A British tradition.

The Queen - Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II - was born in 1926 - on 21st April. So her birthday was about six or seven weeks' ago.  And yet today, 10th June, is also her birthday. Her official birthday. You see, it's one of those odd things that we Brits do, allow our monarch to have two birthdays each year.

Although in fact that's not quite true.  If the sovereign is born in the summer months (and I don't know just what constitutes 'the summer months') he or she has just one birthday each year.

This business of having two birthdays goes back more than 250 years. Back in 1748, the King was George II.  He had been born in November and he decided that the weather at that time of the year would be too cold, and possibly too wet, for his birthday parade.  He had the idea of combining his birthday celebration with a military parade held in the spring each year.

And so it has been ever since.

That spring military parade is still held each year - it was held this morning - and it is known as Trooping the Colour. Each year, one of the regiments of the Household Brigade - the five Guards regiments, being the Coldstream, the Grenadier, the Irish, the Scots and the Welsh Guards - parades its colour - the flag - in front of the entire regiment. This was originally done so that the soldiers would recognise their colours when in battle.  These days it is purely a ceremonial affair which combines the trooping (parading) of the colours with a royal inspection.


Here is a clip of the BBC broadcast of this morning's parade:

Decision Day is getting closer - just 13 days to go.  I have spotted just one window poster so far, urging passers-by to Vote Remain!  Given the seriousness of this referendum, I am slightly surprised that there are not more posters in windows.  Whole streets seem to be plastered with them for weeks before a general election.  Not that the Old Bat or I have ever considered advertising our political affiliations in such a way.  Not that we really have any affiliations; we tend by nature to favour the right rather than the left but not in any fervent way.

I do wonder why people put those posters in their windows - or, in the case of Americans, use bumper stickers on their cars.  Do they really think that a poster saying, 'VOTE JONES' or some such is going to persuade anybody to change the habits of a lifetime and vote Tory instead of Labour?  In my view it simply advertises that a prat lives in that house.

What I do find quite interesting is that people - the hoi polloi rather than the politicians - are quite willing to tell others how they intend to vote in the referendum, and why they hold their views.  yesterday evening, the OB and I went to our local Italian with a friend.  The owner is Iranian, but it's still the best Italian restaurant for miles around.  Anyway, as we were preparing to leave, Ali asked us  which way we propose to vote.  All three of us are ardent Leavers and said so, whereupon the only other couple still in the restaurant exclaimed, "No!  Remain!"  There was no rancour; we all accepted that we simply had different opinions.  Ali then told us that he had posted his vote - to leave.

Apart from that couple last night, I have only heard two people express the view that we should remain in the EU, and Ali said that his customers - who represent pretty much all age ranges - are 60-40 for leaving.

Whichever way the vote goes, methinks we are in for some interesting times politically.

Fighting

It is far too convoluted a story to try to tell you what brought to mind the few playground fights I had as a schoolboy.  In fact, describing them as 'few' is really something of an exaggeration.  At least, I think it is.  I hope so.  There are only two that I can even vaguely remember - and I don't know what started either of them!  I think I was probably aged 9 on both occasions.

One fight was with (I don't think I can really say 'against') a boy called Roderick Dolling - but the one which was first brought to my mind was with my cousin David.  He, along with his brother Michael and sister Lizzie Dripping, were not just my cousins, they were my best friends.  Anyway, on that occasion David and i went at each other in the playground hammers and tongs until - I assume - either we got fed up with fighting or we were pulled apart by teaching staff.

That wasn't the only occasion on which David and I fought.

The next time was after he and his family had returned from Singapore where his father, a Naval officer, had been drafted with family accompaniment.  On his return, David - who was officially in the school year after me although only a few months younger - was put in the same class as me.  We would have been 12 coming up 13.

One of the masters at our school should never have been teaching.  He seemed to us to be about eleven pence in the shilling, half a sandwich short of a picnic.  I rather suspect now that he was a shell-shocked WWII veteran who returned to his pre-war occupation, but to us schoolboys he was an object of fun and we played him up mercilessly. 'Dinger' Bell, for that was his name, took us for PE. This largely consisted of us doing a form of aerobics in time to the tune of 'Greensleeves' played on the piano by Dinger.

But one day all this changed.

We were told to stand in parallel lines and taught various boxing exercises.  "On dancing feet, commence!" commanded Dinger.  "Exercise number one, lead!"

"Exercise number two, single punch!" and we all jabbed with the correct fist.

After a few weeks, Dinger deemed our performance of these and other exercises good enough for us to be equipped with boxing gloves.  Four benches were placed in a square to act as the ring and we were told to pair off.  David and I were of similar height and we happily agreed to fight each other.

"When we get in the ring," said David, "hit me as hard as you can."

I obliged by swiping hard - a haymaker, I believe it is called - but failed to make contact.  Indeed, I had no intention of making contact.  Nevertheless, David leaped out of the ring, crashed out of the hall/gym and dashed along the corridor - with me in furious pursuit.  We ran right round the school and back into the hall.  On regaining the ring, David fell flat on his back.

We never saw the boxing gloves again.

Mixed feelings

I had been dithering for a long time; should I buy a Kindle?  I know very few people who have bought one.  Or perhaps I should say there are only a few people I know who have bought one.  The general view among the owners seems to be favourable, but - like so many other people - I do like the look and feel of a 'proper' book.

Among the reasons for me to buy such a device are:

• I have read almost all the books that I fancy in our local libraries;
• I am too mean to buy real books;
• and even if I did, they would very soon overflow my limited storage;
• and in that case, I would be too mean to give them away.
• And I had already discovered that it is possible to download some books FREE, GRATIS and FOR NOTHING!

Well, that did it.  So I bought a kindly-gizmo thingy last weekend.  And yes, it seems fine - so far.  But I still like the feel of a 'proper' book!

The best laid plans

As the man said, hey gang aft a'gley.  And they have.  I had expected to have taken the dog to kennels this morning ready for our proposed trip to France.  But that has been postponed - the trip to France, I mean.

France, we were informed by our newspapers and television, is in lockdown.  Oil refineries are strike-bound and at least 40% of the country's petrol stations have run out or are short of supplies.  Other unions are now going on strike as well, the air traffic controllers having only just returned to work.

I had really thought that this was typical scare-mongering by our news media and that, having filled up on this side of the Channel, I would be able to drive down to our cottage, potter around in a limited way, and find enough fuel to return to Blighty.  To be on the safe side, I telephoned a local contact - only to be told that the situation is as dire as our press was making out!  So we will not be going.

I have amended all bookings such as the kennels and the tunnel to early July in the hope that things might have settled down by then.  That means that we are likely to run out of several things we usually buy in France, such as garlic, onions, coffee, orange juice, butter - and WINE!

It's ironic, really, that the strikes are being called because the workers object to proposals to tighten up the labour laws, making it easier for employers to hire and fire - by a socialist president!

63 years ago

It was raining 63 years ago, on 2nd June 1953.  And London was brought to a standstill.  Not by the rain.

It was Coronation Day.

That was the day when television came into its own in this country.  Many sets were sold or rented so that people could, for the first time in history, be virtually present at such an event.  A colour film was swiftly distributed to cinemas across the land so that those who had been unable to squeeze into a neighbour's house to watch the television could enjoy the spectacle.

There should be a law against it

Yesterday, the first day of the meteorological summer, I turned the heating on for an hour in the morning and wore a winter coat to walk the dog.  I think the temperature here in sunny Sussex might have peaked at about 12 or 13 degrees Celsius - but I understand that people in Glasgow - yes, Glasgow! - were sweltering under a scorching sun in a balmy 24 degrees.  What, I wonder, has Glasgow done to deserve such treatment?

Anyway, I decided to check back on the blog to the beginning of June last year.  And guess what?  This is what I posted on 2nd June 2015:

I walked the dog across the Downs in the afternoon, blown to kingdom come by the wind.  Most of the people I saw were wearing anoraks - and I almost wished I had dug out my gloves and scarf!  The car thermometer showed 11 degrees Celsius - low 50s Fahrenheit - and the wind chill factor would have reduced the "feel" by several degrees.

Plus ca change etc.