ROMANES EUNT DOMUS

The BNP have elaborated on their policies. I can't even write "BNP" without feeling ashamed. Let's get it right. The Fascists.

They are planning to offer grants for people to voluntarily resettle in the lands of their ethnic origin. Right: hand over the money and I'll be back over the Severn Bridge as quick as a flash. Ah no. On closer reading, it's about foreigners.

I am deeply ashamed that my country (yes, MY COUNTRY) can countenance the claptrap spouted by these people. I am proud of the fact that we can give homes to people who are oppressed in their own country. My son and daughter would never have been born if their father's family hadn't fled to Britain from the pogroms of Eastern Europe.

And the economic migrants. They come to our country and work in our hospital and offices and CLEAN them. I confess that I nicked that line from Jeremy Hardy on last week's News Quiz.

If we believe in our freedoms, then I suppose that the BNP are entitled to hold and promote their opinions. But we really do need to look critically at their data. Looking at information from the Office of National Statistics, rather than the Daily Mail, it is likely that approximately 10% of people living in Britain were not born here. That's about 6 million people, give or take. And how many British people choose to live or work abroad. About 5.5 million. So the net is about half a million. This number is subject to some churn as people return to their country and others travel abroad but, overall, there is a net inflow of about half a million. It's reckoned that this may have reversed in the current economic climate.

The problem is about ghettoisation and disaffection. That applies to young men being redicalised by strange and undesirable religious leaders but much more so to the underclass of uneducated young white males. Yes, it's not easy but I am proud that I belong to a tolerant country that has been enriched not diminished by migration.

Now then, about sorting out these foreigners. Who would they be? Damn, it'll only be a handful of us Beaker Folk left. All you Celts and Angles and Vikings can bugger off back to where you came from. And apparently, it'll be us Beaker Folk stuck up a few hills that will be sending you on your way.

And as for you Romans....

Romanes eunt domus ...er no... Romani ite domum.*


*Monty Python : "Life of Brian" Latin lesson by centurion for Brian daubing graffiti

P P B B D

Look away now if you’re easily offended.

I’ve just been reading Alright Tit and it made me think about the cussing I’ve known.

A little while ago,
Some mothers do ave em made me laugh with tales of her potty mouth experience. Have a read … howl with laughter and squirm with embarrassment for her.

We've all been there.

I used to call them "driving words" in front of the children because my bad language was mainly heard when we were in the car. I carefully explained that sometimes Mummy needed to use bad words but you can only use them when you are driving. When you are grown up and you can drive blah, blah... you get it.

Some friends had the driving word rule too. They were driving to the West Country for a family holiday. Somewhere around Honiton, there was a humungous traffic jam and someone decided to create new traffic rules. My hot and bothered friend expressed the opinion that the perpetrator’s parents were unlikely to have been married. They looked guiltily at the back seat but the children were engrossed in the Thomas the Tank Engine tape. Phew. Eventually they got to their destination in the heat of the day with the windows wound down. Someone cut in front as they drove into the car park. Their four year old son was quick off the mark and hollered “BASTARD” at the holidaymakers.

I thought I had it nailed on the driving word front. Felt really proud of myself. It all unravelled horribly when I took Madette and Junior Mad to visit my mother. We had a truly awful journey culminating in a puncture on the M4. It required the full quota of driving words. They were so impressed when we got there that they spilled out of the car full of excitement, dead keen to tell their grandmother about the vicissitudes of the journey. Junior Mad explained that Mummy had used all sorts of driving words in many and varied combinations. She asked them WHAT were driving words. Madette, alert to the fact that this might need editing said "Oh things like bloody and bugger, Nain" but Junior Mad added "And fuck". We had a great day. My mother tore my ear off.

In 1991, an interesting combination of circumstances brought a boy from Czechoslovakia to stay. He was a monster; more of that another time. At the time, the wonderful Juno was our nanny. It was a hot summer’s afternoon and we were going to Sport’s Day at school. Czech-monster-boy had already had a run in with Juno when he refused to get into appropriate summer clothes and had sulked because we weren’t going to let him sit in front of the television all afternoon. Everyone was loading stuff into the car. CMB stomped out of the front door and slammed it behind him. Locking my house keys and car keys indoors. I quickly discovered that my children would have made good apprentices for Fagin and we broke in after about half an hour. CMB was vile all afternoon, spitting out the picnic on the lawn. By the time we got home, I was frazzled beyond. Madette and Junior Mad went to play and Juno took CMB off for a little pep talk. As I unpacked the remains of the picnic, CMB appeared by my side. “I’m sorry Mrs Mad”. “That’s alright, CMB”. “No, Mrs Mad, I’m a total fucking prat”.

So back to my mother. Dad swore like punctuation. Mainly “bloody hell”. If it was bad, “Duw, bloody hell”. Mam didn’t really do the swearing thing and I got a sharp slap if I indulged. Bad language on television had her shooting across the room to hit the off button. When I was about twelve, someone had graffitied “Fuck” on a bridge near home. I’m not sure if it was a statement or a command, but she insisted that I cross the road and not look at it. Sometime in the mid 1990s, we were visited by the Jehovah’s Witnesses when she was staying with us. The JW had waylaid one of the household at the front door and would not leave, despite pleas of belonging to another faith, lack of interest etc. By this time, my mother was everyone’s idea of a grandmother : eightyish, white curls, apple cheeked and rather round. She trotted to the door, took in the “Watch Tower” clutched in the JW’s paw and bellowed “BUGGER OFF”. The JW fled, leaving an umbrella abandoned in the porch. We left it there for a few days in case they felt brave enough to sneak back up the drive to collect it. Fifteen years on, it’s still in my umbrella stand. Clearly, hell’s grandma was sufficient deterrent.

And if you’re wondering about the title … the fabulous Flanders and Swann wrote a song that starts “Ma’s out, Pa’s out, Lets talk rude: Pee Po, Belly, Bum, Drawers”.

Recession bites

Almost exactly one year ago, I gave up the fight and succumbed to having another dog in my life. Beautiful Bella had been a princess in every sense of the word and was loved every day of her long and wonderful life. A very short time later, Mossie arrived. Old, battered and scared, he only lived for another 15 months and I swore that I wouldn't have another old dog. After three months of absolute misery without a dog to come home to, I gave in and, would you believe it ... this one was older, blind and had been been brought from an Irish rescue where he had been attacked by the other dogs.

This was Spot, almost a year ago. His back was a mess and look at those troubled ears. It may be the scary bint hugging him that was making his ears lie back, of course.



He still sometimes gets troubled by odd things but his back is completely healed and he is a happy family boy who gives such a lot of love.

And to my point. He came from a rescue that works in collaboration with Rescue Remedies. They take on the un-cute dogs. The difficult to home dogs. Have another look at Spot and you'll see what I mean. Even in the good times it's hard to raise funds and now ...

So, if you've got a quid or so to spare, they would be very grateful. I know that there are so many good causes, human as well as animal, but even one pound would help support them.


Rescue Remedies Donation Page

The Fab Four and Me

It all started in 1962. "Love me do" came out round about my tenth birthday. It was occasionally played on the Light Programme. That was what we called Radio 2 in the olden days. If you twiddled the knobs on the valve radio in the kitchen you could get Radio Luxembourg on 208m medium wave but only in the evenings. Wall to wall popular music even if it did fade in and out a bit.

I was listening to Radio Luxembourg on November 22nd 1963 when the news broke that JFK had been killed.

They must have got fed up of me sitting with my head flat against the speaker case because for Christmas 1963, they bought me one of those new fangled transistor radios. My mother didn't really approve and thought that I wouldn't look after it. It's just had its 47th birthday and it's still going strong. No FM tuner obviously. They no longer make batteries to fit so the new sized batteries are wedged in place with a bit of Lego.



I screamed my way through 1963 and 64, expanding my knowledge of the whereabouts of the Beatles through Radio Caroline and my purchase of the Beatles Monthly Magazine. I knew all the lyrics to every song. I had all the lingo. "Fab", "Groovy", "Gear". I can tell you this for certain because I wrote them down in my diary and used every opportunity to use them to the complete bafflement of my parents.


The Royal Variety Performance of 1963 was the best thing ever broadcast on the BBC. And I was prepared to put anyone straight who dared contradict me. Lennon's remark on how the royals could rattle their jewellry in time to the music was devastatingly witty. And so daring. Go on, I was only eleven.

The radio was great but the thing to have was a Dansette record player. That way you could spend all your pocket money on records and play them till they wore thin.


I was desperate for one. My birthday had come and gone without one appearing. But my Christmas stocking in 1964 was a bit thin: a nice soap, a tube of smarties, some tangerines and nuts. Because, there was my record player. Pale blue, with a stacking spindle so you could play up to six records and a latch on the turntable so you could secure it to transport the whole thing like a small suitcase. And records. They had agonised over music. Dad wanted me to have a selection of good music and "none of that rubbish". So there were some classical albums, a selection of the number 1s from the autumn, the current number 1 "I feel fine" and my very first Beatles album. Mono, thick plastic with a heavy rim that the pickup arm hopped onto with a hiss and a scratch.


In November 1964, they played in Cardiff. I sent my postal order in for tickets. Bitterly disappointed, my money was returned. They were overwhelmed by hopefuls.

Each month I bought my copy of Beatles Monthly and in 1965, I entered a competition run by the magazine to win a ticket to one of the venues in their 1965 tour. The December 12th 1965 performance was in Cardiff at the Capitol Theatre, which mainly showed films. Dad didn't want me to go but after many tears they were persuaded that I would be chaperoned by someone from the magazine.

There were several support acts but really I couldn't have cared less. I watched spellbound as their short set flashed by. "Nowhere Man" has been my favourite song ever since. At the end we were ushered out to wave at the Fab Four as they were escorted to their limousine and then they left. That was their last proper UK gig.

I can remember exactly where I was when I heard that John had been shot. Thirty years, this December. I know he became bit strange and developed some bonkers ideas and offended a lot of people. Poor George. A sad end but with a wife who loved him and even defended him against a dangerous intruder with a fireplace poker. Go, Olivia. Ringo. Yes. Well I forgive him for Thomas the Tank engine because it kept my children quiet for many hours. Paul. Marrying Heather was perhaps not his brightest decision and he should give up on the hair colour. But, what fabulous music they've left us with. I'm hoping to see Macca this summer, back in Cardiff again.

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

A wound that never heals

Love is the sweetest thing
What else on earth could ever bring
Such happiness to ev'rything
As Love's old story.

Love is the strangest thing
No song of birds upon the wing
Shall in our hearts more sweetly sing
Than Love's old story.

Whatever heart may desire
Whatever fate may send
This is the tale that never will tire.
This is the song without end.

Love is the greatest thing
The oldest yet, the latest thing
I only hope that fate may bring
Love's story to you.

This last week I've had the chance to reflect on love. I've had an alliterative weekend visitng friends with alarmingly similar names.

C&C Somerset met in later life and are blissfully happy. They live in a wonderful dog-filled home with a garden that keeps them busy most days. They visibly cherish the privilege of love.

C&C Cornwall look forward to their silver wedding this year. Retirement beckons with a home looking out over the Atlantic in a village that has become home. Half a lifetime and three daughters have brought them a familiarity but never losing respect. Tender moments pass between them like little private starbursts.

C&C Devon have been married for over thirty-five years. Life has dealt them a cruel blow. With three sons just grown up, they looked forward to a retirement of dog-walking and National Trusting with the occasional treat for big birthdays. Last Autumn, she was taken desperately ill suddenly and continues to have brutal treatment to keep the illness at bay. Suddenly, they are conscious of the need to blend practicality with loving moments. The freezer is well stocked and they have made sure that the words are not left unsaid.



My path is single with a dog to keep me company. My footprints, his pawprints. But still love.


Here is a wound that never will heal, I know,
Being wrought not of a dearness and a death,
But of a love turned ashes and the breath
Gone out of beauty; never again will grow
The grass on that scarred acre, though I sow
Young seed there yearly and the sky bequeath
Its friendly weathers down, far Underneath
Shall be such bitterness of an old woe.
That April should be shattered by a gust,
That August should be levelled by a rain,
I can endure, and that the lifted dust
Of man should settle to the earth again;
But that a dream can die, will be a thrust
Between my ribs forever of hot pain.

Gardening for collies

You just lie there in the sunshine and wait for the woman to get on with it, evidently!

Trumpet of a prophecy

If Winter comes ...

















... can Spring be far behind?

Dydd Gwŷl Dewi Sant hapus

Happy St David’s Day

Driving for the deaf

In 1936, my grandfather bought the first family car from Alfred Chaston’s in Blackwood. New cars were great novelties and it was assumed that you wouldn’t know how to drive. So they chucked in a set of lessons with the car.

Grandpa was 57 years old and had no intention of learning to drive. Too old, by far: my age now!. My father, aged 19, was to be the family driver.

Driving had become a dangerous pastime. In 1934, 7,343 people were killed on Britain’s roads. There were only 2.4 million vehicles on the road, 1.5 million of which were cars. The driving test was introduced in 1935. Initially, the test was voluntary. Another world, eh?


The second edition of the Highway Code had just been published. It was 24 pages long and there were only 10 road signs to learn. It cost 1d. No, I don’t mean 1p, I mean 1d, there were 12 in a shilling and 240 in a £. It still included advice to drivers of horse drawn vehicles to ‘rotate the whip above the head; then incline the whip to the right or left to show the direction in which the turn is to be made.’

After his eight lessons, Dad was test-ready. The examiner met him at Chaston’s, Dad handed over his 7/6d (37.5 p) and off they went. The test involved:
• Eyesight - he could see the birds on the trees on the other side of the valley.
• Highway Code Questions – with only 10 road signs, that was easy too
• Emergency stop – the examiner banged the dashboard with his clipboard and you stood on the brake. The little car halted eventually. You prayed that there was no-one under the car, or even worse, behind …
• Hand / arm signals – rigid (right turn), rotating (left turn), and slowly up and down (slowing down)
• Reverse left – round a corner watching out for the person you nearly got in the emergency stop
• Turn in the road – not as easy as it sounds. No power steering and if you stalled, you had to get out and start it with a starting handle.
• General driving – this was all over in thirty minutes and, anyway, he could turn the car on a sixpence.

Nearly done … except. Applying for your licence, you had to state whether you had any disabilities. When he was three years old, he had been seriously ill and this left him profoundly deaf. No hearing aids gave him anything approaching normal hearing.

The examiner hopped out of the car and produced one of these. Standing in front of the car he squeezed the bulb end and then jumped back in. Fresh-faced and eager, Dad turned to him. The examiner hollered “Did you hear that?” “Yes!” he replied enthusiastically. He never worked out whether the air horn had indeed made a noise.

Tick.

Passed.

He drove every day for the rest of his life, more or less. My mother never failed to remind him that she had learned to drive before him (1933). And he never failed to remind her that, unlike her, he had taken and passed his driving test.
So, Megan . What are you waiting for? It’s much safer now. In 2008, there were 2538 road deaths but with over 30 million vehicles. Still, drive carefully.

For Renee

One of the last times that Renee posted on my blog she said that she would like a piece of pie. She hasn't been up to eating much of late so this is all for her.




And death shall have no dominion.
Dead mean naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan't crack;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashores;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Through they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion.

No place for a decent woman

My grandfather died in 1927 leaving his widow to bring up five children. The eldest daughter was already in work and the next eldest had to leave school immediately. My mother was nearly twelve and in grammar school. She dreamed of a life outdoors and longed to go to agricultural college in Usk which had just started to admit women. She was crushed when she was told that she would be able to stay in school until sixteen to study book-keeping, shorthand and typing. In 1931, she set off to work in Hampton Court, living as a lodger. Lonely, she missed the family home and hated the suburban environment.

When war broke out in September 1939, my mother had just celebrated her 25th birthday. Girlfriends joined the WAAF and the WRENS, but she knew what she was going to do: she was going to join the Women's Land Army.

Farmers were incentivised to grow more to avoid food shortages, Between May and September 1939, they were paid £2 for every acre of grassland that they ploughed up, for the Battle for Wheat. Two million acres of additional grassland were ploughed in time for the 1940 harvest. The shortfall of 50,000 agricultural workers was to be filled by women and the WLA was formed on June 1st 1939. The farming community thought it was a joke.

Girls were interviewed to see if they were suitable, given a medical examination and enrolled. The official minimum age was 17. Some lied and became Land Girls at 16 or even younger. It wasn't hard to get into the WLA. One girl who wore glasses, was asked to read a sheet of letters of diminishing size. As she struggled with the smaller letters, the doctor said Never mind, I suspect you'd see a charging bull and passed her.


Land Girls had a uniform for healthy, outdoor living. Not for them the smart jackets and nylons. In fact, nothing attractive and everything too big. For "walking out" they wore laced brown brogue shoes, baggy brown corduroy breeches and knee length fawn socks. A green V-necked long-sleeved ribbed jumper was worn over a fawn aertex shirt, with the WLA tie for formal wear! On their heads they wore brown felt pork-pie style hats. A three-quarter length waterproof brown overcoat finished the outfit. At five foot tall, my mother looked like a mobile brown paper package.


Brown dungarees, a matching jacket and wellington boots were issued for work clothes. The dungarees served in the garden through the 1950s and I had all the spare bits of uniform for dressing up. I cut a fine figure in the WLA jacket, breeches with her gas mask on back to front as I yomped through the undergrowth at the end of the garden. The socks were particularly hard-wearing and they survived to be Christmas stockings.

Land Girls were paid a minimum wage of 28 shillings (£1.40) a week, half of which was normally deducted for board and lodgings. If a girl was working more than 20 miles from home, she was entitled to a free journey home after six months. There was no holiday entitlement, paid or unpaid. It was left up to individual farmers to decide when a girl could take time off. They were expected to work 48 hours a week in winter and 50 hours a week in summer, but most girls worked many more, especially during harvest.

Mainly, Land Girls lived in lodgings near or on the farms where they'd been allocated. Mam was sent to Treberfydd Estate next to Llangorse Lake. It was a grand house with a home farm and several tenant farms. They thought that these Land Girls would be just extra pairs of hands in the garden or milking parlour. She was housed in a dormitory with the maids at the top of the house and put to work with the Head Gardener. On her first day he sent her to mow the lawn and the mower ran away with her. He stopped her just before she landed in the lake. Just another silly girl who knew nothing about the countryside.


Farm machinery was made for and operated by fit men, used to the physical requirements of the job. She was so petite that she struggled to even get onto a horse, needing an orange box on top of the mounting box .
This was Kit and he was her best friend until she made friends with a local family at Cathedine. But this was going to be the best of times: she determined to make the best of life in the countryside and her friends were friends for life.


While away in the 1930s, she had learned to drive, unusual for a woman. She took to the tractor like a duck to water and could turn in awkward field ends and get through gates without mishap. By the harvest of 1941, she was the main tractor driver on the farm. The brand new Massey was hers!

At the end of the war, the WLA was still required for several years until the male agricultural workers returned to the land. On October 21st 1950, the WLA was officially disbanded. The National Farmers' Union protested. The women had turned out not to be such a joke after all.

In 2008, the Land Girls were recognised with a special badge. Surviving Land Girls were eligible to apply for the badge or their relatives could apply on their behalf if they had died after the badge was announced.

Sadly, my mother died in 2002 so I was not able to apply for her badge.



So this is for her.

My sky

Inspired by Saz at Fab, Feisty and Fifty , I thought that I'd dig this old photograph out.

Bolt Head, taken from Bolberry Down with the Ham Stone in the foreground. December 28th 2003, just after dawn.

Lat 50:14:17N Lon 3:50:16W

Something for the weekend, eh?

Carbon Pawprint

One tonne of CO2 a year. Just for one old collie. It's all that meat he eats apparently.

The average human in the developed world generates 14 tonnes and an, by contrast, only one tonne in the developing world.

A study published last week seemed to cover all the ins and outs of keeping cats and dogs in modern Britain There used to be six million of each and now there are ten million of each.

People with degrees are more likely to have cats. The reason is unknown but it's conjectured that people with degrees are more likely to have serious jobs and so don't have the time to give to a dog. Hey ho. Most of my friends are dog owners so that must make us a bunch of thickos. Nice thickos, though.

Anyway, who would need a degree when you can have a collie? A blind collie who can open kitchen doors. Shame he didn't know how to switch off the burglar alarm.

So, one tonne of CO2. They said nothing about the methane.

Second City Sadness

A walk followed by a pub lunch. My son and the collie. Smashing.

We chose a pub where we’ve eaten several times. Not a fabulous gastropub but a friendly place where you can get a respectable lunch, even slightly later on a Saturday lunchtime. Reliable pub grub.

We ordered our drinks and wandered over to a table, grabbing the menu as we went. Settling ourselves down, I needed to manoeuvre around a young man in a wheelchair with his leg extended on a support. He was sitting with his girlfriend and some friends. I glanced across again and saw that there was another young man at their table, also in a wheelchair.

We made our selection from the menu and I went to the bar to order. Turning round, I realised that there was another man in a wheelchair at another table, also with family. As I sat down at our table, I took in the table to our right. There were four young men sitting there, all in wheelchairs.

Each wheelchair carried the paraphernalia needed for its occupant. The urine bag, the wound drain, the pain relief drip.

The least injured had lost a foot. Most had lost one leg, chiefly above the knee. Some had both legs missing. One young man had a stump remaining for his right leg and, it appeared nothing left at all on the left, including his hip. His wheelchair sported a greater selection of tubes and bags and he had a foam support keeping him upright.

Dark humour all around. They chatted casually about where they had been injured and who had died alongside them. One talked about feeling that he was lying in cold water when his leg had been blown off. He was wounded on the last day of 2009. Throwaway references to places I hear on the news each morning. Camp Bastion. Lashkhar Gah. Helmand. The pain killers and the morphine needed to bring them back on the long flight. “I never expected to come back without a bum”.

Junior Mad and I ate our lunch quietly. When it was time to go, the Warrant Officer accompanying these young men looked across at me and smiled. Did he see the sadness in my look? It seemed feeble to sit there with tears pricking my eyes. What did I have to be sad about? I was sitting there with my son, both legs intact, older than any of those boys.

As we left, they were setting off for their return journey to the West Midlands Rehabiliation Centre. Each one donned wheelchair gloves and they were lining themselves up to wheel themselves back. No ambulances or mini-buses. Just learning to get on with the rest of their lives.

Don’t bother telling me that we have a professional army and these young soldiers signed up for this very job. They chiefly come from the parts of the country where there is no longer a manufacturing base, they have minimal educational qualifications and their only expectation is a life on benefits.

Perhaps Brown or Blair can explain what the hell we're doing there. We've been there since October 7th 2001. Such little progress has been made that they cannot afford to run parliamentary elections.




Have a look at the map. Do you think it's worth it?

Free and simple pleasures

I've been tagged by The Wife of Bold . My top ten simple pleasures. Ha! Simple pleasures. Me? The High Maintenance Woman?

Well here they are...

1) Reading in bed, with a cup of tea. Complete bliss.

Not complete without a collie, of course.

2) Going to sleep.
This is such a luxurious, indulgent feeling that I will sometimes shake myself back awake, just to enjoy it all over again.

3) Climbing to the top of one of the hills There and enjoying the 360 degree view.


4) Waking up and remembering that Madette or Junior Mad has come to stay. Even better: both.


5) Bach's Goldberg Variations, played by Murray Perahia.

From the first note to the last, it is sublime.

6) Radio 4. Melvyn Bragg's "In our time", "I'm sorry I haven't a clue", "The Archers" and so much more.

God's own radio station.

7) Cooking for friends. Maybe not free but it doesn't have to be expensive ingredients. Such a pleasure to make a meal to share.



8) Watching the red kite. I could watch their graceful flight for hours. And usually do.



9) A moment of sheer vanity. The colour of my eyes. They're green. Proper green. Not a bit green with some blue or grey. Just green. As a teenager, I hated most bits of my body. My shape, my hair, my skin. Yeuch. At about the age of twenty, someone commented on the colour of my eyes. Taking off the glasses and looking hard into the mirror (one of those "Goodness, Miss Jones" moments), I realised that they really are green. I've liked them ever since.

The colour green hidden in this icicle, in fact.

10) Sitting with a collie head resting on my knee.

Love given and received.

And I have an eleventh pleasure. Reading your blogs. Keep them coming. They are such an enjoyable experience. And if you've got this far ... what are your ten free and simple pleasures?

Ring in the valiant ... ring out the darkness of the land

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light:
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes
But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson. In Memoriam.





Blwyddyn Newydd Dda .... Happy New Year

Fewer wolves, but still bears

By the time I was born, there were fewer wolves in Wales than in Dylan Thomas' day. But even so, you had to be careful with the bears.

In November, my parents had moved into the ramshackle farmhouse that was to be their home for the next fifteen years. Cold and draughty, they struggled to make it a cosy home for their first Christmas in their own home with their baby. My mother battled to keep it and me clean with little hot water heated in the copper. A neat and proper woman, she liked everything to be "tidy" as we say. She ironed everything with the flat iron, warmed on the top of the range. It was a cold and icy December and every day my father worked long hours, outdoors. His gloves and socks hung over the warming oven of the rayburn to dry off. By December 24th, they were tired to the bone. She dressed the tree and hung up some paper chains but was was exhausted and went to bed before he came home that night. He had been working until nearly midnight to have Christmas Day off.

She was disappointed that he hadn't been there to lay the baby's stocking in the inglenook and put the cheerful presents under the tree. But at least they would be together on Christmas morning and he wouldn't have to get up at five o'clock.

Waking early, she tiptoed downstairs to make him a cup of tea. The doorway at the bottom of the stone staircase opened into the sitting room and the latch was noisy so she left the door open to make her way back upstairs quietly. Boiling the kettle in the kitchen, she heard the baby stir. A snuffly cry that turned into a good morning moan. By the time she'd got back to the latch door, he'd wrapped the baby up and come downstairs. A warm lie-in was not on the small tyrant's agenda.

Anyway, he seemed happy to stay in the sitting room. Strangely happy. Enthusiastic, you might say.

He edged her towards the tree and, amongst the jolly, colourful presents, she saw two parcels wrapped in brown paper. When she asked what they were, he simply shrugged and gave a little sly smile. Opening the first parcel she found an electric iron. Bliss. This wonder of technology lasted over twenty years, flattening all our clothes into obedience.

And in the other parcel was The Bear.



His paws went thin about thirty-five years ago and so I gave him velvet re-treads. His eyes have lost a little of their sparkle but they are original. One ear was chewed by a dog and needed to be stitched back. His fur isn't what it was and so I knitted him this sweater in the sixties. When I was about five, I gave him a bit of a haircut. His nose has worn away to a little snub. In the late fifties, he stopped growling and only said "clunk". Revising for finals in the summer of 1974, I leaned against him as I yawned my way through Lipsey's "Positive Economics". Suddenly, he found his voice. "Clunk ... errrrr", he said. A Keynesian comment, I think.

He celebrated his fifty-seventh birthday on Christmas Day. He's led a great life.

"Clunk ... errrrr"

Bring out the tall tales now

"Years and years ago ... when there were wolves in Wales, and birds the color of red-flannel petticoats whisked past the harp-shaped hills, when we sang and wallowed all night and day in caves that smelt like Sunday afternoons in damp front farmhouse parlors, and we chased, with the jawbones of deacons, the English and the bears, before the motor car, before the wheel, before the duchess-faced horse, when we rode the daft and happy hills bareback, it snowed and it snowed.

Ghosts whooed like owls in the long nights when I dared not look over my shoulder; animals lurked in the cubbyhole under the stairs and the gas meter ticked. And I remember that we went singing carols once, when there wasn't the shaving of a moon to light the flying streets. At the end of a long road was a drive that led to a large house, and we stumbled up the darkness of the drive that night, each one of us afraid, each one holding a stone in his hand in case, and all of us too brave to say a word. The wind through the trees made noises as of old and unpleasant and maybe webfooted men wheezing in caves. We reached the black bulk of the house. "What shall we give them? Hark the Herald?"

"No," Jack said, "Good King Wencelas. I'll count three." One, two three, and we began to sing, our voices high and seemingly distant in the snow-felted darkness round the house that was occupied by nobody we knew. We stood close together, near the dark door. Good King Wencelas looked out On the Feast of Stephen ... And then a small, dry voice, like the voice of someone who has not spoken for a long time, joined our singing: a small, dry, eggshell voice from the other side of the door: a small dry voice through the keyhole.

And when we stopped running we were outside our house; the front room was lovely; balloons floated under the hot-water-bottle-gulping gas; everything was good again and shone over the town."

"A Child's Christmas in Wales" by Dylan Thomas

It snowed last night but as he would have said, not the same snow. Not a dumb, numb thunder-storm of white, torn Christmas cards. I did my best this morning walking my blind more-than-slightly wolfy-looking boy through the snow. We walked the first footsteps across the field and he romped through the snow as playful as a pup.

But still not the same snow. Perhaps it will when I'm There.

Entreat me not to leave thee or to return from following after thee

After their marriage in July 1951, they moved into “rooms”, a common enough experience for a young married couple at the time. Maintaining modesty while edging past your neighbour on the landing was excruciating. There was little privacy for a shy and virginal couple to get to know each other. Despite this, by the Spring of 1952, she was pregnant. They were now desperate to have their own front door but they needed somewhere with premises for his business. Not just as simple as renting a two-up, two-down.

In the Summer, they found a farmhouse. Enough space for a growing family and the business. It was cold, even in August and had no electricity or indoor sanitation. They made a hard decision and went for it. It would need a couple of months of work to make it habitable but by the time the baby arrived, they would be in. A warm kitchen with a range, one bedroom that would serve and the sitting room with a cosy inglenook. The rest would come in time.

They couldn’t afford the rent on the house and the rooms so they each moved back with their parents while the work was done. Every day when work finished, he started all over again to plumb cold water into the house and to connect mains electricity. They reckoned that it would be alright by the end of October. The baby was due on October 19th and they would be ready to move in by the time she was out of hospital. A touch of impatience brought the baby in early October. In between rushing up and down to the hospital he struggled to have everything ready to move in but it wasn’t right. She came home and went back to her mother to wait. Gradually, through November, he made it habitable and moved his possessions in and camped praying the house would warm up to bring his family home. Every day, she would push the pram up the hill and check it out as the small pieces of furniture arrived.

Eventually, the range was reliable and would stay in all night. Masonry stopped falling down the inglenook and the sitting room was marginally warmer than the outside world. There was still frost on the inside of the bedroom window but hot water bottles in the bed and the 2-bar on for thirty minutes before bedtime made getting to bed a short but acceptable dash. It was a cold and dampish Autumn, like most years. Perhaps a bit colder.

They set a date to move back in together. Friday 28th November. He made arrangements to get help with the business so that he could finish early and, with the Morris 8 loaded to the brim, he took all her clothes, linen and the baby’s layette. It was very cold and overcast, a miserable day but, at least, not raining. His parents were there so that there was tea, ham sandwiches and cake when she arrived. She said she could push the pram up the hill and would be there within the hour. The baby was wrapped up well. Anyway, it didn’t seem as cold now.

As they said their last, fleeting goodbyes, the overcast sky whitened and the first snowflakes started to fall.
“I’ll come back”.
“No, I’ll walk”.
“I’ll come back, please don’t walk”.

She lifted the baby out of the pram and climbed back up the steps into her mother’s house and then went back for the pram. Tears rolling down her face, she hugged the baby, refusing to accept that they would have to stay another day. Her mother and sister silently made up the spare bed.
Outside, the snow swirled and impertinently peered in at the window and fell away mockingly to settle on the ground.
Tea was made and refused.

A squeaky car horn peeped. Outside was the little black car, its tyre tracks the only marks in the snow. With no time to argue or debate, the pram was folded up and bundled into the back of the car. And she was in, still holding the baby tightly. The tiny engine raced as they slipped and slid up the hill. Turning into the yard of the farmhouse, they skated to a halt, home at last.



The in-laws had left the tea on the table and set off for home leaving the young couple and their baby on their own for the first time.

Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge.

From zero to hero

It's been just over 9 months since Spot arrived to live with me.



Yes, that was a great big bald bum. Criss-crossed with scars. He was shaved to the top of his tail which made it look detachable.

Soon the hair began to grow over the scars but he had a saddle-back of shorter hair where the shaved bits were growing back. By the autumn, there was a good covering of hair but you can see where the shaved patch was, even around the top of the tail. It wasn't as waterproof either and if it rained, it would get properly wet. Real, outdoorsy collies are waxed, like barbours. All they do is have a shake and all the water is off them and onto the kitchen floor.



Now that it's winter, I'm pleased to report that he's completely covered with a winter coat.



Let's face it, you can't go out annoying the cat without your coat on.