Pigeons can wait

I was planning on commenting about the wood-pigeons, but that will have to wait. The Duke of Edinburgh takes priority.

To look at the newspaper coverage this morning, you might think he had died. Honestly, seven pages - and those the first seven pages - of my daily fish wrap were devoted to his retirement, announced yesterday. And he deserves it. Retirement, that is. After all, he is 95 - 96 next month.

I think he's a great guy. Some people say they don't like him, he upsets some people occasionally with slightly off-the-mark (non PC) comments, but I think he's a real life WYSIWYG. It was a good few years ago that, for some reason long forgotten, I drew up a list of the 6 or 7 people I would like to get together for dinner. Philip was top of my list.

The one and only time I was featured in the society gossip column of a national Sunday paper was because of him. I spent the last diddely-dum years of my career in the newspaper industry and somehow found my way onto the board of the employers' body. It was because of this that I received an invitation to a reception at Windsor Castle. I was standing near the door of one room, chatting to three or four others I knew, when the Duke entered and tripped over the carpet. A couple of days later, I received a phone call from said Sunday paper.

"Where you at the reception at Windsor on Tuesday?"

I confirmed that I had been.

"Did the Duke of Edinburgh speak to you?"

Again, I replied in the affirmative.

"What did he say?"

I told the questioner, thinking that this would be of no interest whatsoever to anybody. It was very much to my surprise to see my name in print the following Sunday, with the conversation quote.

"Do you know how old this carpet is?" asked the Duke.

"No, sir."

"It was made a hundred and fifty years ago in an Indian prison."

Now, tell me: is there really anything remotely interesting to the average newspaper reader in that innocuous conversation?

May Day gone

A rather dreary bank holiday weatherwise. But this afternoon I was delighted to smell the cow parsley for the first time this year. A distinctive smell, and perhaps not to everyone's taste, but I like it.

Cow parsley against a setting sun

It's also good to see the apple blossom - including the crab apple which I shall be harvesting later!

Update 2

I would usually be a far from happy bunny to hear the phone ring at a quarter past eight on a Sunday morning. Today, however, was different, although I was a little apprehensive as I picked up the receiver.

It was slightly lucky that I was even up to answer the phone. With Fern being in "hospital", I had considered taking the opportunity to have a lie-in, especially as for some reason I felt particularly groggy this morning. But good sense prevailed. I guessed that the vet would be making his round of the patients at about eight o'clock and Fern had been the only dog expected overnight so the phone call would be fairly early.

It was good news. Fern was apparently bright and eating well. I could collect her when I was ready.

Update

The vet diagnosed either vestibular syndrome or a stroke. She gave Fern two injections, an anti-inflammatory drug and an anti-nausea drug - and wanted to see her again this morning. Although the same vet did see Fern briefly, the consultation was with another, who agreed with the diagnosis and recommended support care over the weekend. So Fern is now in hospital (at another vet surgery) on an IV drip. They will possibly repeat the anti-nausea injection and try to tempt her to eat something; a little chicken, maybe.

All the makings of an expensive weekend.

Meanwhile, I have finished the redesign of the Friends of Withdean Park website, here.

The best of intentions

The best of intentions, just like the best laid schemes of mice and men, gang aft agley. And they have certainly ganged agley this week! I was going to explain how I spent Sunday - half the morning and pretty much all the afternoon - reconnecting the cables in a double power socket. I had started full of confidence that the job would take 20 minutes or so.

That was Sunday gone.

The next day, Monday, I was pretty well screwed up as a result of Sunday's efforts.

Tuesday saw me determined to put to bed the May issue of the newsletter I produce for Brighton Lions Club. I had been dithering over it for days and I knew I really had to get it finished. (If you are not on the distribution list or seem to have dropped off it, you can read a copy here.)

I had more fun and games on Wednesday. For some peculiar reason, the folks at Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs decided that Brighton Lions Club Charity Trust Fund should complete an income tax return for the 2016-17 tax year. But the letter asking for the return was sent to the previous treasurer instead of to me. This letter indicated that the return should (ideally) be submitted online through the HMRC website. But although I had all the access details for the website - user name, password etc - I wasn't allowed access to the part where tax returns are submitted. I eventually acquired the necessary authority, only to find that I would have to buy special commercial software to complete the tax return! "Bugger that!" i thought, and downloaded a hard copy. It was no great hassle to fill in, but when I came to address an envelope I realised that the address to send it to wasn't actually quoted anywhere, although there was a post code (that's a zip code in the States). But the Royal Mail told me that that post code doesn't exist! I sent the return there anyway.

Yesterday I decided that the website I run for the local Friends of Withdean Park needed a rethink, especially so that there is a mobile-friendly design. So I wasted spent much of the day fiddling. I will get there!

This morning, I took the Old Bat to the MS Treatment Centre for her weekly overdose of oxygen and on the way home I was following a bus when I had a brainwave. Bus tickets can be bought online and displayed on a mobile phone. Surely Brighton Lions should be able to do that with tickets for our fireworks display? It would reduce work and cost in sending tickets out by post - so now I have something else to get my teeth into.

Oh, and the dog is unwell. She became unwell 48 hours ago, quite suddenly, it seemed. On our way back from the park she was walking extremely slowly, and staggering every now and then. She wanted no supper (she must have been feeling terrible!) but seem gradually to improve. Yesterday, she had breakfast and seemed better still. But this morning she has been staggering badly once again so I have an emergency appointment with the vet late this afternoon.

Just saying . . .

While walking down the street one day a Member of Parliament suffers a heart attack and dies.

His soul arrives in heaven and is met by St. Peter at the entrance.

'Welcome to heaven,' says St. Peter. 'Before you settle in, it seems there is a problem. We seldom see a high official around these parts, you see, so we're not sure what to do with you.'

'No problem, just let me in,' says the man.

'Well, I'd like to, but I have orders from higher up. What we'll do is have you spend one day in hell and one in heaven. Then you can choose where to spend eternity.'

'Really, I've made up my mind. I want to be in heaven,' says the MP.

'I'm sorry, but we have our rules.'

And with that, St. Peter escorts him to the elevator and he goes down, down, down to hell. The doors open and he finds himself in the middle of a green golf course. In the distance is a clubhouse and standing in front of it are all his friends and other politicians who had worked with him.

Everyone is very happy and in evening dress. They run to greet him, shake his hand, and reminisce about the good times they had while getting rich at the expense of the people.

They play a friendly game of golf and then dine on lobster, caviar and champagne.

Also present is the devil, who really is a very friendly & nice guy who has a good time dancing and telling jokes. They are having such a good time that before he realizes it, it is time to go.

Everyone gives him a hearty farewell and waves while the elevator rises....

The elevator goes up, up, up and the door reopens on heaven where St. Peter is waiting for him.

'Now it's time to visit heaven.'

So, 24 hours pass with the MP joining a group of contented souls moving from cloud to cloud, playing the harp and singing. They have a good time and, before he realizes it, the 24 hours have gone by and St. Peter returns.

'Well, then, you've spent a day in hell and another in heaven. Now choose your eternity.'

The MP reflects for a minute, then he answers: 'Well, I would never have said it before, I mean heaven has been delightful, but I think I would be better off in hell.'

So St. Peter escorts him to the elevator and he goes down, down, down to hell.

Now the doors of the elevator open and he's in the middle of a barren land covered with waste and garbage.

He sees all his friends, dressed in rags, picking up the trash and putting it in black bags as more trash falls from above.

The devil comes over to him and puts his arm around his shoulder. ' I don't understand,' stammers the MP. 'Yesterday I was here and there was a golf course and clubhouse, and we ate lobster and caviar, drank champagne, and danced and had a great time. Now there's just a wasteland full of garbage and my friends look miserable. What happened? '

The devil looks at him, smiles and says, ' Yesterday we were campaigning.. ....

Today you voted.'

Here we go again.

By George

Or even bye bye, George.

Yesterday, in case it slipped your notice, was St George's Day. I had intended doing a piece about the four patron saints of the British isles - George for England, Patrick for Ireland, David for Wales and Andrew for Scotland - with the emphasis, as is only right, on St George. After all, it was his special day, and he is the patron saint of my country. That post didn't come to fruition for two reasons:

1. Mike, he of a Bit about Britain, covered it so much better than I would have done, right HERE.
2. A little DIY job, one I had expected to take me about half an hour, actually took most of the day. Maybe I'll tell you about it when I have recovered.

It just happened that the job I was so unsuccessfully trying to complete required more digital dexterity that cerebral so I was able to ruminate gently about George and patron saints generally. What, I wondered, is a patron saint actually for? What is one supposed to do? I have never seen a job description, nor have I ever seen the position advertised so it all seems a little nebulous.

And who chooses the patron saint of a country anyway? 

Well, I've actually found the answer to that question. An answer, anyway. here is what can be found on the historic-uk.com website:

The original patron saint of England was St Edmund, but his influence began to wane when Richard the Lionheart adopted St George as the protector of his army whilst on crusade. Edmund was finally replaced when King Edward III formed the Order of the Garter in St. George's name in 1350 and made him the Patron Saint of England. The cult of the Saint was further advanced by King Henry V at the battle of Agincourt in northern France.

So now you know.