Thanks Be To Edward Lear

You may have guessed I'm partial to a little Lear Lunacy. Wandering around Blogland this week, I happen upon this lovely illustration of his, thanks to Grandma's Goulash. She had set folks the task of coming up with a caption of sorts, expressed in exactly 140 characters.  Now, I like such challenges, so yesterday I played with some ideas on this handy Character Counter, which takes all the stress out of the exercise. After one or two abortive attempts, I finally made my words tally.

 Confucius he say, "Squalling cat and shrieking woman equal madness for man caught between. Remember, silent tongue worth more than rubies!"

I often feel as old as Confucius, though less wise, and this morning was no exception. I started the day in a happy way, by going to say "What have I got, Doctor?" to my favourite medic - the one who sorted my BPPV - or benign paroxysmal positional vertigo, to give it its full name. Today I had more oddness to show him. Blotches. Not spots. Hot, red blotches, mostly on the front of my shins.  And what was his diagnosis? Dry skin! And his remedy? Six printed A4 size sheets of information about Atopic Eczema, some anti-histamine pills, and a huge carton of Dermol cream. This can be used as a soap substitute in the shower, as well as a daytime moisturiser. I may be about to turn into a very slippery character - or at least, body! Snorts and giggles as I 'slip' away to apply the first lot...

Playtime!

Well, it was for me this morning. No moans about it being Monday, or dull and damp, or the start of another working week. No sirree. Thanks to the Poetry Bus Driver  JoAnne McKay, passengers were asked to write about various animals for their Ticket to Ride. I've been creating a couple of my own odd wildlife graphics. My limericks you can read HERE, but my doodles you can see right now!

Silly Billy

Sydney Snake

Down In Devon

Here's a photo of South Pool after a dry summer, when the ducks had to search hard for somewhere to swim! The second cottage in from the right was where my husband's Grandparents lived, and next comes a picture of my daughter and my Mum when we visited the village in about 1973.









You can see it was still a quiet, rural place, far from the hustle and bustle of modern day life.


I already told you the story of the gentleman we met that day, called Perry Caunter, the person who taught my husband to be patient when weeding a field of carrots by hand, and here he is for you to say hello to, as well.

These are my little trio of time warp pictures for this week's Sepia Saturday. I think they each tell their own stories, without my help.

Trying Another Tack

Coming of Age

“Hal - look what your Father has brought for you! Come out here, you wastrel"

"But Mother, I've been up since dawn !" laughed the boy as he pulled back the entry curtain and joined Marta where she stood by their Fire Stones.

"And who carried that great load of kindling for you, ready for The Great Feasting we've been looking forward to for days? Did you see anyone else staggering under their load?"

But his wide smile soon turned to a serious stare as he saw what was fastened on a nearby sapling. "Goodness, just look at that shield! Do you mean it will really be mine after the Initiation Ceremony?"

"Indeed it will, though you won't be wielding it in battle for a good many years yet, my son. Twelve summers are not enough for such a trial! The Warrior Brotherhood must teach you all their skills before your life, and maybe ours, will truly be within your hands."

Hearing this, he bent closer to the shield and ran his fingers over the intricately carved surface.

“Oh! Look at the details... They are the most wonderful I’ve ever seen – they’re sending a tingling feeling all up my arm as I touch them."

"The Carver was paid many pelts to make you this shield. He told your Father the metal studs took days to perfect, let alone the boss... and the design he created especially is meant to ward off evil spirits.  No wonder you can sense its power!"

A sudden gust of wind whipped his blonde hair into his eyes, making them sting until he almost thought he could feel tears beginning... His cloak was flapping around his bare legs like a banner, tugging at the silver clasp fastened on his shoulder.

“Mother, I never thanked you for this cloak and clasp you left by my bed.  It must have taken many moons for you and my sisters to spin and weave enough wool. It’s so thick and warm – come, let me show youu !”  And he whirled its folds around his mother, as he hugged her.

“Enough of your silliness! Get you gone and help your Father and the others with the livestock. It’s going to be a very busy day…”

“Yes Mother right away Mother.” He gave a mock salute and ran to join the men. Today, he would be welcomed as one of them.                                                    

Is This A Vignette I see Before Me?

The ceremonial shield hung on a pole, outside their tent. Later that day, his father would present it to him, as a symbol of his coming of age. But it would be years before he would  wield it in battle. The Carver had been paid many pelts to produce it, for the metal studs and boss took days to perfect, and the intricate carving had been designed to ward off evil spirits.He ran his fingers over its surface, marvelling at the details, and feeling their hidden power tingling up his arm.

Hal was twelve summers old, and his blonde hair tickled his face but stung his eyes as the wind whipped it harder. His cloak too, was flapping around his bare legs like a banner, tugging at the silver clasp fastened on his shoulder.  His mother and sisters had been working for months to spin and weave enough cloth to make it, and had given him the silver clasp only this morning, in honour of his initiation. The Warrior Brotherhood would teach him all the skills he would need to become a worthy member of their tribe.

Tess Kincaid at Magpie Tales asked for a poem or vignette inspired by her photo of this shield. I already wrote a humourous poem, but wanted to try something more serious, so who better to tell me whether this constitutes a vignette, than fellow Blogpals? Can't wait to hear your opinions...

Stretched Out Birthdays

I can recommend one of these. By having several action replays of  my latest one, it gave me time to absorb the fact in a most civilised manner. I could begin with admitting 'I'm sixty nine plus one day', before I had to awake to the unalterable truth 'I'm seventy!' Hehehe!
I'd like to thank everyone who 'penned ditties for Pen', and ask them all to share in a sniff of these flowers which my kids sent on The Day.

When the grandchildren came yesterday, they brought me a cake with just enough candles to avoid a conflagration, but enough chocolate to satisfy their souls and mine.

Eldest granddaughter had wanted to make biscuits to bring, but after a rush job the night before at 8pm, they were voted too sweet, and were consigned to oblivion. To recompense her hard word, she and I retired to my kitchen, and she cooked a less sugary batch, which she pronounced 'Fine' - but they disappeared quickly, so no pictures!

Youngest granddaughter brought her Fairy Castle, a rather '3D jigsaw puzzle' of a palace, which took much concentration to erect, as the instructions had got lost one time, in transit. It is a well travelled castle.

While we girls were playing, No.1 son got to grips with my computer, but despite installation of a new sound card, it, and therefore I, remain in a silent place for the time being.

Normal service will be resumed as soon as possible!

Baby Bertie

I thought today I'd post this cherubic picture of my husband's elder brother, who died in infancy - about the age of  three, I think.  I have no idea of the cause of his death, but he certainly looked hale and hearty on the day this photograph was taken...

 His elegant Mama, called Topsy by her family, was a younger sister of the Dorothy I showed you in an earlier Sepia Saturday post. Her real name was Eliza Jane and this portrait must have been taken in the late 1920's, for my husband was born in October 1929 and I believe Bertie was already dead by then.
I wish I knew more about the story. The little I do  know was told me by Auntie Dorothy, who also gave me the picture.

Topsy went on to have three more children, two boys and a girl, and tragically, after the birth of her daughter, she developed what in those days was called 'milk fever'.As a result she never recovered enough to take care of her children from then on, and another  sister, Auntie Lettie, came to Portsmouth to look after them.

Topsy's husband, Arthur, died before the end of the war, as far as I know, and the children were sent to stay with relatives in South Pool, in Devon. There was only one bomb which dropped on the village, and my husband , then a youngster, was on his way to bed holding a lighted candle when it fell.

He never spoke much about his childhood, but he loved life in the country, working on his Aunt and Uncle's farm, and he would have liked nothing better than to be a farmer when he grew up... Anyone can dream!

And What Does Friday Mean?

A chance to write 55 words of wisdom to keep Mr G-Man alive and kicking! I've used my ration to let you all peep into my Diary - A Day To Day Diatribe from a newly minted septuagenarian who still hasn't learned to keep stumm for any length of time. There are too many words waiting to be born anew...

Is There A Doctor In The House?

My screen has laryngitis – it hasn’t got a voice.

It really is a nuisance! It isn't very 'noice'

not to hear some music via YouTube like before -

nor listen to the Archers on my favourite Radio 4.

I hope my son will fix it soon - a bit of sound is such a boon!

 More fifty-fivers  will be available free at Mr Knowitall's emporium!

I Shouldn't Have Counted My Chickens!

So far the day has had some hitches -
in fact, it started with two glitches!
Wide awake at four am
I only went to sleep again
when the clock crawled close to seven.
Then I dozed right off. Ah, heaven!
At 7.30 there's my Bro,
phoning from New Zealand!. So -
here I am, now rather dozy,
proud possessor of a posy
from my pal who came to lunch,
plus owner of a super bunch
of flowers from my son and daughter.

They are safely tucked in water,
while I am heading towards my bed
for a little nap instead!

Morning mishap made me curse -
my computer died, or worse.
Two hours later, clever son
had more or less the battle won
and there was Blogger good as new,
so I could come and talk to you,
My birthday's not quite been ball,
but thank you people one and all...

And it can only get better from here in! LOL

Hats Off, People!

Why? Because it's only polite when you come to call at Napple Mansions. Tomorrow, 16th March, I will need help to blow out the seventy candles that will be adorning my tiny cup cake.

A year ago, I gave Blogpals  fair warning that I would be expecting a little rhyme written for the occasion, which would then give them the right come to my party as an honoured guest.

I'm thinking it will be a rather extended affair, and I envisage it going on for the best part of a week, while I wait for your muse to strike.... I think I should start the ball rolling...

Invitation! 

Amid the bombs in '41 I came into the world.

But now I want to celebrate, so get the flags unfurled!

String 'em all round Blogland, red and white and blue,

and please come to my party - yes, you , and you, and you!

Write a little ditty, but not TOO rude , I pray,

and help me live it up a bit on my special day!

Hello Yesterday?

 She stared at the clockface. The hands were creeping round in the wrong direction! Time wasn't simply standing still, it was reversing... 
Whenever would it stop?

The image was supplied by Monkey Man  for his Sunday 160 prompt. I think all of us would like to be able to make our clocks do the same thing occasionally!

Now it's after lunch, and I've rewound  time to about 1985 when I first joined a barbershop chorus. Within three weeks, I was standing on these risers in Worthing I think it was, for a Music Festival. The pink and white tops we fondly referred to as 'throw ups', due to the shocking pink and sequin glitter. But they were exceedingly easy to adapt in terms of alternating the pattern we formed, should singers need to change places. We simply swung them round, until pink became white and white became pink. Not many stage costumes are that adaptable.
Although I missed writing a Sepia Saturday actually on Saturday, my Sunday 160 has allowed me to go backwards and rectify matters! LOL That makes the second offering for the same day - here was the first!

The Schoolroom

On a large wall chart were printed the letters of the alphabet, each with a corresponding picture. The first steps on the road to reading began with the teacher pointing to each in turn, while we chanted with her ' A for apple, B for butterfly, C for cat, D for dog',  and so on. I can still recite it like a litany, and in the appropriate sing-song voice, too.

The times tables were learnt in a similar fashion.  To this day, I regret that we stopped at the  ' twelve times',  and number thirteen never made its way into my brain. I'm sure it would have come in handy…

The owners of the school were Miss Hilda,  Miss Kathleen Mr Tom and Mr Frank Daley, and here they are as children, thanks to  a former pupil  who remained an enthusiastic keeper of School Photos and Reunion Records.

The Daley's as children

 Tom I don't remember, but Frank was tall and thin and a bit craggy, like a long necked tortoise. Kathleen was tall, like her brother, with large feet and hands, but a relatively gentle, though  solemn,  manner. By contrast, Hilda was short, verging on the rotund, and bright and chirpy as a little robin; pink, applely cheeks, a narrow pointed nose sporting fine, wire framed spectacles and short, silver white hair completed the picture. I see her still, wearing a pale pink blouse beneath a light grey, short waisted cardigan, and matching light grey skirt  which went down to her lower calf.  Her shoes had sturdy, block heels, about an inch  high, pointed toes and laces all up the front, like a brogue shoe. Her feet were quite small, compared to her sister's, and she turned her toes outward slightly as she walked.

Although she was one of the joint heads of the school, she still found time in her busy schedule to take us members of the 'baby class' for an occasional lesson.  She used to read poetry to us, and  we were often set to learn poems by heart.

If I were an apple

and grew on a tree,

I think I'd fall down

on a nice boy like me.

I wouldn't stay there

giving nobody joy,

but fall down at once

and say 'Eat me, my boy'.

This was definitely one of them. The entire class, come the end of my first school year when Prize Giving Day came round, had to go on stage and recite it before an audience of adoring parents. And a grand old day it was, as the venue for the festivity was South Parade Pier Theatre. Probably every class performed something, but what with the nerves attendant on my first stage appearance, and the pride in my first pair of black shoes (I'd always had brown ones before),  all aspects of the proceedings that didn't directly involve me, were eclipsed!

At the end of the performances came the time for the actual Prize Giving. Trestle tables were set up at the front of the stage, and the Heads of School, plus an occasional governor, sat behind it in a solemn row, whilst year by year, and class by class, the top performers filed past and were awarded with a book and a handshake from Miss Hilda, after Miss Kathleen had handed her the appropriate volume from the stacks of books on the table.  

My prize that time was 'Parlicoot', an endearing, imaginary animal.  It told the story of his adventures whilst trying to find another who looked like himself. I remember crying at his sad plight before he finally encountered Playmate at the end of the story. I still have the book, and have added a picture of its front cover, as well as proof of its happy ending, to let you see what a delightful creature Parlicoot actually was!

It has just dawned on me, although it's nowhere near Saturday, and the illustrations aren't sepia, I may as well link it to Alan and Kat's Sepia Saturday for March 12th...As I said before, 'Waste Not Want Not!' And thanks to Merinz for telling us the rest of that rhyme!

Waste Not Want Not

Writing takes time, I'm sure you'll agree. Last week, for homework, my creative writing tutor asked us to concentrate on sights and sounds as we chose a subject from his shortlist of ideas. One of these was 'Cleaning out and laying a coal fire.'

This fired my imagination (pardon the pun), as I was a child long before central heating had become as common as it is in today's modern world, and I well remember the daily chore of lighting the fire. Here's what I wrote:-


Ritual Fire Dance, Perhaps...

Every morning, gritty pink-grey ash would waft up as I watched my mother's knobbly fingers sift through to save any unburnt pieces of coal. The fire basket screeched as it got dragged out from the recess of the hearth. Soon, the repeated metallic scrape and thump of the shovel sounded as it hit against the fire bricks after each scoop, until Mum had cleared every bit of ash and sent it shooshing into a waiting ash can, whose anodised aluminium lid and handle clanked and rattled in protest at being force fed with the unappetising breakfast..

Newspaper sheets crackled as she scrunched them into the empty grate and laid a criss-cross pattern of splintered wood sticks on top. Sometimes she would add noxious smelling, greasy-white fire lighter cubes, before placing the pieces of rescued coal from yesterday's fire on the wooden scaffold, along with a few satin black knobs from the scuttle.

The rasp of a match would be the signal for me to hold my breath, as I watched the flames encircle the paper and wood. Often, another large sheet of newspaper would be held across the front of the hearth, to help the fire 'draw' - or was it to help the chimney 'draw' the fire? I only remember the whooshing noise of the draft racing up into the stack, that made me think of trains in tunnels, and the horrible blast of air that sucked through open carriage windows, smelling of soot...

Occasionally, the fire ate the paper and wood before the coal was properly alight, and the whole charade had to be played over again. But on a good day, tiny embers would catch and Mum and I would will the fire to take hold, and sigh with relief when it did.

It would be many years before I realised that sometimes in life we need to sift through different cinders, to rescue dying embers and persevere until we can encourage them to blaze again.

Oh, Dear!

Sometimes a Candid Camera shot is more fun than a Posed Portrait. This one goes back in the mists of time, to when one of my relations got married.

My cousin Betty is the lady with the navy and white hat, which suddenly proved bothersome. The large bow adorning the back of it got entangled with the collar of her suit, and shot the whole thing askew over her silky soft hair. I caught the moment when her hand had just set it to rights, but it was only later that I realised I'd included my husband's mammoth yawn in the photo as well!

In fact the whole composition speaks volumes, from the small, grumbly boy in the foreground being firmly kept from mischief by an elderly retainer, to the dangling camera case of another amateur photographer in the lower right hand corner.

But I can't help chuckling further at what looks like a loo seat hanging on the church wall in the top left segment, nor the short lady below it who appears to be wearing either a lamp shade, or a mob cap on her head! Don't weddings bring out the best in people?

I hope my choice of Sepia Saturday snapshot will give you all a grin as big as mine when I unearthed it this morning...

I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud

And found ? No! Not a blooming crowd
of daffodils, all bright and breezy,
but something which was far more pleasey!
A clever site that gives quotations -
you'll find one fit for situations
never dreamed of! Have a look?
I am sure I'm not mistook!
Here, << just click upon this link
and let me know what you all think!
It's to Rob at Thursday Think Tank
that I want to give a big 'Thank
you' for pointing out the site.
Now go and have some fun! Alright?

I'm Being Haunted

Help! Pancakes have invaded my mind! And it would seem, many of you have been suffering the same fate! So far I've resisted the urge to rush to the kitchen, but I'm not sure how long I will be able to hold out...

I've trawled through Google images today to find an illustration which most closely resembles my pancakes of yore, and this one fits the bill well.

There were many others which didn't... Images of thick, flaccid looking anaemic circles of, no doubt, unimaginable toughness besieged my senses, and just about put me off the thought of pancakes for life! These ones at least, look thin and crispy enough to make my mouth water.

 But it was Kat Mortensen, alias Poeticat, whose email made me feel obliged to confess a small fact I omitted in Monday's post. The dreaded First Pancake Crumpled Mess. How many of you know what I mean? In the eagerness to get started on the feast, it's tempting to begin cooking before the pan is quite hot enough.  It's easy to pour on a trifle more batter than is wise, because the hand /eye coordination has yet to find the perfect balance... This pale amoeba sits silently in the pan, taunting you. Eventually, slight hissing begins around the circumference, but by this time, the centre of it is stuck like glue to the griddle. A hearty scraping with the fish slice only serves to concertina the amorphous mass into a heap, and even if you manage to flip it over, it will never be a thing of beauty!

But by golly, does it taste good! Hehehe! I know - I've acquired a certain liking for them over years...hot, in the fingers, no lemon, no sugar, straight-from-the-pan-heaven!

Pancake Day Looms

And with it sugary thoughts of mouthwatering lemony delights, back in the days when I had two small children, plus their Dad, ready to devour them. I used to approach tea time like a well planned battle ( lunch time pancakes were impossible, thanks to school) .
With a large griddle heating on the stove, a tiny coffee cup of oil standing nearby  (so it was easy to measure one quarter teaspoonful as needed to keep the pan stick free) and three large dinner plates at hand, I was ready for the off. The sugar canister and lemon juice were in Dad's control, for I soon learned small children can do dreadful things with these ingredients if left alone.
And so the fun would begin.We decided before hand who would get the first pancake off the production line, and the lucky chosen one would come close to the dining room hatchway, and watch Master Chef (me) as I dipped another tiny coffee cup into the batter and poured its contents onto the griddle, with a satisfying hiss..I was never a pancake tosser - a large kind of fish slice let me flip them over once the first side started to bubble, and from then on, it was a race to see if the cook or the munchers won each round!.Happy days!

It was Willow's Magpie that called forth these memories, although her illustration is a trifle gory! I can promise you, no blood was spilt in my kitchen on any Shrove Tuesday!

A bloody hand print on the glass?
Things came to a pretty pass
when pancake day turned very sour
and ended when I murdered our
kiddywinks - the dreaded crew
who shouted "More! Two will not do!"


This is dedicated to my kids, who used to demand a constant supply of pancakes until their little bellies were full to bursting! Hehehe! I hasten to add, they are to this day alive and kicking, and as fond of pancakes as ever!

Who Could Resist

A Fairy? Look at this one for example. What is going on I wonder? Here's my guess!

All very well saying "If the shoe fits!" in that wise way, but why not use a bit of Fairy Powder to produce a perfect match, shoe to foot?

This is my Microfiction Monday 140 characters for Susan over at Stony River, where you can find more examples of brevity for your amusement...

Photo Fun

How's about this for a picture to start the memories flowing? Totalfeckineejit, The Poetry Bus driver and original instigator of the whole thing, has given us a selection of photos, with a request to write fourteen lines of poetry about one of them as the price of a Ticket To Ride in his vehicle this week.

Mention of fourteen lines made me think 'Sonnet', a poetic form of which I am inordinately fond. But being contrary, my muse kicked that idea into touch, and instead came up with a more light hearted set of seven rhyming couplets, of sorts, to add up to the required number.

The photo itself is so delightful, I can't resit the temptation to cross reference it to Alan and Kat's Sepia Saturday, despite this being Sunday, and despite the Poetry Bus journey starting on whichever day the driver revs the engine!

Lazy Days

Once life was leisurely,
simple, pleasurely.
A donkey and cart
pleased a boy's heart
when he held the reins.
The ill gotten gains
of a day in the sun
for everyone,
might be found
in hedges around
the place.
But to chase
the berries or flowers
might take hours!

Long Ago And Far Away

My Dad The Sailor-Smoker!

As Sepia Saturday is on the horizon again, and features ships this week, I though I'd share this photo of my Dad enjoying a spot of sunshine - and I hate to say, a cigarette! I've probably mentioned some of the following details before - in which case forgive me - but not all of you will have read my earlier ramblings!

During the war,when Dad was away at sea, Mum and I stayed with Granny Ada. Mum shared Gran's double bed in the back bedroom and my cot was against the wall to the left of the door, with the fireplace at its foot.  I don't remember this ever being lit, though I swear black's white I once saw a tiny mouse scuttle to hide under its basket. Mum denied it, but to this day, I'm certain it wasn't a figment of my imagination.

The base of the cot was the usual, old fashioned, wire framed base which balanced on the ledge at  the  bottom of the bars. One night, I must have fidgeted a bit enthusiastically, for one end of the base fell off the supports, and I found myself  head down, feet up, as though I was on the slopes of Portsdown Hill!  Guess I was so used to the bombs, it was no surprise to encounter a different kind of thing that went bump in the night.

'Mum!'  I called out in alarm. Gran, who was either still awake anyway, or simply quicker to come to than Mum, looked across and said 'It's alright Dorry, she's still tucked in!'- as if she was prepared to leave me at that precarious angle for the rest of the night! Luckily, Mum saw things differently… (Long afterwards,when I was older, we all three managed to laugh at the ridiculous situation many times over.)

Eventually,  I was old enough to go upstairs on my own, and I had another lucky escape one day. On Gran's dressing table stood a candle  and a box of matches. How exciting! I thought I'd have a go at lighting it, as I'd seen Uncle Fred strike enough matches to light his cigarettes. It might be fun to have a go myself…   I struck the match on the side of the box, and joy, joy, it lit ! However, the smoke drifted up my nose something awful, and made me catch my breath. I quickly blew hard to put the flame out. At this point, Mum realised I'd gone AWOL, and up the stairs floated the dreaded words, 'What are you doing up there?' Then I got the dressing down I deserved, for the smell of the spent match was enough to give the game away, without my spluttering. As if the German bombs and incendiaries weren't enough, I was doing my own pyromaniac impression. At least it put me off smoke for the rest of my life, so cigarettes never became an attraction.

Me with Granny Ada

Goggling at Google

This image is the heading on today's Google page.
Am I the only one who finds annoying the rapidly changing succession of ludicrous attempts at portraying the letters      G O O G L E in ever contorted forms?
With the number of idiosyncratic happenings so many of us find in and around Google Blogger, would their technical people not be better employed ironing out some of these glitches, rather that playing games with their heading, ad nauseam?

Grouch, moan, groan, grumble... Who agrees with me?

Shock Horror!

Have you ever caught sight of yourself in a mirror and, for a split second, not known you were looking at YOU? It's a slightly unnerving experience, though I'd be hard put to work out why. I mean, surely we always know what we look like at some level of consciousness?

But what about old photos? I was looking through the tiny computerised images of ones that my Bro sent me, and one dark photo made me want to take a closer look. Hence the shock horror...it was me!? Caught half-blink, and taken in only available light, it gives a strange, other world feel to the me-that-was, back in 1974...ish.

I seem to remember, Bro often 'bounced' the flashlight by directing it towards the walls or ceiling, and that may be what he did in this case.

Many of his rolls of film were not developed and printed as soon as he'd finished them, but travelled, unseen, all the way to New Zealand, and endured the traumas of a flooded basement before his dogged persistence rescued them and transferred his images to the computer.

 I always knew he was a dab hand with a camera, but being able to see his pictures en masse, in miniature, as they appear in my folders, gives me a whole new perspective of The Bearded Wonder, as I affectionately think of him! LOL

And now here's a beautiful 'Family Tree' photo of his wife and children that was taken round about the same time as my mug shot. Have a putty medal for it Bro! It's a corker...

And a big thank you to The Power Behind The Throne who was probably responsible for this shot of The Artist At Work! >>>>>>>>

Look Out People!

On clicking the 'Comments' tab which appears on the dashboard page of Blogger, I saw that mine was telling me nine thousand plus comments were on the list! Now, this seemed like an awful lot of wasted computer brainpower, so I clicked 'select all' and 'delete'. As soon as I'd done this, I had misgivings. The screen told me 25 comments had been deleted, and when I went to my latest blog page to inspect the damage, 25 of my 36 comments received regarding Auntie Dorothy, had indeed been deleted FROM MY BLOG PAGE! Not from the stupid list under the comment tab of the dashboard, as I'd expected. Thank goodness the 'all' wasn't ALL, or I'd have no comments anywhere.

I can't believe
1) That I was daft enough to trust anything on Blogger without asking somebody else first, and
2) That Blogger has such an apparently useless feature in the first place.
Any comment may be deleted at any time by the blog owner, so why this confusing belt and braces job?

 Apologies to all my lovely followers who took the time and trouble to write me explanations of their own name likes and dislikes. I have inadvertently resigned them to the great Hole In The Sky where such Blogger Gaffs finally come to rest. I'm SO sorry, people!

LATE EXTRA Some mistakes can be rectified! By laboriously going through my email notifications of comments, I've managed to re-instate all except seven of those I deleted. Although they show the Jinksy name on them, the correct author's name does appear at the end of each. Better than nothing, eh?!!

What's In A Name?

Auntie Dorothy

Looking through my picture folders just now, I found this photo I took many years ago.

I still love looking at this beautiful lady, who was one of my husband's aunties.  She, together with my own Auntie Nell, who was also christened Dorothy, was part of the reason why we chose to give our  daughter the name Dorothy for her middle name. Unfortunately, this was not appreciated by my offspring, even though I explained it meant 'Gift of God', and was particularly appropriate as I had almost given up producing a baby!
I wonder how many of us are happy with the names our parents chose for us?

I've linked this to Sepia Saturday, as Friday is so close to the weekend! 

Saturday Morning Extra! I've just remembered I have a photo of her taken on 21 December, 1921. Even more beautiful, eh?

 

Those Were The Days

Way before the advent of towns and shops, let alone supermarkets, people set great store by local markets. Self sufficiency was a way of life, but villagers still needed to buy, or barter for, produce not of their own making. Today, Monday's Child has an illustration by Kate Greenaway, of one such market, for which I've supplied a little ditty for the youngsters - or the young at heart - which amounts to the same thing! Thanks, bkm!

The piper played a merry tune,
though dressed in night attire.
He should have waited for the moon
to peep around the spire!

The butcher looked on with alarm
but children ran a-pace,
for music added extra charm
to the quiet market place.

Lady Greensleeves could, I'm sure
sell her cabbages to kings,
or stripey marrows to the poor,
for they were handsome things.

The baker balanced on his head,
with careful concentration,
a tray of pies and rolls of bread -
he deserves our admiration!

The villagers from far and near
soon came to join the fun.
That market day, it's very clear,
was enjoyed by everyone.

Flashback!

This is a Google Image - not mine!

Blogpals know I usually post about my life's little traumas as and when they happen, but I've been mulling over this one for a while. Leaving out medical minutiae, suffice it to say, a 'phone call from my Doctor last Wednesday had me zipping to the surgery to pick up a prescription.

The pills were to be taken four times a day, with or after food, so as it was lunchtime by then, I quickly made a ham sandwich and a salad, and dutifully swallowed a tablet. I thought, as it was relatively large, that it had scratched my throat on the way down, for I noticed an uncomfortable sensation in the tonsil area that had me swigging more water, then opting for a choc-ice to cool it down.

The leaflet which came in the pill packet caught my eye, as I started to fill my pillbox, and it unfolded to show the following:- Like all medicines, it can cause side effects, although not everybody gets them.
It didn't take me long to realise I was one of the few!  My throat was itching, and the irritation even spread inside up to my ears! I looked in a mirror, and my uvula looked swollen and there was a bright red rash down the side of my neck. Eek!

Within a few seconds, I felt my lips swelling, at which point I rang the surgery for advice. The receptionist said she'd get the Doctor to callback immediately. It was getting hard to talk by now, so when Doctor Hughes told me to phone for an ambulance, I asked her if she could do it for me.

Next , an operator from the ambulance service telephoned and said she's stay on the line until I could tell her the medic's car was at my door, which it was within a couple of minutes.

By this time, I had red patches appearing on my skin, and I was itching like fury. The medic opened her box of tricks, while asking me lots of questions, and put  a cannula in my arm , into which she injected a hearty dose of  Piriton.

About five minutes later, the ambulance plus two more medics appeared on the scene, and transported me to the Emergency Department of Queen Alexandra Hospital - about a ten minute drive away.
At this point , I was the colour of a lobster, and felt as though I had sunburn, and was shivering into the bargain.
Thus I spent an entertaining three hours being poked, prodded, wired up, fed pills and kept under observation until I once again resembled a human being instead of a crustacean!.
I was then allowed home, none the worse for my little adventure, but a few days anti-histamine pills kept my brain rather dozy, hence the time delay before letting you share in the excitement! Hehehe!

A Serious Note Creeps In

In one of those Blogland coincidences, as a subject for his Sunday 160 characters, Monkey Man suggested 'War?', then proceeded to write a fun piece about a different kind of explosion. But the word to me has a profound meaning, for I was born during one, and grew up with its aftermath in evidence all around the stricken city of Portsmouth. Which perhaps explains my own 160 this week.

I think wars create more problems than they solve. The warring factions need to communicate, understand their opponents viewpoint, or hostility will continue.

Crest Of A Wave?

Not quite! My Dad often drew crests of a different kind, when he was on board ship. I always liked this one, because of the garlanded animal... The caption reads 'Royal Warwickshire', and below the signature it says 'Fowey' - one of the ship's Dad served on.

It's another offering for Sepia Saturday, taken from my Pa's Autograph Album.

LATE EDITION EXTRA !  I've found this cap badge for The Royal Warwickshire Regiment,  thanks to Google , which could be purchased for the princely sum of £7.50 ! There's lots of information available if anyone wants to know more about the regiment.

Early Morning Or Late Night?

It's 1.30am, whatever you want to call it. Probably that explains why my brain has decided to post Willow's Magpie picture, for a quickie before bed...

I think a thick brick
is not as thick as a plank,
but far swankier.

P.S.Steven says that should be 'thwankier!' He's right!


Who says a haiku has to be sensible? 

Perhaps I should have gone straight to bed at that point. But no. Instead, I wanderered along a Blogland path or two and found the name Napple Notes had been taken in vain by a Welsh lady (one whom I have visited before) who bears the delightful name of Ada Trellis. It was clear from what she had written, that 'sensible' was probably the last adjective one would choose to describe her penmanship, if her latest post was anything to go by... Click on her name to decide for yourself whether we are sisters under the skin...

At It Again!

At what? A bit of a leg pull. I have never learned to train my mind to be serious, so when I saw the illustration for Monday's Child, what sprang to the fore was not a twee, kiddywinks ditty along the lines of Peter Pan and Wendy, but a somewhat cynical observation on an aspect of our present culture. Who has not seen in the media examples of unusual age discrepancies amongst some newly weds?
Don't get me wrong.  I approve of love, providing it's genuine, no matter where it occurs.  But in some of the news items engendered by the subject, one cannot help but doubt the motives of the participants in these unbalanced unions. So this rather explains my non-child-friendly poem for today...(Apologies to BKM!)

Wedding bells and lover's knot?
Kids do grow up fast!
Look at the Toy Boy she has got -
I can't but look aghast!

The Love Bug's biting younger
participants each day  -
it must be raging hunger,
makes it carry on this way...