping but I can't remember what it might have been.
I suppose we had taken the dish into the garden to do something or other. That was when the newts escaped and dived down a drain. Goodbye newts.
Wednesday, 11 January 2012
If winter comes, can spring be far behind?
I mentioned last week. . . At least, I think it was last week. Anyway, whenever it was, I mentioned that the blackbirds had joined the chorus of robins in the park in the mornings. Now the song thrushes have joined in as well and the small wood we walk through every day has become quite noisy. There are snowdrops growing in the woods in two places but although the shoots are well up, there is as yet no sign of the blooms themselves. Unlike Kay's snowdrops. Kay lived in a bungalow across and just down the road from us. She was a delightful lady who adored the cat we had then but both she and the cat have been dead for several years. All the same, we still refer to Kay's bungalow and, by extension, the snowdrops growing in a corner of the garden are Kay's snowdrops. They are of a variety which blooms early and have been in flower for a couple of weeks. Unlike Tony's wife's daffodils, which he says were in bloom before Christmas. Like Kay, Tony's wife died some years back. She had planted early-blooming daffodil bulbs in the triangle of grass at the road junction outside their house. Tony adds a few bulbs each year in her memory.
It doesn't matter what time of year it is, there will always be gorse in bloom - and indeed there is on the Roman Camp. Equally, marigolds can bloom at all times of the year and we have several of these bright orange flowers in the garden. We also have a few grape hyacinths trying bravely to bloom as well as the first pale mauve crocuses. I did see yellow crocuses in the verge as I drove down Ditchling Road yesterday although the great swathes of them planted by the council have still to come through.
It was about this time last year that we were under a foot or so of snow and I was unable to get the car out for a week. What a difference this year! Of course, the plant life wouldn't suffer much under a blanket of snow but I just hope we don't get any sharp frosts.
It is even noticeable that the mornings get light earlier now. Perhaps spring is on its way.
It doesn't matter what time of year it is, there will always be gorse in bloom - and indeed there is on the Roman Camp. Equally, marigolds can bloom at all times of the year and we have several of these bright orange flowers in the garden. We also have a few grape hyacinths trying bravely to bloom as well as the first pale mauve crocuses. I did see yellow crocuses in the verge as I drove down Ditchling Road yesterday although the great swathes of them planted by the council have still to come through.
It was about this time last year that we were under a foot or so of snow and I was unable to get the car out for a week. What a difference this year! Of course, the plant life wouldn't suffer much under a blanket of snow but I just hope we don't get any sharp frosts.
It is even noticeable that the mornings get light earlier now. Perhaps spring is on its way.
Tuesday, 10 January 2012
If music be the food of love. . .
I suppose there might well be some clever clogs out there who are thinking I am a little late with this post which should, they are thinking, have appeared last Thursday but yah boo sucks to you and all that, this really has nothing to do with Twelfth Night. Mind you, the Old Bard knew a thing or two, didn't he? Whether or not music can induce love I really don't know - I don't recall it ever having that effect on me - but music certainly can affect one's mood. Look how some music will set your foot tapping no matter how down in the dumps you might be feeling to start with. Some music makes me want to laugh, while other music seems to bring about a serious mood. And I know it's not just me who can be affected by music.
Years ago I ran a scout troop and every year we went off for a week's camping in the summer. During the camp we always had two or three formal camp fires - sing-alongs. I say 'formal' because we did treat these camp fires as a sort of ceremony. The fire was always lit in a special camp fire circle which would ideally be a little distance from the tents etc and be furnished with logs for seats. The fire would be set during the afternoon and built with logs of appropriate size laid as a pyramid, bigger logs at the base, smaller at the top. The centre would be stuffed with small sticks and kindling and axle grease would be smeared onto the outer logs. We tried not to light the fire using magic fire water (paraffin) but didn't mind cheating with a bit of grease.
I had been taught by an expert how to run a camp fire and I think I had learned my lesson well. I always planned in advance what songs would be sung and made it a rule never to introduce a new song at camp. New songs would be learned during troop meetings. There were three basic groups of songs: starting songs that would get everybody singing along, songs for the middle section of the programme that were more complicated, and songs to wind down as the camp fire drew to a close. It was important that songs were used in the correct part of the programme; it would have been pointless introducing a quiet, thoughtful song near the start and foolish to get everybody jumping around and shouting at the end.
I ran many camp fires but there was just one occasion when I achieved near perfection. That year the camp fire circle was in a woodland glade, which helped with the ambiance. As the programme of songs went on I could feel the atmosphere becoming more and more electric. We built up in a crescendo just exactly the way I had hoped, and then gradually things calmed down. After the last song (only I knew it to be the last) there was silence. I eventually said just a couple of words - "Goodnight, lads" or something like that. Two dozen or so boys got up and went to bed in absolute silence, so affected were they by the atmosphere.
Just the once - and I shall never forget it.
Years ago I ran a scout troop and every year we went off for a week's camping in the summer. During the camp we always had two or three formal camp fires - sing-alongs. I say 'formal' because we did treat these camp fires as a sort of ceremony. The fire was always lit in a special camp fire circle which would ideally be a little distance from the tents etc and be furnished with logs for seats. The fire would be set during the afternoon and built with logs of appropriate size laid as a pyramid, bigger logs at the base, smaller at the top. The centre would be stuffed with small sticks and kindling and axle grease would be smeared onto the outer logs. We tried not to light the fire using magic fire water (paraffin) but didn't mind cheating with a bit of grease.
I had been taught by an expert how to run a camp fire and I think I had learned my lesson well. I always planned in advance what songs would be sung and made it a rule never to introduce a new song at camp. New songs would be learned during troop meetings. There were three basic groups of songs: starting songs that would get everybody singing along, songs for the middle section of the programme that were more complicated, and songs to wind down as the camp fire drew to a close. It was important that songs were used in the correct part of the programme; it would have been pointless introducing a quiet, thoughtful song near the start and foolish to get everybody jumping around and shouting at the end.
I ran many camp fires but there was just one occasion when I achieved near perfection. That year the camp fire circle was in a woodland glade, which helped with the ambiance. As the programme of songs went on I could feel the atmosphere becoming more and more electric. We built up in a crescendo just exactly the way I had hoped, and then gradually things calmed down. After the last song (only I knew it to be the last) there was silence. I eventually said just a couple of words - "Goodnight, lads" or something like that. Two dozen or so boys got up and went to bed in absolute silence, so affected were they by the atmosphere.
Just the once - and I shall never forget it.
Monday, 9 January 2012
Lies, damned lies, and statistics
I wish I could give an undisputed credit to the person who coined this phrase but, to my regret, there is no agreement about the author although it seems probable that it was the British Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli. Actually, it matters not who said it originally, at least, it matters not as far as this particular post is concerned. The phrase is merely a useful title providing an introduction to what I am about to say.
(Pause for a triviality concerning the word "actually". Before the adjoining towns of Brighton and Hove were merged into one - known by the very unoriginal name of Brighton & Hove, which doesn't exactly slip off the tongue very easily - people who lived in Hove, the smaller and lesser-known of the two towns, would often say, when asked where they lived, "Brighton. Well, Hove, actually". Hove therefore became known not as plain Hove but as the double-barrelled Hove-Actually.)
But to get back to reality. I have been glancing, as one does from time to time when one has an idle moment or three or when one is vain enough to do so, at the statistics so kindly provided by Blogger. I don't place a great deal of faith in the absolute accuracy of those statistics, which quite often seem to differ from the stats provided by Flag Counter (and Flag Counter does provide those pretty little graphics in my side bar). All the same, according to Blogger, my post with the most views is the one from nearly two years ago, St David's Day. This post has received over seven times as many visits as the next most popular. I was left puzzling when I discovered this fact until I looked at the statistics page showing traffic sources. This revealed that many of the visitors to the St David's Day post had searched for pictures of daffodils - and my post had one. So all those people didn't really want to read my purple prose about the patron saint of Wales - they just wanted a picture of daffodils! Put me in my place good and proper.
And like others, I'm puzzled by the traffic coming from a weird Russian site.
(Pause for a triviality concerning the word "actually". Before the adjoining towns of Brighton and Hove were merged into one - known by the very unoriginal name of Brighton & Hove, which doesn't exactly slip off the tongue very easily - people who lived in Hove, the smaller and lesser-known of the two towns, would often say, when asked where they lived, "Brighton. Well, Hove, actually". Hove therefore became known not as plain Hove but as the double-barrelled Hove-Actually.)
But to get back to reality. I have been glancing, as one does from time to time when one has an idle moment or three or when one is vain enough to do so, at the statistics so kindly provided by Blogger. I don't place a great deal of faith in the absolute accuracy of those statistics, which quite often seem to differ from the stats provided by Flag Counter (and Flag Counter does provide those pretty little graphics in my side bar). All the same, according to Blogger, my post with the most views is the one from nearly two years ago, St David's Day. This post has received over seven times as many visits as the next most popular. I was left puzzling when I discovered this fact until I looked at the statistics page showing traffic sources. This revealed that many of the visitors to the St David's Day post had searched for pictures of daffodils - and my post had one. So all those people didn't really want to read my purple prose about the patron saint of Wales - they just wanted a picture of daffodils! Put me in my place good and proper.
And like others, I'm puzzled by the traffic coming from a weird Russian site.
Sunday, 8 January 2012
I probably shouldn't write this
But I'm going to do so anyway. It is possible that what I am about to write will cause offence in some quarters or to some people. I don't see why it should, but these days it seems ridiculously easy for people to take offence just because somebody disagrees with their religious views or convictions and says what they think. That is what I am about to do. If my words cause offence, I apologise. No offence is intended and I fully respect your right to hold views different from mine and to express your opinions both verbally and in written form.
I will start with a hypothetical situation. There is a very old building in town, possibly dating from Tudor times, a building which you admire greatly, a building you would wish to see preserved. Unfortunately, this building is owned and occupied by a right wing political organisation, a very right wing organisation. So far to the right that its policies are repugnant to you and most other people. This organisation doesn't have the funds to maintain the old building which is falling into disrepair. An appeal is made for funds to effect essential repairs to the building. You would be happy to contribute towards the cost of those repairs but are not happy that some of any money you donate might be used for political purposes and, in any case, you have no wish to provide this repugnant organisation with a headquarters building. What do you do? Do you make a donation so that the building can be preserved, hoping that it will become the property of somebody else or a different organisation in the near future? Or do you accept the risk of the building falling down because you don't want to risk giving a penny to that political party?
There is, of course, no wrong answer to those questions, just as there is no right one either. Nor is there a right or a wrong answer to the particular problem with which I have been wrestling over the past few days. All the same, I will be interested to hear what my readers have to say about it.
My family moved to Hove almost 55 years ago and almost immediately started worshipping at St Helen's church in Hangleton. This is the oldest building in the city of Brighton & Hove, parts of it being more than 900 years old. It is a beautiful example of an old church which, thankfully, escaped restoration in Victorian times. But the congregation is too small to be able to maintain the building and the diocese can no longer contribute towards the shortfall of some £600 a week. The church is faced with closure unless more money can be found.
My parents attended St Helen's until the end of their lives and my mother's ashes are buried in the churchyard. I am loathe to see the church closed. But I became aware that St Helen's, like so many other C of E churches, was lurching to the right and becoming more and more Roman. the 'Hail, Mary' was a feature of Sunday services and pilgrimages were organised to Walsingham. This is where my problem arises - and where I may cause offence. I do not hold with the Roman Catholic version of Christianity and would not want to contribute towards the salary of the clergy at the church because of the Catholic leanings. Any contribution I would make would be intended solely for the upkeep of the church building. But that is not possible as any donation would go into the general fund of the parish.
Another factor in the problem is that the church is a listed building, Grade II*. This, presumably, means that the owner is obliged to maintain it in status quo, so there is no danger of it being left to rot. But what if the owner can't afford to maintain the building?
I think I will probably end up by making a regular contribution just to ensure the church stays open. It is a beautiful building as you can see from these photographs.
I will start with a hypothetical situation. There is a very old building in town, possibly dating from Tudor times, a building which you admire greatly, a building you would wish to see preserved. Unfortunately, this building is owned and occupied by a right wing political organisation, a very right wing organisation. So far to the right that its policies are repugnant to you and most other people. This organisation doesn't have the funds to maintain the old building which is falling into disrepair. An appeal is made for funds to effect essential repairs to the building. You would be happy to contribute towards the cost of those repairs but are not happy that some of any money you donate might be used for political purposes and, in any case, you have no wish to provide this repugnant organisation with a headquarters building. What do you do? Do you make a donation so that the building can be preserved, hoping that it will become the property of somebody else or a different organisation in the near future? Or do you accept the risk of the building falling down because you don't want to risk giving a penny to that political party?
There is, of course, no wrong answer to those questions, just as there is no right one either. Nor is there a right or a wrong answer to the particular problem with which I have been wrestling over the past few days. All the same, I will be interested to hear what my readers have to say about it.
My family moved to Hove almost 55 years ago and almost immediately started worshipping at St Helen's church in Hangleton. This is the oldest building in the city of Brighton & Hove, parts of it being more than 900 years old. It is a beautiful example of an old church which, thankfully, escaped restoration in Victorian times. But the congregation is too small to be able to maintain the building and the diocese can no longer contribute towards the shortfall of some £600 a week. The church is faced with closure unless more money can be found.
My parents attended St Helen's until the end of their lives and my mother's ashes are buried in the churchyard. I am loathe to see the church closed. But I became aware that St Helen's, like so many other C of E churches, was lurching to the right and becoming more and more Roman. the 'Hail, Mary' was a feature of Sunday services and pilgrimages were organised to Walsingham. This is where my problem arises - and where I may cause offence. I do not hold with the Roman Catholic version of Christianity and would not want to contribute towards the salary of the clergy at the church because of the Catholic leanings. Any contribution I would make would be intended solely for the upkeep of the church building. But that is not possible as any donation would go into the general fund of the parish.
Another factor in the problem is that the church is a listed building, Grade II*. This, presumably, means that the owner is obliged to maintain it in status quo, so there is no danger of it being left to rot. But what if the owner can't afford to maintain the building?
I think I will probably end up by making a regular contribution just to ensure the church stays open. It is a beautiful building as you can see from these photographs.
Saturday, 7 January 2012
The Travel List Challenge
I have registered on Facebook although quite honestly I can't think why. I suppose it is of some slight interest to see what other people I know are up to, but frankly so many of them seem to post pointless things like,"On the train - at last" that I really start to worry about their sanity.
The apps are things that I usually steer clear of. Things like Farmville (is that right?) bother me as I worry that they could lead to somebody stealing (or maybe just borrowing) my identity. Yes, I know - I'm being a boring old worryguts and there really is nothing to get all worked up about.
Having said that, I recently took the Travel List Challenge. Have you seen it? The hook is that you are told the originators think that most people will have visited no more than 9 of the places on a list of 100 before they die. (I don't suppose they will get to visit many more after they die. . . ) So I was quite chuffed to discover that I had visited no fewer than 23 of the places. Then I saw that the average is actually 22, so that statement about people visiting no more than 9 is a tad misleading. Still and all, my 23 was just a few more than most people I know so I must be quite well-travelled. Don't suppose I will get the chance to cross off many more of those 100 places, though. Indeed, I don't actually want to visit several of them anyway.
The apps are things that I usually steer clear of. Things like Farmville (is that right?) bother me as I worry that they could lead to somebody stealing (or maybe just borrowing) my identity. Yes, I know - I'm being a boring old worryguts and there really is nothing to get all worked up about.
Having said that, I recently took the Travel List Challenge. Have you seen it? The hook is that you are told the originators think that most people will have visited no more than 9 of the places on a list of 100 before they die. (I don't suppose they will get to visit many more after they die. . . ) So I was quite chuffed to discover that I had visited no fewer than 23 of the places. Then I saw that the average is actually 22, so that statement about people visiting no more than 9 is a tad misleading. Still and all, my 23 was just a few more than most people I know so I must be quite well-travelled. Don't suppose I will get the chance to cross off many more of those 100 places, though. Indeed, I don't actually want to visit several of them anyway.
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