Nothing to say

"I'm worried about Jim."  Eons ago, in the days of steam radio, there was a programme called Mrs Dale's Diary.  I don't remember now if this was broadcast daily or weekly - I never listened to it - but it was essentially the day-to-day story of her life told by a doctor's wife.  The doctor was Jim and Mrs Dale seemed to be worried about him in every episode that I accidentally caught the sound of.

I'm not worried about Jim, or Tom, or Dick, or Harry, but I am worried about me.  I couldn't say without checking how long I have been pecking away at the keyboard to post on this blog; it might be three years, it might be four.  But in all those months I cannot recall there being a single day on which I have failed to post something.  Actually, that statement is not true as there have been days when I have had no access to a computer , although on quite a number of occasions when I have been away from home I have had something in the pipeline and scheduled to be uploaded in my absence.

All the same, there have, I contend, been no days when I have had access to a computer on which I have failed to post something.  I always have something to say.  Except for today - and that's what worries me.

It wasn't always like this.  My garrulousness, I mean.  As a teenager I was painfully shy and self-conscious.  It was Scouts that changed me.  When we moved to Hove I was 15 years of age.  My brother, who is younger than me, and I were both involved in the Scouts and we joined the troop at our local church, bringing the numbers up to five!  (The troop had not been going very long.)  Within three years or so the numbers had risen to over 40.  I had stayed on with the troop and had morphed into a leader, an Assistant Scout Master as they were called in those far off days.  It so happened that the two "adult" leaders left us, leaving me to run the troop.  I was actually too young to run the troop officially, but needs must.  This meant that I had to speak to parents, sometimes en bloc, and as a result, I lost most of my shyness.  Nowadays I have no qualms about speaking in front of an audience of several hundred - but I still have no small talk for cocktail parties and receptions.

Given that I had nothing to say at the start of this, I shudder to think what might happen when I do have something to say!

~~~~~

Another picture taken at the Devil's Dyke.  In this one we are looking down from the hills at the village of Poynings.

It was nice while it lasted

We have had another brief - very brief - burst of summer.  Yesterday was the day for the monthly Scouting connections lunch, which was held at the Devil's Dyke pub.  This is indeed situated slap bang at the top of the Devil's Dyke, a popular scenic spot on the South Downs.  (I posted the legend of the Dyke, complete with photograph, here.)  The Dyke is the property of the National Trust and there is a £2 charge for parking.  As far as I could tell, there was no let off for blue badge holders so I duly inserted my cash in the ticket machine and displayed the ticket while we had lunch.

Quite surprisingly, there seemed to be little wind right up there on top of the Downs and it was pleasantly sunny and warm.  So much so that I decided to go back in the afternoon to walk Fern.  The car park ticket was valid all day so I had no need to pay again.  That was the first time this year I have walked the dog wearing a short-sleeved shirt with neither jumper nor jacket.  By tea-time the wind had risen and it was a lot less pleasant, but this morning it was again sunny and warm - and almost windless.  Again I walked the dog in shirt-sleeves but as I left the park I could see that a sea fret was coming up.

Oh well, summer was nice while it lasted.

This is the view looking west from near the pub.

There's always something

One of my boasts about my adopted home town is that there is always something happening; carnivals, festivals, London to Brighton something or other (yesterday was the L to B cycle ride with 28,000 cyclists descending on the city), hen or stag parties, party political conferences - indeed, conferences and conventions of all sorts.  But I have only just learned of one convention that has been held annually in the city for some few years now.

For the past 200 years or so, Brighton has had something of a reputation, a reputation for being all sorts of things: edgy, kinky, rough.  The phrase "dirty weekend"  has become almost synonymous with "Brighton".  Somehow things like kiss-me-quick hats seem to have passed the town by - they are more Blackpool or Southend than Brighton - although we do have our share of seedy guest houses.  And the mix of clothing styles never ever causes raised eyebrows.  An elderly man dressed as a pirate, complete with parrot on his shoulder, riding a skateboard through the town centre is considered an every-day type of thing and nobody bats an eyelid.  But I had never suspected something like this.

I have never had a yen to cover myself in body art.  Not for me an anchor on my forearm or "Mum" entwined in roses on my bicep, far less a hunt in full cry down my back with the fox disappearing . . .  Well, you know where.

What I heard of is the annual Brighton Tattoo Convention.

And here's another:

I'm not sure which picture makes me shudder the more.  (Both of them have been borrowed.)

What the . . . ?

"If you are unable to read this letter . . ."

Yes, it really did say that in an official letter received this week.  I stopped reading at that point as I pondered how anybody who was unable to read the letter could possibly understand those few words.  But the sentence continued.

"If you are unable to read this letter or the accompanying booklet because English is not your first language, ask somebody who can speak English to call [a phone number] for more information."

The letter went on to repeat that sentence in Albanian, Arabic, Bengali, Chinese, Farsi, Gujarati, Hindi, Polish, Portuguese, Punjabi, Somali, Turkish and Urdu.

Now, don't misunderstand me, I have nothing whatsoever against people who speak those languages - in principle, anyway.  And I fully accept that ours is a multi-cultural community.  But what sticks in my craw is the fact that people come to live here without bothering to learn even the basics of English and expect national and local government and their agencies to provide letters and booklets in the language of the immigrant's home country.  And interpreters for interviews and court appearances.

And all this at our expense!

I'm pretty sure it wouldn't happen in most other countries.  Certainly, French authorities expect me to understand letters and official documents written in French and offer no translation facilities.  I strongly suspect the same applies in Spain, where there are plenty of British ex-pats - and Madeira, which is Portuguese.


~~~~~

At this time of the year I am always delighted to see the cow parsley.  If there is enough of it, I can sometimes catch a whiff of its rather nutty scent.

Remiss of me

I really should have provided some sort of explanation in my earlier post when I mentioned Trooping the Colour.  Trooping the Colour is a ceremony performed by regiments of the British and Commonwealth armies. It has been a tradition of British infantry regiments since the 17th century, although the roots go back much earlier. On battlefields, a regiment's colours, or flags, were used as rallying points. Consequently, regiments would have their ensigns slowly march with their colours between the soldiers' ranks to enable soldiers to recognise their regiments' colours.

Sic transit gloria

Emily, my 6 year old granddaughter, asked me this week why I have hairy nostrils.  She went on to inform me she could see my head through my hair.

The Old Bat laughed uproariously.

"There is nothing so agonizing to the fine skin of vanity as the application of a rough truth."

Edward G. Bulwer-Lytton

~~~~~

Today is the official birthday of Her Majesty the Queen.  This will be marked by the ceremony of Trooping the Colour which will take place on Horse Guards Parade, London.  In honour of the occasion, here is a clip of last year's ceremony.

A literary contradiction?

I read mainly novels, possibly as a form of escapism.  Authors whose works I enjoy include Thomas Hardy and Charles Dickens, but only if I'm in the mood.  Most of the books I read are classified as 'crime', such as the Roy Grace novels of local author Peter James or Elizabeth George's Inspector Lynley, or 'adventure', which would include books by Frederick Forsyth, Douglas Reeman and Alexander Kent.  I used to enjoy Wilbur Smith's books but his latest works seem to include sex and violence scenes that are just that little bit too graphic for my taste.  Another of my favourite authors was Morris West, but I think he died a few years ago and his books are no longer on the shelf at my local library.

As a young man, by which I mean when I was in my late teens and early twenties, Dennis Wheatley was either top of my list of authors or very nearly so.  Nowadays I find his occult novels so unbelievable that I can't be bothered with them.  That's what I think is very likely to be the case with the book I am reading at present.  I discovered a new author a few weeks ago, Simon Leather, and I enjoyed the book of his that I read.  Perhaps 'enjoyed' is a little strong, but I was quite happy to borrow another of his books from the library.  What I failed to notice is that it is described on the front cover as 'a supernatural thriller'.  The first few chapters seemed OK but now that I am half-way through the book, the supernatural is beginning to appear on the pages.  I'm not at all sure I shall bother to finish this one.

And that's where the contradiction comes in.  I can't get on with science fiction or the supernatural (and that includes Harry Potter) and yet I so enjoyed the Lord of the Rings trilogy that I have read it several times, the last reading being fairly recent.

I suppose I am just a confused muddle of a person.

~~~~~

Another summer picture from the south of France.  This is the village of Seillans.