My entrance music

It started with Suldog and spread through Skip.  Both have posted clips of the music they would like to be played whenever they enter a room.  Now it's my turn.

This actually was my entrance music long, long ago.   At the time I was a member of a darts team and when we entered a room to take part in a competition, we whistled part of the Grand March from Aida, by Guiseppe Verdi.  I have watched and listened to several clips on YouTube and this is the one I like best, "our" bit starting at the 3:39 mark.

What if . . . ?

There are times when I subject myself to . . . enjoy . . .  endure . . . undertake a bout of navel gazing.  Such bouts are few and far between, and neither do they last very long when they do occur.  All the same, there are times when I ask myself, "What if . . .?"

It seems to me that there have been two occasions in my life when momentous decisions have been made without any real thought for what might lie in the future.  If either one of those decisions had been made the other way, if the coin had come down tails instead of heads (and it seems to me now that those decisions might as well have been made by tossing a coin), the effect on my life would have been . . .  Well, I'm not sure that there is a word to describe just how enormous the effect would have been.

The first of those decisions was not really mine to make, but nevertheless both I and my brother had a voice.  It was when my father retired after 22 years serving in the Royal Navy, getting on now for 60 years ago.  Certainly more than 50.  Dad applied to join, and was accepted into, the Civil Service, specifically the District Audit team, although which branch of the Service that might be in is something I have never known.  But that is by the bye.  Quite how it came about that he was offered a choice of three postings is something else I have never quite got to grips with.  (Yes, I know.  That sentence should end, "with which I have got to grips" but that sounds very formal, almost stilted.)  But he was.  Perhaps my parents could not decide which to accept, but for whatever reason, Dad asked my brother and I - mere teenagers - which place we would prefer to live: Bath, Brighton or Truro.  We may very well have tossed a coin as neither of us knew anything about any of the three towns, except that Truro was way down in Cornwall, Bath was also a fair distance away in Somerset, while Brighton was within striking distance of Gillingham.  We were living in Gillingham in those days, as were my grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins and many others of my extended family.  So Brighton it was.

Whether or not the second decision would have been made if we had moved to Bath or Truro is obviously a matter of conjecture.  What cannot be gainsaid is that if that second decision had been made, and if the decision had been the same, it would have led to a completely different result.  It happened like this.

During my last year at school I had no idea at all what I might do with my life.  The only career path that held any interest for me was closed to me, or so I assumed.  Partly to postpone the day when I would have to make a decision, I applied to several universities.  It was only after I had left school that I received the results of my A level exams (not as good as I had hoped) and the universities advised me the results of my applications.  I had been turned down by each and every one of them.  At a loss as to where my future lay, I continued with my job stacking shelves in a supermarket.  Dad obviously talked the matter over with his boss, who suggested that as my arithmetic was good I should think about working in a bank.  I didn't then and still don't understand quite what arithmetic had to do with working in a bank, but I acquired recruitment packs from all of England's major banks.  My choice of which bank to apply to was based simply on my liking for the name of the bank and what I saw as the quality of the recruitment pack.

It was only because I was accepted by and worked for the bank of my choice that I met the girl who was to become my wife and with whom I have now lived happily (well, for the most part) for nigh on fifty years.  She worked for the same bank.

I do sometimes wonder what my life would have been like if Dad had chosen to work in Bath or Truro instead of Brighton, or if I had chosen a different bank to which to apply for a job.  And then I wonder, was it all pre-ordained anyway?

All the same, what if . . . ?

~~~~~

Time goes by so very fast and it seems hardly possible that it is nearly two years since we spent a holiday in the Auvergne region of France.  Here are a couple of pictures i took at St Madeleine's chapel just outside the town of Massiac.  As you can see, the chapel stands high on a rocky outcrop.

Given my fear of heights, it took quite a bit of nerve to get the next picture! 

Today is . . .

Or rather yesterday was . . .

Oak Apple Day.

Oak Apple Day - 29th May - was at one time an official holiday to commemorate the escape of the future King Charles after the Battle of Worcester in 1651.  After the battle, Charles hid in an oak tree and subsequently made his way to Brighton (or Brighthelmstone as it was then known) before fleeing to France.  The date is still celebrated in some parts of the country; indeed, it is also known as Founder's Day at the Royal Hospital in Chelsea - home of the Chelsea Pensioners - which was founded by Charles II after he had been restored to the throne.

In Sussex, the day was known as Pinch Bum Day.  People were expected to wear a sprig of oak leaves and if a child caught another without the sprig, he was entitled to pinch the other on the bum.

Today is my granddaughter's birthday - 6 going on, well, you know little girls?  Pity the weather is too bad for her to try out the kite we bought her.  But maybe she'll try reading The Magic Faraway Tree.

These foolish things . . .

. . . and maybe some other bits and pieces as well.

Despite what the weather girls had foretold, Monday remained dry and bright right through the afternoon and evening so the two stalls Brighton Lions had at the Hove carnival did pretty well.  In fact, they did very well taking just over £300 between them.  But on Monday evening, both Alexis (local) and Nina (national) told us that the forecast for Tuesday was for rain in the south-east.  Guess where I live?

[Nina is my cousin's daughter-in-law and is married to an army officer who has just been promoted to full colonel.  Well done, John!]

Sure enough, when I opened the bedroom curtains yesterday morning I had no need to shade my eyes from the strength of the sunlight.  It was raining.  It rained while I walked the dog in the park.  It was still raining as I left just before 9.00 to take my car to the garage.

And this is where those foolish things crop up.  I realise I'm not alone; we have - each and everyone of us - done foolish things at times.  Don't bother to deny it because I won't believe you if you try to tell me that you have never in your life committed a foolish deed.

It had seemed a good idea at the time.  I had an appointment with my rheumatologist at Hove Polyclinic at 10.30.  The car needed to be taken to a VW specialist in Hove.  Why not kill two birds with one throw of the dice?  Take the car to the garage, leaving myself about an hour and a quarter to walk the three miles or so to the Polyclinic.

(I've just checked: it's not three miles, it's just under two.)

The doctor is almost certain to be running late so if I reckon to leave the clinic between 11.15 and 11.30 I would be back at the garage at about 12.30.  That would give them time to check what is wrong with the parking brake and prepare me a quote for doing the work.  Simples! (as the meerkats say.)

(I wonder if I could get paid for giving them a mention?)

As I said, it seemed a good idea at the time.  But when I fixed the garage appointment I was unaware of the weather forecast.

So, it was raining yesterday when I woke up.  It rained as I walked the dog.  It was still raining when I left the car at the garage.   I got pretty wet getting to the clinic, even if I did cheat and catch a bus part of the way, which made me early for my appointment but I'd had the good sense to take a book with me. The doctor was not running late; in fact, I was out of the consulting room before the time of my appointment.  It was raining as I left the clinic with two hours before I was due to collect the car.  I hung around for 20 minutes to catch a bus part of the way back to the garage but still had to pop into bookshops and a library to kill time (and attempt to dry off).

And it had seemed such a good idea at the time!

~~~~~

I suppose this rain might be welcome to some people who want it for their gardens.  As far as I am concerned, it has at least washed some of the gulls' droppings off the car.  Where we live we are under the direct flight path of what seem like thousands of herring gulls and they all manage to hit my car.  Well, some of them do.

~~~~~

Monday afternoon.  Glorious weather so a walk round the Roman Camp was in order.  From the northern rampart I looked throug an arc of 180 degrees and counted no fewer than 14 fields sown with oil seed rape.  There must be a subsidy from the EU!  This was one of the fields, although the photo was taken from a different spot on a different day.

Seeking the Golden Calf

A few days ago I mentioned a book I had been given and promised that, when I came to the appropriate part, I would disclose the whereabouts of the Golden Calf buried on the South Downs.  I have now reached that part and hasten to fulfill my promise.  But I must confess, most of the following script has been shamelessly copied from another web site.

Dozing quietly on the soft underbelly of Britain is the county of West Sussex. There are some modern nondescript conurbations in the north west of the county on the London to Brighton spine that divides it from East Sussex, but the county town of this peaceful area is Chichester in the south west, a cathedral city of Roman origin that retains its function as a market town for the surrounding villages and farmland.

Travelling north from Chichester on the A286 towards Midhurst, the road soon rises gently into the foothills of the South Downs. After passing the small village of West Dean and the walls of West Dean College, you see sloping up from the road on the right an extraordinary collection of ancient buildings. This is the Downland Museum, a place where old buildings and their neighbours from around the county have been brought to live out their dotage among their peers. It is a meadow of peace, where buildings are restored and rebuilt, nurtured and repaired, and are then mercilessly exposed to public view. If time permits, and should you have any interest in how life was lived in the past, a diversionary visit to the museum is recommended. Although the mixing of periods is a little confusing, and there is little in the way of 'entertainment' - the museum is about the buildings and not the inhabitants - there is much here to make you think that life might be better if it were simpler. Immediately after the museum, turn right up a country lane, just as the main road turns left into the village of Singleton. In these villages, and increasingly so if you stay on the road to Midhurst, you will see many Sussex flint cottages, some with the mustard-coloured doors and windows that signify ownership by the polo-centred Cowdrey Estate.

The lane rises, with woodland and West Dean College walls to your right and mini-vistas of rolling Downs to your left. Quite soon you'll find yourself with a view of Goodwood Racecourse. Horse races are held here regularly, and have been since 1802. The most important meeting is at the end of July/early August, known as Glorious Goodwood, a title that could not be more apt on a bright sunny summer's day. If you catch such a day, with cotton wool clouds scudding in a blue sky, the sight of the green track with its spectacular grandstand and associated buildings, sat isolated and splendid atop the Downs, is one you will never forget.

On very few days of the year, the sky is the colour of the cornflowers that, along with red poppies, once peppered the wheat and barley fields in summertime... not so very many pre-weedkiller years ago. There is even a Cornflower Day held locally, celebrated during Chichester's annual fair in early July. Cornflowers are distributed among the people by the girls of the town clutching armfuls of them. Sadly, they are now imported, and probably cultivated.

As you come up the lane, with the racecourse spread out below on your left, you soon approach the main grandstand. Before you do so, on the right, there is a spectator's enclosure. Park in front of it and take a muddy track up through the woods on the far side. The track stays close to the enclosure fence and can be a little strenuous. Suddenly the beech woods end, and you see a steepish hill in front of you and the beginning of a spectacular view to your left.

The enclosure fence ends and you are left with a short upward trek. Ignore the views if you can, avoid the rabbit holes, and clamber up, down and up over the remains of the iron age ramparts that ring the top of the hill. Ahead you will see a small concrete pillar, erected by the Ordnance Survey as a mapping aid, marking the highest point. As you reach it, atop this hill, called 'The Trundle' for no discernible reason, allow yourself, at last, to take in the views. The coastal plain stretches out below you, a real-life map. To the south is Chichester, the cathedral spire an obvious landmark, and beyond it the inverted 'V' coastline, at the peak of which is Selsey Bill. Down to your left, in leafless winter, you might glimpse stately Goodwood House and the car racing circuit. Further east, in the distance, is a smudge that is Brighton. To the west, Portsmouth and the Isle of Wight are clearly visible on a bright day. Between Chichester and Portsmouth are the many inlets of Chichester, Langstone and Portsmouth Harbours, visited by Romans, Saxons and Vikings and protected from Napoleon only by the untested forts clearly visible in the Solent. Turning around to face north, you have the racecourse and the rolling South Downs, with the North Downs of Surrey rising in the distance. Now is the time to select a picnic site and unpack the hamper you have laboured to bring this far (you didn't forget the hamper, did you?). You are only some 677 feet high, but you feel well and truly on top of the world.

Somewhere among at least four prehistoric forts is supposed to be buried a Golden Calf, the calf that Aaron had made for the Israelites.  You might dig, but should you so much as catch a glimpse of gold, he will immediately move the treasure.  ('He' in Sussex refers to the Devil.)

This is England, and the weather is changeable. Up here you are very exposed and, facing south-west, there is nothing between you and the Caribbean save the often stormy Atlantic. Here there are hail showers in June, and biting winds in July. Here the clouds come down in spring and autumn to cover this once fortified and populated hill-top with fog. A night trip in such a fog might be blood-chillingly spooky, but also, even in gentle Sussex, dangerous.

A view of the Trundle:

Non-italicized words borrowed from a long forgotten page of the BBC web site, picture from English Heritage.

First - and last

I thought I had learned the hardest lesson of all; how to say no.  But it transpired that I had either not learned it or had a temporary lapse of memory as, just about a year ago, I agreed to act as zone secretary for a fellow Brighton Lion who was to become zone chairman.  Admittedly, the role of zone secretary is not exactly arduous, but I do particularly dislike taking the minutes of meetings.  I did it for 14 years in my job as company secretary, I did it for two consecutive years for Brighton Lions, and I have done it in the past as zone secretary.

I was more on the ball this year when Pete asked if I would continue in the role and I declined the privilege.  Gracefully, I hope.

Anyway, the last zone meeting of this Lions' year will be held next Monday so I have just one more set of minutes to take.  That's the last in the title.  Now for the first.

About four weeks before each zone meeting I have emailed the secretary of each club in the zone asking them to complete their club's report and send it to me a week before the meeting so I can collate them and send to everyone interested.  This time, for the first time this year, every secretary has sent in his/her report on time!

Allelujah!

Today is another Lions day.  Brighton Lions will have two stalls at the Hove Lions/Martlets Hospice carnival.  I just hope the weather stays as good as it was yesterday.  Meanwhile, I must hie me to Hove Park to help set up our stalls.  That will be all I do as I am still pacing myself and, if anything, did just a tad too much yesterday.

~~~~~

There is a town in Lancashire called Bury where the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals has a shop . . .

Smells and bells

Sunday morning.  As usual, somebody was cooking bacon as I came back from the park with the dog.  I do wish they wouldn't do that; it makes my mouth water!.  Mind you, I could always cook myself a proper breakfast, I suppose - if only I wasn't so idle.

There is just one problem I have with the smell of frying bacon.  Years ago, when I was working in London, I travelled every day on the tube.  My mainline train stopped at a station shared with the London Underground and all i had to do was walk over the footbridge to the next platform but one on my way to the office.  One day, somebody either fell or jumped off the platform and landed on the live rail.  It was several weeks - if not months - before I could face a bacon sandwich and even today the smell of frying bacon reminds me of that morning.

The phrase 'smells and bells' is commonly used in a slightly derogatory way by low church folk when they refer to services in high C of E or RC churches: incense and the ringing of a bell when the host is lifted up.  Of course, Sunday is the day most people associate with the ringing of church bells to remind people that the service is about to start.  Not that we hear the sound of bells very often nowadays.  In fact, I can't recall when I last heard a church bell here in England.  I do hear the bell of our village church in France most weeks that we are sur place - not that I have ever attended a service there.

Talking of bells, let me give you a little snippet of trivia.  I expect most people will either know this already or be completely uninterested, but what the heck.

Londoners are often referred to as Cockneys (although I have yet to learn why that should be - possibly a reference to cock sparrow) but true Cockneys must be born within the sound of Bow Bells.  Bow is a part of East London but people born there are not Cockneys even if they are born within the sound of the bells in the church at Bow.  No, Bow Bells are the bells of the church of St Mary at Bow, which is in Cheapside in the heart of the City of London.

As this post seems to be much about bells, here's a picture of a rather unusual church tower/spire in a village not very far from our in France - but I failed to make a note of which one and have forgotten it.  Sorry about the overhead power lines.