Age and Technology

 One man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages. So says Jaques in As You Like It.

 

He then goes on to enumerate them from infant to old age in rather less than flattering terms. And so  it is with modern technology, at least in my view. Infants from about the age of three can navigate touch screens almost by instinct, since they're too young to read, and can thoroughly mess up a tablet's or phone's settings, make calls and lose saved data as a result. Anyone who has tried to keep an infant amused on a journey by delegating the task to technology would be wise to "baby proof" the device first or forever hold their peace!

The 'Whinlng schoolboy' fares somewhat better, being able to read if not understand the apps on various devices. I'm sure that instinct still plays a part, though, as any seven year old seems able to whizz through various settings and interconnected devices as sure in their touch as a mountain goat in their footing. Some years ago a friend bought the latest VHS player/recorder (remember them?) and had difficulty installing it so that it worked correctly. He rang the shop for help and was surprised to be asked if he had children. My friend conceded that he had a seven year old. "Give it to him" said the shopkeeper, which my friend did. In no time, without consulting manual or adult, the boy had set up the player perfectly and it worked for many years.

The lover is next, so adept and familiar with new or even older technology that they may even have taken a course. Fleet of finger they dazzle onlookers with their sure touch, and humiliate them by the disdain shown to the uninitiated. When asked, they resort to jargon and acronyms to demonstrate their superiority in the subject. Hubris, I suppose, is part of character at a certain age and it finds a perfect outlet in the young technophile.

Shakespeare's fourth and fifth ages I may, for my purpose, combine. Our lover has matured into the IT consultant, the teacher, the professional computer shop worker or salesman. Day on endless day they grapple with their beloved technology, embracing new innovations and developments. Their hubris may have diminished a bit, but they now display impatience to those uninitiated in the finer points of technology lore. They remain, however, on top of their subject.

Eventually though the speed of change begins to leave our expert in its wake. Valiant efforts are made to stay abreast of new technology by absorbing the jargon. Detail is learned in secret away from the workplace so as not to lose face. Practice is exercised by actually reading instruction manuals and relating the learning to the new technology or applications to preserve an appearance of expertise.

Finally, as with all of us, technology outstrips the ability to learn or remember. This can be related to now clumsy fingers or failing mental recall. Memories of the halcyon days of youth abound and fascinate the grandchildren who regard the stories as from the Stone Age. And so generation succeeds generation, while our hero 's erstwhile expertise fades and he meets obscurity sans knowledge, sans expertise, sans everything.

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Fickle

Yesterday, in a downcast mood, I wrote a piece concerning the non-sale of my house. It was more of a moan than anything and certainly not of interest. Today, on re-reading I was thankful that my habit is always to sleep on a "decision" before implementing and the offending piece has been consigned to the bin.

But it got me thinking. I guess we all suffer (is that the right word? experience?) different moods at different times, and for different reasons. Some suffer what Winston Churchill called his " black dog" and what today may well be called bi-polar. Some suffer (definitely not the right word!) euphoric episodes, which must be just as debilitating, but most just get down in the mouth or a little depressed or just somewhere in between the extremes. Fed up is, I believe, the usual generic term.

I'm not about to offer medical explanations, for which I am spectacularly unqualified, nor am I going to try any analysis for which I am equally inept. However there must be some explanation for why one can awake fresh from a night's sleep and be in a 'bad mood'. Similarly, why can one awake the very next day feeling fit to conquer universes? Changes in mood during any given day are likely due to varying fortunes during the day, but what happens during a night's sleep to change a good mood on retiring to a bloody mood on awakening? Fickle is what it is, and bloody annoying,too!

And while on the subject of fickle, we seem to have acquired a cat. As a family we've had cats since the beginning of time, but on the death of our darling Portia (at 17) four years ago we decided not to have another, which would likely outlive us. Lots of our neighbours have cats, and we've got to know them. Also, and known to Portia, there was a semi-feral ginger job, Archie. He was peripatetic but seemed not to belong; always hungry, spiteful and aggressive.

                   Archie. Notourcat. Mid scratch

In November 2016 there were some very cold nights. We took pity and made a makeshift bed consisting of a cardboard box and blankets, in our garage. Then one exceptionally cold night we allowed him in the house. Need I say more? For the last year he has slept on the bed, and anywhere else of his choosing, come in at night, taken to the occasional drink of milk, and chased string across the floor. We're now able to stroke him, check for parasites, and touch him while he sleeps. When did our compassion become his right? Interestingly his eating habits have modified. He no longer eats everything on the plate, nor does he crave food everytime he comes in.

But, beware! When his ears go back, or he swiftly moves his head towards, he's going to bite. His paws are definitely a no-go zone. One's own feet are not safe either, at any time, as he's quite likely to attack ankles

We know his owner, who acquired a dog which caused Archie to leave home and she's relaxed about him living here. She will also allow us to adopt (he seems already to have done his bit) if we move as she says that now he never goes home she at least knows he's being cared for. Soon I'm going to have to stop referring to him on Twitter as #Notourcat.

Fickle is what he is, definitely!

When I Were a Lad

I've said elsewhere that I don't understand politics, but having lived through too many Parliaments I do have views on individual politicians (who doesn't?)

It seems to me that in days of yore our front bench politicians, and some backbenchers, were people of gravitas, or bottom as my father would say. Not only were they serious people concerned with the future of the country, but many of them were fine orators too. It's true that with our adversarial system of Parliament there have been myriad occasions when robust opposition has been mounted, but with the object of seriously debating the current issue of the day for the benefit of the country at large. I may be mistaken, but that is my impression.

Contrast and compare today's politicians, of all parties. Whilst many of them are serious and professional, most seem to be in the game for themselves. So long as they can have the letters MP after their names it seems to be a goal in itself. As for our current "Loyal Opposition" they present themselves as a bunch of playground bullies, finger pointing and name calling, and calling themselves politicians. Their idea of opposition is to yell at the government benches, and try to beat them at every division. That's not opposition, that is posturing. They are hell-bent on power for its own sake, but couched in terms so mendacious that one might almost be forgiven for thinking them serious people. And where are the orators? Speakers who can move nations and change history with the power of their words? To paraphrase Lord Halifax, let us mobilise the English language and send it into battle!

Alas we seem now to be in the age of talking, not speaking. The likes of Lloyd George, Churchill, Tony Benn and Enoch Powell with their galvanising oratory are long gone. One of the last may be Ken Clarke, but even his best harangues seem to have ceased. Now we have the likes of Mr Corbyn, Mrs May, and Sir Vince Cable. To call them lightweights is to overstate their abilities. Bring back the true heavyweight politicians like Nye Bevan, Harold Wilson, and Barbara Castle, politicians of serious public service intent, even if we can't digest their opinions. Parliament and by extension the country would benefit. As it now is we have no real Parliament, only a theatre of ego; look at me, look at me, look at me. 

MP's with serious intent and real ability are more often than not sidelined, ridiculed or called out of touch, and the Members given public prominence are the likes of Mhairi Black, and Jared O'Mara. The state and quality of the lawmakers of this land needs to change in attitude and personnel. Drain the swamp is a current slogan, let's start with our mediocre puppet Parliament, all of them, and really take back control of our Country.

Up Sticks

For some time the wife and I have been contemplating Anno Domni and it's inevitable deleterious effects. This has not been in a morbid way but a pragmatic approach to advancing years. We live at the top of a looong steeeep hill which neither of us manages to climb well, but 30 years ago when we moved in was somehow less steep and shorter. All of our small town's facilities are, of course, at the bottom!

Elsewhere in the town new developments are being built and we thought that it would be nice to have a brand new house, on the flat, within walking distance of shops, doctor, and of course the obligatory coffee shop. So last October we went to see a show house.

We were blown away. Facilities that didn't exist 30 years ago, like wifi are built in and en-suite bathrooms that we thought were a luxury come as standard. Double glazing, state-of-the-art insulation, central heating too all provided. Why have we not contemplated a move before now? We were in love!

Unfortunately the builders will not take a deposit until we have a firm offer on our property, which has been, and is, elusive. We keep in touch with the sales people and our preferred house is not yet built, but time is running out.

This week we have had three viewings. No feed-back yet but one seemed to take more than an hour, is that good or bad? We continue to de-clutter and to keep the place tidy. We have also redecorated the main living room and have new furniture so that it all looks very smart. There's also a great view. Someone must want it, please. Maybe a price adjustment, we're open to offers of a reasonable level.

No wonder it is said that moving house is stressful, almost as much as having children!

Three Card Trick

The small town where I live is administered by three separate councils. The Town Council looks after matters unique to the town, the BoroughCouncil looks after borough-wide concerns, and the County Council administers, inter alia, the roads network; except for trunk roads which come under the Highways Agency.

At about 2.30pm on Wednesday we lost our WiFi connection. It turned out that the guys digging holes in the road outside had severed the telephone cable. They assured me that their accident had been reported, and BT was on its way. Nothing happened for the rest of the day.

On Thursday I rang the Borough Council who referred me to the County Council who said it was down to SSE as the supplier of street lighting, as it was their contractors digging holes to replace street lamps. At least I now had a reference number, and the promise to pass on the complaint.

Since four houses were affected my neighbour decided to call BT directly. Eventually he was able to speak to someone, who knew nothing, but he insisted that the problem was inside the house! However he did agree to send an engineer, but not till tomorrow. Meantime I had a call from the County Council to say the problem would be addressed next week! Thursday was a day of frustration, many phone calls using mobiles, liaison between neighbours, and general commiserations. The situation was far from satisfactory as two neighbours run businesses from home and were thus losing trade and money, and another is a nonagenarian who has heavy dependency on the telephone for family communication. 

Friday. During breakfast SSE rang to say they hoped to solve the problem, to which they'd been alerted by the County Council, "early next week" and the Council rang to say they'd passed on the message! My neighbour rang to say that the BT engineer had arrived, appreciated that the fault was a severed cable (he had no idea four houses were affected) and he would report it as urgent. I got indigestion.

By the time I got home an engineer was busy in the road reconnecting cables. It transpired that the cable had been cut in two places and is at risk of being cut again when the lamp standard is eventually replaced. After several hours we were reconnected and peace, Internet activity, and neighbourhood well being was restored. It's sobering to realise how much we have all become not just reliant on modern technology, but how we all feel at sea if we're denied it. So all's well that ends well? Perhaps, but that lamp standard still has to be replaced...

I came across this draft from 2015, never published. Whilst the challenges have remained resolved I thought it a good illustration of how quickly modern life can disintegrate. Enjoy

In Defence of the NHS part 3

During pouring rain a day or two ago, my wife had a fall on wet ground and was in extreme pain. She managed to get into my car, which I was able to position very close to her, and I took her to A & E.

By the time we arrived the pain was acute and my wife was unable to walk or to use her right arm. I located a wheelchair. I gave surname and date of birth and the receptionist brought up all details instantly! Impressive. 

Within ten minutes we were seen by a nurse, and within another 10 minutes by a doctor. Pain relief was administered and we were despatched to X-Ray which revealed a broken ankle. The arm remained unusable but was not broken. Because of mobility difficulty my wife was admitted to the orthopaedic ward. 

We had to wait some time in A & E firstly for the therapists to assess mobility, and again for an available bed, but overall we were dealt with swiftly, courteously and professionally. We have no complaints.

By the way, this was on a day when the A & E departments across the UK (according to the mass media) were "in crisis" with unprecedented numbers attending. The staff performed superbly. God Bless'em! 

The above was written in 2015, but I thought I'd publish it now as the plaudits remain valid and the NHS is again facing criticism. Just one example of how good it really is.

The Ghost of Christmas Past

Besides being a Christian festival, and whether or not it was an usurped pagan festival date, Christmas in our modern world, to my mind, is for children. When my own children were small we tried to add to the wonder and magic that attends the festivities. Presents were hidden before the day, decorations transformed the house overnight on Christmas Eve, stocking were hung for Santa Claus and we did what we could for mutual fun and enjoyment. And of course there was the Christmas lunch. Prepared with care and a great deal of hard work, mainly by The Wife, the repast was enjoyed (sprouts and all) in mid afternoon. Games were played thereafter, charades, board games and others. Children grow, of course, and we had to adapt our traditions and practices accordingly involving the children in the preparations as their ages dictated, but trying always to create or maintain that sense of magic which attended our family Christmases.

As the children left home to begin their own traditional Christmases, our arrangements necessarily shrank but the ethos prevailed. Eventually our last child left home and our Christmas dynamic changed irrevocably. Two of the children, now adult, are still within visiting range and so we tried initially to perpetuate our traditions as far as possible, the late onset of the decorations, the after-dinner games and so on, but for various reasons it was not a success. This year we thought that major surgery was necessary; we decided to dine out for Christmas lunch.

The great day dawned with The Wife feeling at a loose end with no dinner to cook, but the family arriving for breakfast. After breakfast came the present exchanges and coffee with much delight and laughter and the time until needing to depart for lunch passed very pleasantly. The Wife doesn't drink so she volunteered to be the taxi driver and we arrived at our chosen venue in good time. The place was packed, unsurprisingly, many apparently just drinking.

From then on Christmas lunch turned into a very poor imitation of a pub lunch. From waiting 40 minutes beyond our booked time for a table, through inedible turkey and tired vegetables, to inadequate dessert portions the experience was lamentable. However, the company was exceptional, the conversation entertaining and there were laughs aplenty. In some unfathomable way the shared vississitudes served to unite our party to the extent that this Christmas was at least as enjoyable as the best of them, the ghost of Christmas past. 

We are considering a similar venture for 2015 but the venue and the details may change as there will be a new infant on the planet, and Christmas is for children first, isn't it?

Happy New Year!

Them and Us

I am a visitor. I like to visit historic monuments, stately homes, museums, gardens, parks, art galleries, and just about anything that allow the public access. Many of these places charge an entrance fee (sometimes quite a large one) and some do not. Many of them offer refreshment facilities and toilets, some do not. Some of them are clean and some are not. Many have information in the form of a guide book or leaflet, and some do not. What they all share is that they are public amenities, paid for and maintained on behalf of the public (I exclude the privately owned properties, although it could be argued that public revenue is helping them to remain part of our heritage). 

I am therefore dismayed, nay appalled, when I find that the public has abused their access by littering, scrawling graffiti, vandalising, and generally creating filth and mess. The attitude of 'it's someone else's job' or 'I've paid to come in, so it's ok'  is widespread and so some facilities decline first in appeal and then in popularity and finally in any worth. And it is the fault of not just the great British public, nor even of the great unwashed, but the authorities who have responsibility for these places. I'm aware that attendants, curators, wardens et al cost money which will inevitably come back on the consumer, but is our history, our heritage, our future in the shape of our children's  crounded education worth such ill consideration? It seems to work on Orkney.

Recently I holidayed in Orkney. For those who have not been you are missing something unique. In this day and age to experience complete and utter darkness and silence at night is to understand better the cacophony of modern life elsewhere. Frustrations abound for the townie such as the lack of the larger chains of shops, reliable internet access and patchy mobile phone coverage, but in exchange there is a surface serenity. Most Orcadians are self-employed, but there are jobs available for those who are prepared to work but they may not be in your preferred career. Working is the norm in Orkney and I saw no evidence of deprivation. Many appeared to travel to work by ferry onto a neighbouring island, or by driving from one end of Mainland to the other, but the attitude is friendly and pragmatic.

This brings me back to my theme. I am, as I said at the beginning, a visitor. On Orkney I visited many historic sites including St Magnus cathedral in Kirkwall, Skara Brae, and Maeshowe. I also walked some beaches and cliff tops. There were some small remote heritage sites such as the Earl's Bu and Kirk near Orphir, and all of them, ALL of them, were clean, graffiti free, open even if unmanned, and many of them were free to enter. What did it for me was the small remote site near Orphir. Signposted off the main Kirkwall to Stromness road down a narrow farm track, the site was open with clean (spotless) modern toilets, an automated audio/ visual presentation lasting about a quarter of an hour, a well-tended centre full of information in the form of pictograms, and deserted. In England I have no doubt that the toilets (if they existed) would be uncared for, the audio/ visual equipment would have been vandalised or stolen, and the information boards vandalised. 

So what is it about Them and Us? Is it that the English are naturally dismissive of other people? Or that the Scots, particularly here the Orcadians, are obsessively "house proud" ? Can two halves of the same island nation be so innately diametrically opposed to the same situation? I believe not. No doubt there are some Scots who are hooligan just as there are some English who are publicly "house proud". One has only to visit some Scottish towns and cities on the one hand, or some public-access sites like Chatsworth House or the New Forest on the other to see that it has little to do with geography. No. I believe that it has everything to do with education. Not formal education necessarily, but the wider sometimes street learned education to which we are all subject. Parents undoubtedly have a crucial role, and an attitude such as I witnessed some years ago when a litterer was confronted and replied "well I'd finished with it" (the offending article dropped in the street) can only have been home grown. 

Britain doesn't have to be dirty, defaced, litter-strewn and exhibiting appallingly selfish attitudes. I fear that many from other countries who come here to live must be appalled and perplexed by the generally dirty state of Britain, especially since many countries seem to be immaculate. The margins of motorways and other main roads are frequently littered with rubbish, plastic bags, take-away wrappers, and even dirty nappies. Why? Lots of these items must have been discarded from moving vehicles the occupants of which could easily retain the said items until home or reaching a proper litter bin. Lazy? Ignorant? I think it's probably a little of both. What do you think?

In Defence of the NHS, part 2

In an earlier post on this subject I praised the hospital staff for their care and consideration of me, and others, during a short stay. I also lamented the attitude which I experienced of some GP receptionist staff. Although the person about whom I complained was very rude and uncompromising, maybe there is a deeper concern, perhaps endemic, which could give rise to such an attitude.

Since hospital I need certain medical equipment to enable me to live a normal life. A specialist nurse advised me, and supplied an initial stock of the equipment, together with the details necessary for re-ordering. When the re-order was necessary my preferred supplier advised that the local GP reception had reduced the order by 75%, had refused to deal with them again, and made no arrangement to inform me! Once again, on enquiry I discovered that notwithstanding my changing need my GP surgery will deal with only one supplier and is dismissive of the others.

There are certain implications in all this. the most charitable is that their preference is for economic reasons. Since the surgery do not pay the supplier directly (the bills are paid by the NHS centrally) the economies, if any, have to be procedural. Dealing with only one supplier provides for less confusion among staff, fewer destinations for prescriptions etc., easier training and control and a stable system. They also may be better able to assist patients with queries about the supplier and to smooth the path to hitch-free supply.

Contrast this with an alternative scenario. How much disruption to the GP's system would the presence of a competitor supplier cause? True there would be the possibility of the wrong document being sent to the wrong supplier, but with electronic mail and the innovation of the Electronic Prescription Service (EPS) this is negated. A little more training of staff may be necessary, but only concerning document recognition. An alternative supplier may be cheaper for the NHS, surely a consideration, and if they are found unreliable in their dealing with patients or GPs they can always be replaced; is that the rub?

When I was in commerce one of  my responsibilities as a manager was to deliver value for money. Our agents (other companies) were always under review, and they knew what was expected of them. If my company were not receiving the revenue expected, or the service agreed, meetings were arranged to thrash out any difficulties (on either side) and if matters continued to be less than satisfactory the agent was replaced. Why should that not happen in the NHS? I have no evidence to suggest that it doesn't other than the aggressive stance taken by the surgery and their operation of an apparent monopoly.Do they serve the best interests of the patient who ultimately pay their salary, the GP who directly employs them and has a tight budget to run, and the NHS which constantly tries to fit quarts of expenditure into pint pots of income? I'd like to think so but it should be transparent - it is MY NHS after all.

Competition is healthy for any business so long as it is fair, it forces prices down and service levels up. If a company is found wanting in any area the competition will eventually eliminate the laggard or force it to change. Monopolies on the other hand are incestuous, inflated, anti-improvement, and generally loss-making. Without profit there can be no new investment, no expansion to attract more staff, and probably no development. The company stagnates, becoming out-dated and fossilised, benefiting no-one. So the employees suffer, the patients too and the GPs and ultimately the NHS. Sound familiar? And all for the want of diversity.

A great day out

As a member of an amateur operatic society in my youth I got used to dressing up and appearing in public, but there was always physical separation between them and me. To appear among the public, in costume and role playing would make me feel somewhat eccentric, but some do it on a regular basis. Today I visited Basing House, or at least the ruins of it, and witnessed for the first time something of a civil war re-enactment. There were Royalists in large hats with feathers and Parliamentarians in helmets and armour. Muskets cracked and a three-pounder cannon boomed. Orders, alien to modern ears, were rapped out and men with sixteen feet long pikes snapped to it. 

The site of Basing House is huge. The house used to be the size of Hampton Court Palace, in its prime, but was in fact two houses, the old (11th century) and the new (16th century) standing side by side. During the English civil war the owners of the house, Royalist supporters, together with their tenants and staff held out for three years against the Parliamentarian siege until eventually Oliver Cromwell arrived in person with six thousand troops and a very large gun. Holes were blasted in the walls, the postern gate was breached, and Cromwell's troops were in. Within forty five minutes the occupants were either dead or captured and the house was ablaze. Cromwell ordered its complete destruction.

The re-enactment does not seek to replicate the siege or its outcome, it is merely a flavour of the seventeenth century on the site of a historical event. What it does replicate is the costumes and weapons in as authentic appearance as possible. I cannot speak of the methods used to make them, but those materials used, wool, iron, wood etc are true to the age. Certainly the appearance is impressive, as is the knowledge of the event and the enthusiasm of the participants. The noise and smoke generated add to the atmosphere which is more than could be said for the younger children present who cried when the guns went off, but the afternoon was very pleasantly passed in the warm October sun.

Speaking to one or two of the participants it is clear that historical re-enactment is an absorbing hobby which takes many of them around the country. New recruits tend to be chosen as the early bodies, while the more experienced get to be musket men (a shotgun licence is necessary) or artillery men. There is an emphasis on safety, as you would expect, and the womenfolk also participate in the more craft related activities like lace-making or basket making. Cooking is also done in seventeenth century style (and we all got to take part in its consumption!), and there is a scribe and clerics. Truly something for all. 

Politics

  I do not understand politics, I have never understood politics, and I shall never understand politics. When the referendum on Scotland's future was being held someone on my Twitter timeline suggested that if Scotland voted 'yes', David Cameron should resign. I failed to understand this since the referendum was not his idea, and was not involving anyone not resident in Scotland. When I protested I was told that it is the honourable thing to do since dissolution of the Union would happen on his watch. 

No one, so far as I saw, suggested that Mr Salmond should resign if the vote was 'no'. In the event he did, but as the referendum was his idea and he is the First Minister of Scotland should not his resignation have been mooted in the event that he lost? This seems to me to be manifestly unfair.

One of the founding principles of UKIP was the UK leaving membership of the EU. Of course they were, and are, unable to make good on their principle, but the Tories, currently in government, have promised a national referendum in 2017 if returned to power. To me the natural course for UKIP would be to align themselves with this promise, thus being in with a chance of extricating Britain from the clutches of Brussels. Even without themselves having power after 2015 (the mountain is simply too high and too steep for them at this time) UKIP voters, by ensuring a Tory majority could achieve at least one of their fundamental aims. But no, UKIP leaders have decided to align themselves more with the left of British politics, where no national referendum is in prospect (indeed Mr Milliband has explicitly ruled it out) thus falling at the first fence!

To me this has the effect of weakening not just UKIP's argument on Europe, but by extension it must surely call into question every other "principle" for which they campaign. Added to this is their reversal, within 48 hours, of their proposal for a "luxury tax", and their public embracing of the Tory defector Mark Reckless. Mr Reckless apparently lied to his erstwhile Association Chairman only two days before defecting about being solidly Conservative and willing to campaign for them in the coming General Election. By openly welcoming Mr Reckless UKIP have, to me, lost any remaining credibility as a political party. They now appear as a shiftless bunch of egotistical opportunists who no longer know what they want, but are prepared to say anything, do anything and sacrifice completely integrity of their party, their leaders and their voters for the temporary glare of the limelight. 

But, as I say, I do not understand politics.

Family Ties

For the first time I more than a year my family gathered together for a celebration meal. Besides my daughter and two sons and their spouses there was the addition of a two year old, so we were eight at table. 

Number two son and his American wife volunteered to provide enchiladas, in our kitchen, and started work around 10 am. Using two slow cooking crock pots, and other mysterious gadgets chicken was prepared as was the sauce. Care had to be exercised to cater for dietary needs and personal tastes, so that finally three versions were provided. 

Salad was prepared also in two bowls to avoid a peppers contretemps. Beer was on hand for those who wanted it as was Coke, water, and just about anything else people might need. Abigail joined us at table, although she had eaten separately, and a convivial atmosphere ensued. Short work was made of the enchiladas, beer, salads et al and we sat and chatted for a while. Abigail entertained us with her two year old prattlings until her bedtime.

Number one son and his Norwegian wife (mainly her!) provided home-made ice cream, meringues, and strawberries in a sort of do-it-yourself Eton mess kit which, being delicious, was soon devoured! We then settled to a game or two of Cards Against Humanity. Hilarious, rude, irreverent and all round good fun the evening sped by.

It was a good evening. The Wife and I certainly enjoyed the experience and it was great to see the family together. The next opportunity will be at Easter 2015 so here's hoping that the experience can be repeated successfully then.

In Defence of the NHS

In nearly 72 years I have been incredibly lucky to never have been in hospital. Negative stories about the NHS are legion, but I have long suspected that those stories are about either unfortunate individuals on the receiving end of poor decisions or care; or about the leviathan bureaucracy that accompanies the institution. In mid July I had the opportunity to experience at first hand the UK's flagship institution, second only to the monarchy.

I had an appointment for an intimate procedure which would include at least one night's stay. All of the staff I encountered, from the off-duty nurse who directed me to the right area, to the Registrar who oversaw my procedure, were friendly, helpful, approachable and professional.

The ward to which I was assigned had just 6 beds, but was only a “bay” of about 5 similar bays which made up men's surgical. The whole unit is staffed by about 20 people from staff nurses to domestics, overseen by a Sister. They work incredibly hard. Our staff nurse was busy and on her feet from 8am for 12 hours (with breaks) and I not once detected impatience, irritation or anything other than a smile and a willingness to help. Sometimes one had to wait due to a more urgent need elsewhere, but the pleasant disposition never faltered. The night staff were just as attentive and caring, even performing routine tasks by torchlight to avoid disturbing sleeping patients.

One patient required surgery and was collected, in his bed, around 10 pm, destined for theatre. Some two hours later they wheeled him back, quietly, talking in hushed tones (not quite a whisper), and shielding a light from the rest of the ward. The ward staff had tasks to perform before they could leave him to sleep, and they went about their business as quietly as possible.

The food was adequate in quantity, not a serving that one might get at home, but bearing in mind the sedentary nature of one's stay it was enough. I certainly didn't feel hungry after eating. The variety on offer for each meal was reasonably extensive without being confusing, and there was always the chance of something extra for later on offer too. 

The secret, it seems to me, was that each ward had its own housekeeper whose job it was to oversee ward organisation, meal arrangements and cleaning regimes. There seemed also to be a spare room so that at intervals each ward would be moved in rotation enabling deep cleaning to be carried out. All in all, I was almost sorry to leave after three days, so welcoming and relaxing were the staff. I have nothing but praise for the dedication, hard work, caring attitudes, and reassurance I found on this my first foray into this arcane world.

Then there was the local GP's receptionist. On being discharged from hospital I was provided with certain equipment, which I needed, and was instructed in its use. I was also advised to ring up the supplier of that equipment to arrange future supplies, which I did at the earliest opportunity.

Two or three days later I had a phone call early morning from the receptionist complaining that I had used the wrong supplier as her system didn't recognise mine and in future, if I wanted to use the surgery I had better use her designated supplier, whom she failed to identify!

I think the difference in these two episodes can best be categorised by professional versus rank amateur. I'm willing to believe that Ms receptionist is good at her job vis a vis the doctors, but she has no people skills at all. Worse, she seems to believe that but for her no one understands the NHS, which would collapse under its own inefficiency if she weren't there to save it. People like that (and I am told that many doctors' receptionists are like it) get the NHS a bad name and the service, both to the public who pay them, and the surgeries who directly employ them would vastly benefit from some retraining or dismissal. These people are effectively the shop window of the NHS, the customer service representatives, and attitudes need to, and must, change. Many surgery receptionists deal with elderly and vulnerable people, and all of them deal with the sick with conditions ranging from relatively trivial to life-threatening. Many patients get confused when unwell and some are, alas, confused due to age or infirmity. To be faced with a harridan such as I encountered (and have formally complained about) is unhelpful, rude, arrogant and unnecessary. Save the NHS, get rid of the attitudes and those who exhibit them, and let's have a truly caring, helpful and world-class service.

Wedding

Paul & Cate married on the 16th October 2013. In the event, and sadly, the American contingent cried off some weeks before the event due to costs and the US government shutdown. As a result the attendees were the Hughes family large. Carl arrived looking very smart, and was superb with Abigail.

Cate looked fantastic. Her dress is by a new American designer and is spectacular. She took Paul's breath away when she arrived as he had not previously seen the dress, and he could barely take his eyes off her. She looked divine.

The chosen venue was the George & Falcon at Warnford. Paul, and Cate had spent considerable time planning and it showed. There was food aplenty, flowers in abundance, and the service was five star. The ceremony was simple, secular and friendly. Thereafter the proceedings went like clockwork. The staff knew us all by name, and nothing was any trouble, a wonderful day, immeasurably enhanced by the venue and its staff

Our family Vikings had made sterling efforts to attend, the girls taking time from school (including Camilla) and Christopher from University. Simon and Inger Anna were on leave from work, and Abigail had little choice. They all scrubbed up well, the boys looking smart and the girls very pretty. Simon officiated as best man and ring bearer and was rewarded by being an official witness on the register.

Maria had actually bought a dress for the occasion, and looked gorgeous. So seldom does she wear anything but trousers (at least when I see her) that I had almost forgotten that she has legs! She did wonderful duty as chief bridesmaid, ensuring that Cate's dress was always presented well to the cameras. She, too, was rewarded by being an official witness, thus ensuring immortality. 

Helen was resplendent in orange. From the flower in her hair, and the pashmina over a cream blouse, to the clutch bag she was a blaze of sunshine. Set off well by a full-length black skirt and shoes she certainly turned my head. Over the wedding breakfast she also performed her celebrated "I'm a Little Teapot" routine to much mirth and applause.

At the end of the evening our pre-booked taxi whisked us home, tired, happy, and slightly inebriated. It is no exaggeration to say that a good time was had by all.

It Had to Happen

Well, after very many years, and several cats, the inevitable has happened. Previous posts have related the anxiety caused by our beloved Portia first going missing for some 9 hours, then just a week later becoming so ill within half a day that we feared we should lose her. In the interval between these dramas she continued to delight us, although obviously not fit and being very elderly. Then yesterday...

We are, and always have been, reasonably early risers. By 0730 yesterday we were up and doing and Portia was anxious to go out. Since we do not appreciate having to clean the floor after one of her "accidents" (she frequently misses her box) her freedom is one of our morning priorities, and so with collar donned (to operate the cat-flap) the door was opened and out she went. That was about 0745. By 0830 she had not returned, but that in itself is not unusual. As we were ready to go out ourselves then we left food and water, and the cat-flap open. We arrived home at about 1130 to find the food untouched. So far as we knew Portia had not eaten since the night before, had certainly not had her daily drugs and was now missing. Again!

And so began again the search of neighbour's gardens, the woodland which surrounds our property, garages, outhouses, undergrowth and anywhere we could think. Nothing, but this time at least the search was in daylight. By now it was gone 2 o'clock and a little light lunch beckoned, but before we could indulge the phone rang.

A veterinary practise some 8 miles away said they'd had our cat brought in and had traced us through the microchip she sports. Portia had been found wandering in a reasonably distant and remote part of our neighbourhood (a good ¼ mile away) evidently confused and obviously old and ill. Most vets are closed at the weekends and so the very kind lady took her to a vet within the store Pets at Home who traced us. We raced to rescue Portia, forsaking lunch, and brought her home with, unusually,

not a peep of protest from her at the long car journey. She spent at least two hours re-acclimatising to the house before relaxing and settling back down. There was no attempt to go out!

Another neighbour identified for us the kind lady who had taken in Portia, and we were able to phone and thank her. Fortunately she is a cat person who also runs a sanctuary in Greece and herself has two Maine coon cats. She leaves the country in another week - we dread to consider Portia's fate had her adventure been a week later.

We are resolved to not let Portia have free reign again, she is not safe anymore. The aperture in the back gate is blocked and her forays into the garden, which is otherwise enclosed, will be supervised. She no longer jumps high enough for the top of the fence. This morning was instructive. Portia was not happy at the new restrictions on her freedom, but over time she'll get used to it. We are not happy either at the new restrictions on our freedom but it is necessary for our sanity. We shall continue to monitor her progress and her adaptability to the new arrangements, which may become easier as the weather cools. We love her, and want to keep her with us for a lot longer yet.

Why do we put ourselves through it?

Anyone reading these ramblings over time will no doubt realise that among my household, indeed at the centre of it, is a cat. Not any old moggy but Number One Cat. She is Portia, a marmalade tabby with very distinct stripes across her chest and down her tail. She had a sister, Jazz, who was honey-coloured but whose stripes exactly matched Portia's. Unfortunately Jazz died suddenly at about 8 years old.

These two cats were some 4 to 6 years old when we acquired them, and much uncertainty remains about their exact ages and indeed about the relationship between them. We took them as sisters but there are those who think mother and daughter would better fit. In temperament they were as different as chalk from cheese; Jazz lived up to her name being zany, loud, manic, greedy, adventurous and exceptionally curious. Portia on the other hand is gentle, restrained, silent and elegant. So different were they that Portia used to follow Jazz around, and we were never sure if that was to experience adventure or to keep a watchful eye on her sister. Suffice it to say that since Jazz died Portia has never again visited next door's roof to peer down their chimney!

Portia also has a very gentle, thoughtful nature. She dislikes being picked up and is not above showing displeasure by biting as a warning, but there remains something in her nature that is utterly endearing. She carries herself as a lady and is just a sweetie. She has always been free to leave the house during the day (she is kept in at night), but with rare exceptions remains within range of perhaps three or four of the houses around, or perhaps I should say their gardens. As she has got older her journeys have become fewer and closer to home, and anyone reading my last post will know the frantic activity and worry there was a week or so ago when she had not been seen for some 8 hours.

Portia is no longer a well cat. She has an over-active thyroid for which she is on daily medication. She also has an undetermined obstruction within her nasal passages which causes her breathing to be noisy and occasions a discharge, sometimes bloody. Sneezing has become a regular feature. Vets are undecided about the nature of the obstruction since determination would require surgery, and at something like 16 years old anaesthetic is an impossible contemplation. The obstruction is either benign (polyp or cyst) or malignant, but since there is no facial distortion the likelihood is the former. She receives daily steroids to reduce the inflammation.

Yesterday dawned as usual and we were pleased to see that Portia had eaten well overnight and she took her morning tablet well, went out and continued to eat. By 1030 she was listless and refusing to eat and deteriorated throughout the rest of the day, sleeping, walking in circles and being very vocal. We took her to the vet around 6 pm expecting to come home without her, so very ill had she become. Injections of steroid and a bronchial dilator were given as was oxygen, and we brought her home. Our emotions ran high and family members rallied round, hoping against hope that Portia would not leave us. As my daughter-in-law said, Portia is precious.

Around 9 pm we were able to persuade Portia to sample some freshly-cooked chicken. After three of four attempts she was beginning to eat, and soon the available chicken was gone along with the special food supplied by the vet. We went to bed a little encouraged. This morning we found that the overnight food had gone, Portia was clamouring to go out, her walking had improved and she generally was behaving and looking as well as she had at the beginning of the week. She has continued to eat well all day and has been sleeping around - in the garage, in the garden rubbish bag, on her favourite garden bench cushion, and in the house. We have no illusions. The skill and knowledge of the vets together with the efficacy of modern drugs is what keeps Portia going, and we are very grateful indeed, but cats! don't you just love 'em?

An Exciting if Tumultuous Week

It began at the end of July, really , when the balloon went up. Literally this was a blue balloon tied to a pole and planted in the front garden. This simple device was so that the lorry driver delivering our new kitchen could more easily find the house. As may be imagined, The Wife and I were excited and that excitement continued throughout the two-week fitting period which started two days later. Everything went according to plan with the necessary plasterers, electricians, plumbers et al arriving on site on cue. Great. A week after the fitter had departed the flooring arrived and was also fitted on schedule. We now have a great looking kitchen and apart from having to live in a makeshift field kitchen in a corner of the conservatory with little more than the microwave and a kettle for the duration of the fit, there was little stress attached. So that was August, or so we thought.

For the past few months our beloved cat, Portia, who is anywhere between 14 and 16 years old, has had a few medical problems. She is on steroids to control inflammation within her nasal passages, and another drug to control an over-active thyroid. She is a good girl and although she doesn't enjoy the pill-taking process, she does enjoy the slices of chicken or ham which follow; indeed she looks forward to them. She is not obviously ill and enjoys food, play, food, curiosity, food, and is fairly active during the day. Oh, and did I mention food?

So when she went out at about 3 pm yesterday we thought little of it. By 5 pm Portia hadn't returned for her customary snack but it was a warm afternoon and experience has shown that she doesn't "do" heat, so apart from remarking on her absence we took little notice. When she had failed to put in an appearance by 6.30 we knew something was wrong and began a local search. Neighbours were approached and searches were made of gardens, garages and houses. We learned that on at least one occasion Portia had entered a neighbour's house during our kitchen installation and had spent the afternoon on their small daughter's bed! What an education it would be if cats could recount their daily adventures to us mere mortals!

At this point there are two things to bear in mind. First, Portia wears a collar with a bell. The collar also has an attachment to operate the cat-flap. The bell is sensitive and sounds distinctively whenever she moves. Second, we live in the middle of a wood and in some parts the undergrowth is very dense at this time of year. Knowing that Portia has never ventured far from home we began a methodical search of the wood calling all the while in hopes of either seeing her or inducing movement to activate the bell. Nothing. Our Number Two Son and his wife arrived to assist, but despite widening the search the failing light eventually defeated us and we returned home somewhat dejected.

Earlier in the search The Wife had rung the local branch of the Cats Protection League to enquire if they had perhaps received a cat fitting Portia's description, and left a message on the answerphone. We decided to do a final sweep before retiring to bed, so armed with torches we plunged again into the wood. As diligent a search as possible in the circumstances was made, hoping to find any trace, but again nothing. Most of the neighbourhood had retired by this time and we would not have been surprised if the police had received reports of strange ghostly goings-on in the woods by torchlight! Our gloom had increased by the time we again returned home determining to resume on the morrow armed with sticks with which to search the undergrowth. It was now 11.30 pm. The Wife and I sat dejectedly trying to map out a strategy for the next day, when suddenly the cat-flap operated and in bounded Portia, tail fat, yelling for food and water, and a look of recrimination in her eye that clearly blamed us for her absence!

Our joy was and is unlimited. We think Portia was probably shut in somewhere and a night-owl neighbour discovered her when returning home. We'll never know for sure, but Portia has been reluctant to go out today and has only once left the garden. Within a few days we expect her to return to normal, but it doesn't seem to have affected her eating!

Only Good Things Come in Threes?

This is a tale of woe. It is not without its humour, from a certain point of view, but mainly it struggles to be even ironic. Bear with me.

It all began, I suppose, a year or two back when The Wife broke the kitchen. The fitted units are laminated and over the years the cooker hood cover has begun to peel away from its carcass. As it became worse, it also became apparent that the kitchen would have to be replaced sooner or later, but because of the expense I wanted to delay the event for as long as possible. The Wife then had a mishap with a cupboard door, resulting in a large(ish) bubble of the laminate which burst, revealing the wood beneath and really sealing the kitchen's fate, but still I prevaricated. Then the dishwasher packed up and I found that it was cheaper to replace it than to fix it. The Wife pounced like a Cheshire cat, all smiles and ingratiating, mysterious ways, dragging me off to local kitchen designers. At this point I discovered that she had been seriously planning a new kitchen with sketches, researched appliances and everything! I capitulated and the new kitchen is to be installed during August.

In order to pay for the new kitchen I need to liquidate some investments, so made an appointment with my financial adviser for a particular Friday morning. Friday is the day when we do our weekly shop. Since the event is a bit of a chore, we try to soften the boredom by having breakfast at the supermarket beforehand, and did so on the appointment day, planning to arrive home a good 40 minutes before Mr Adviser. Within half a mile of the house there is a right-turn. Positioned in the middle of the road awaiting oncoming traffic to clear, the car's master cylinder burst its seals so that I cold no longer select gear and the car was immovable. Fortunately a very kind man in a sports car stopped and he, together with a couple of passing postmen pushed the car onto the grass verge. While I waited for the local garage to turn out, The Wife had to hotfoot it to the house to keep the appointment, arriving simultaneously with The Adviser. The situation was explained and he valiantly offered to collect me (and the weekly shopping) from the garage before getting down to the purpose of the appointment. That was 5 weeks ago.

A symptom of the master cylinder failure was the virtual disappearance of the clutch pedal (in fact it was flat to the floor but higher than I could see from the driver's seat.) So when the symptom reappeared, this time at home, I called the garage expecting to pay for the tow and to have the master cylinder replaced under warranty. I needn't have worried, the situation was a lot worse than that! Diagnosis revealed that the car manufacturer had installed in this model a rubberized flywheel assembly. Mine had begun to break up, and although it was possible to reset the mechanism by pulling the clutch pedal upwards, nothing was going to last long. Reluctantly, and after much thought I gave the OK for the work to be done. They've now had the car for three days!

On day two another disaster struck.Our aged, trusted, taken-for-granted washing machine ground to a halt. Not only that but in the process it has managed to coat everything within in tiny white flecks (as though from a tissue left inadvertently in a pocket) of some material which is clearly not paper. We now have underwear and T-shirts prettily polka-dotted. The rotating drum which is the soul of such machines now doesn't rotate, and is not even suspended within its housing. Repair is unlikely, and anyway the machine owes us nothing. So this morning, and using The Wife's ancient car, we trundled forth to buy a new washing machine. Surely to God nothing else can go wrong, Can it?

A Worthwhile Outing

For many years I have eschewed guided tours. Whether on holiday, at a stately home, or other places of interest I have always chosen to find my own way, albeit with the help of a guidebook; after all, anything of interest is in the guidebook, right? History, family, acquisitions, artifacts et al. Right?

Recently The Wife and I visited Basildon House in Berkshire. Since we were slightly early for the official opening time and a guided tour was imminent, we decided to avail ourselves of the opportunity. Our guide was (I would guess) a retired military gentleman whose knowledge of the house, its history, and of the various artifacts within was encyclopedic.

Built in the 1780's for a wealthy man of the East India Company it has had something of a chequered history, and passed down through the family which lent its name to the villain of Oliver Twist. Latterly it was used as a hospital for officers (of course) of the Guards regiments in the first world war, and was again requisitioned as a headquarters for the 101st Airborne (the band of brothers) in WW2. By the time the war ended the building was in a sorry state. The contents had been sold, pilfered, or otherwise disposed of, there was graffiti, and even the door cases and plaster-work was missing. The grounds were overgrown and the house looked ready for demolition.                    

Taxes on large properties at the end of the war were prohibitive. The Labour government needed money to house those who had been rendered homeless by the war as well as those returning from the continent, and large house owners were made to pay their share. Thus the house was sold for development. The wife of a neighbouring property owner came over to see Basildon House at this time and flippantly said that the house should be restored. She was playfully challenged by her companion to do so. Since the plans for demolition and redevelopment of the site had stalled, Lady Iliffe became the (not so proud) owner.

Over many years, and with very deep pockets and not a little luck the house was lovingly restored to the homely grandeur that we see today. It would be easy to live in it, unlike some stately homes which despite everyone's efforts remain remote and aloof. I applaud the efforts of Lady Iliffe and those of the National Trust in presenting this house as a national treasure. I am also a convert to the idea of guided tours, I learned so much!

Library

Octagon Room

The Way Through the Woods

That knocked the Shine off

Recently I have celebrated a significant birthday; significant in the sense that it is the last of a decade, but numerically it looks like the first of the next, a bit like the millennium beginning not in 2000 but in 2001.

I was overwhelmed by one special gift in particular, a tablet computer from The Wife. I have for sometime been thinking of buying an iPad or similar and have done some research on the various alternatives available. I am no follower of fashion and just because Apple has the market leader in this field is not in itself, to me, a reason to buy their product however good. There are many similar products "out there" with different operating systems much praised by the IT industry. Anyway, this gift took my breath away. Bright, shiny and waiting to be caressed it sat in its box patiently while I investigated other gifts, all of them special and gratefully received. Eventually I turned on the machine to be greeted with the Android logo and The Wife's declaration that it was a robot! From then on this machine became my Robot e-Pad.

 

Then the fun began. At first the machine performed well and I was able to read e-mails, record appointments, obtain weather forecasts, read Twitter and Facebook, and choose e-books from Amazon. Once or twice during the first couple of days I received notifications that some background app or other had stopped, but I paid little attention since I was getting used to my new toy and its idiosyncracies.

 

On day three, I think it was, my Robot e-Pad failed to boot up. No amount of holding down the on/ off switch would induce life into the thing, and I was forced to use a pin in the reset hole, after which it booted fine and worked well, for a while. Now the fun really started. The operating system would stop, then a background app, then that bit which allows the transfer of info from the device to the web, my link to Amazon (pre-installed) refused to put me in the e-book store, depositing me in the registration screen instead. Since I was already registered it refused to recognise a re-registration and so I was stuck. I sent an e-mail to the manufacturer's support website address and received a one line answer that was of no help. Two other e-mails have remained unanswered. Warnings appeared on the screen and I was unable to clear them, a factory re-set restored the status quo ante for a while, then it all went pear-shaped again.

 

Now don't get me wrong, in between times things worked fine, but over a few days matters became increasingly worse so that with a very heavy heart I had to ask The Wife to send it back. I was devastated. My Robot e-Pad had been in my possession for just over 2 weeks. Much thought had gone into the purchase of this present, which is something that I really (if I'm honest) coveted, and here I was rejecting it. I felt awful for The Wife, even though it wasn't my fault.

 

Sometime ago I posted a piece on Customer Service. To anyone who has read that it will come as no surprise that the monster raised its head above the parapet again this time.

 

                 

 

Argument ensued between The Wife and the call centre who seemed to think that the machine not working as it should was

                                                   a) my fault

                                                   b) not their problem

 

Eventually they promised to collect the item (which they just have) and to refund the money. In the meantime The Wife is out of pocket, I have no tablet, and the company has no chance of a repeat customer. I hasten to add that this episode does not in any way reflect upon Android or their products, simply upon the particular company which supplied this machine. I am now actively continuing my research into the various tablets on the market, Apple, Android, Windows et al, but purchase will have to wait for the refund. Hopefully my next post on this subject will have a happier ending.