Where Does It End?

Society is changing, progress never stops.  Most of us go about our lives not really noticing until we see a media splash or social media post, which, it seems on first glance, to be unreal.  

Take the almost silent protest about the use of the full stop in writing, where does it end, how do I know when to breathe, what about finishing one idea and starting another? (Thank goodness for the commas and question mark there).  It seems hard to believe that the important and technical full stop could possibly be seen as a frightening and an intimidating tyrant that it apparently is to millennials.

When I think of arguments (in Dutch and in American English in particular), the use of the word Period! or Punt! is used to close down the discussion of the other party, often with intimidating rudeness.  In English (mother country English that this), we use more class by saying Enough! Or perhaps Fuck off!  Okay maybe not the latter, but we don't, in common usage say Full Stop! to shut people down.

So apart from this annoying use of punctuation, why is society so seemingly fragile?  It is a tough one.

There has always been the mob (often a minority group), who decide that they are right or that their ideas should take precedence and all others are very clearly wrong or at best misplaced.  Most of us, thankfully, have lives to lead and can only watch on with mutterings of disagreement as we watch people chaining themselves to fences or gluing themselves to the top of commuter trains.

It has to be said though, there is a place for bringing issues to the attention of the public and raising awareness.  The trouble I find is that I see no balance to that awareness.  It is unfortunate that the media has and, in my opinion, always will, sensationalise things to an extreme.

I have read this week that the patriotic celebrations that are The Last Night of the Proms, is changing to sideline the signature pieces of Rule Britannia and Land of Hope and Glory from the centerpiece of the evening.  I have remarked that, from the peak of pride in 2012, when London hosted the Olympics to the deep trough of despair marked out by Brexit, enhanced by Covid-19 and the resurgence of BLM to the forefront, the UK is having to weather a very bitter and divided period brought about by those who seem to lack tolerance or even the ability to listen and accept that others hold different, if not extreme views.  Indeed I remarked at the time when the sea of European Union flags overwhelmed the floor  of The Albert Hall in the aftermath of the Brexit vote and when the traditional maritime theme was washed out of the programme, that the event was being cleansed by the prevailing societal views of the day.  If you like it was playing to the home crowd, London being a much more diverse crowd that the rest of the country.

It is important that you find your own path and hold your own opinions, but more importantly that you listen to others and, if necessary, you learn and change.  It is a sad state of affairs that, at some point in the near future, I believe I will give up trying to balance the arguments of others.  

Although, when they come to punish me for holding my opinion, then I might find I have renewed strength to resist. 

The Middle Watch

Through the darkness I strain to glimpse the tiny light, uncertain at times whether it is there or not.  I adjust the optics of the binoculars, ranging slightly up and down with the focus to see if I can get a clearer view.  It is there, I am sure it is there but then can I now see another light emerging from the gloom?

I fix my sight on the possible light as the ship rises and dips slowly, we almost tread water at 5 knots, riding the swell.  There is no noise on the bridge, no hiss of the radio, no clatter of headsets.  Voices are low and dark shapes move anonymously to check and scan indicators.

The operations room below is silent, they have not yet noticed the contact, if indeed it is there.  It is there, I am sure it is.  The crew sleep, just watchkeepers sedately making checks and watching their screens.  Electronic ears ready to alert, infrared eyes waiting for target indication.  Tasteless coffee is sipped, the clock ticks slowly onwards.

The lonely engineer shuffles along the deck, making water in the night and checking systems.  Others carefully dismantle the generator, invisibly maintaining the power.  Reminiscing over the last run ashore and planning the next.

On the upper deck in the cool warm breeze a seabird maintains a lazy station on the beam of the ship.  The air search radar sweeps slowly, purposefully around, humming as it scans the air.  The navigation radar sweeps much faster, urgently seeking contacts, yet almost noiseless.  The signal halyards make a gentle slapping noise, just to keep the beat.  The white foam breaks gently on the bow and moves, hypnotically, down the waist.

He cups his mug as he stands on the quarterdeck, following the wake of the ship.  It is long since his cigarette was finished, but he lingers and savours the peace.  With a sigh he steps back through the door, clipping it shut, he returns to his station.

The ship never sleeps, but she slumbers with poise during the middle watch.

The Wall

The eyes, defiant, steadfast and determined.  The inexperience of youth exploring the edge of the herd with the attendant risk.  I skirted closer to my target, observed in every detail.  Not an inch of ground given, no movement at all.  As I levelled to shoot my subject, I compromised my desire to capture the image with the risk to my own safety.  This was one of the two images, that until recently had adorned the wall of our entrance hall.

F8 - 1/320 - ISO 800 focal length 194mm

Mature, experienced and closer to the herd, my second target was impressive against his backdrop.  Likewise, I cautiously kept my distance to capture the image.  Both were taken at Tatton Park in Cheshire.

F8 - 1/320 sec - ISO 800 focal length 400mm

 Both images were taken with a Canon EOS 5D MkIII using a 400mm L series lens.

These images dominated the entrance hall each measuring 2 x 3 feet or 61 x 90 cm in acrylic.  

An decided that we needed to refresh the view and so we agreed a change, interestingly the wall now centres around me and tells its own story.

I could write a story behind each of these pictures and perhaps in the future I will.  For now just a taste.

The Commission from the Queen stands for my service in the Royal Navy, the trials (and boy have there been some) and adventures, not to mention the achievement of entering the service in the first place!  Most of these tend to adorn the lavatory walls, if gossip is to be believed.  For me the certificate, when it eventually arrived, spent the most part in a cardboard tube and then, when framed, being moved from place to place.  I actually believe this is the first time it has been on a wall anywhere and that is 5 years after leaving!  For me it marks the hard work, the friendships and the challenges faced down.  It also marks the fact that I am now and forever more will be part of a centuries old proud and respected organisation.

The small picture to the bottom left is a picture of Ayr in Scotland, this has a couple of memories for me in particular it was my first assignment as an Officer in the Royal Navy and my rented accommodation had a similar view to the picture from the mid 19th century.  This picture was given to me by my Auntie, who had a collection, including this one, in London.  The picture went to sea onboard HMS Ark Royal and has the velcro strips on the back, which I used to secure it in my cabin.  I had a short but exciting time in Ayr serving in HMS Gannet or planet gannet as they used to call it.

To the right of the Ayr picture is a Dali.  Dali is probably my favourite artist, followed closely perhaps by Monet.  That said I am not someone who gushes over art and the messages that are conveyed.  I cannot fully appreciate my attraction to Dali, perhaps his surrealism connects to my vivid and surreal dreams.  This particular print was purchased at his theatre museum in Figueres, to which I strongly recommend a visit.  An and I spent a very pleasant few days in Barcelona a few years back and it was a condition of mine that we visit this museum.  I was educated by An in various other art visits during the trip and in fact I blogged about the visit at the time.  Again, I would recommend Barcelona and the places we saw, it is a special place.

Moving to the Type 42 destroyer (bottom right). This is a piece of artwork bought for me by a friend and marking my service as a Naval Reservist.  The work is by Gillian Jones, who has a very successful line in these and similar works.  For me I served onboard HMS Newcastle, a Type 42 destroyer.  In this case I was a rating and experienced more than a year of life and work onboard, travelling to some interesting places and serving with some truly amazing people.  The work was hard but it was one of the best periods of my life, so many happy memories with the sea coursing through my veins as it does to this day.

The small black framed verse above the destroyer is The Blaydon Races.  This is from my home, it will always be a place I feel secure and welcome.  I am a Geordie, despite being mislabelled by fellow Geordies as I spoke with a very light accent (blame my late auntie for insisting that I use proper words and speech).  I have spent the best part of my life travelling and away from home but nothing quite feels as good as seeing the landmarks as you drive north up the A1 or pass through Durham on the train to Newcastle.  A fellow Geordie visiting my house, per chance, will find some comfort and warmth if they see this on the wall.

The centrepiece is a picture painted by my brother as a Christmas gift.  This left me speechless when I was given it last Christmas.  The quality and detail is enough in itself, but having lived and grown up in this scene, I and my family can pick out details and dive deeper into the meaning.  Indeed, friends who we grew up with will also recognise aspects of the picture.  More so, the story behind the 10 years spent there, the adventures, tears, struggle and joy.  So many stories waiting to be told with disbelief.  For me the picture represents so many things both visible and hidden.

So there we have it, our re-configured welcome, ready for the guests to come and each picture with their stories to tell. 

I Lay Down My Cap

Daily I see you, but no thought do I give,

Sixteen years of my life, on my bench do you mark,

Stories you can tell, no one stops to ask,

Pain you have seen, no scars do you show,

Storms you have weathered, in silence you lie,

Teams have you led, no doubts do you show,

Over seas have you plied, little sign can you see,

Shipmates have you lost, no grief can be seen,

Strength have you shown, fear you forget,

Adversity you conquered, defeat you admit not,

Comfort you have given, solace have you sought,

Service you have given, no thanks do you seek,

In the darkness you stand watch, no relief do you need,

Remember your past, with pride should you rest,

Keep watch my friend, part of you I am.

Brioche, Bloody Brioche

The shriek pieced the air, "can you come and help me Pleeeeeeeease!"  Years of training kicked in as I sprang from my distracting keyboard and yelled, "yes dear!"  Momentarily I flew down the two flights of stairs, taking care not to lose my footing on the wooden painted floor, it would not do to skid down the last few steps on my coccyx.

The scene that I anticipated was one of minor upset, so I was not prepared for the smart sitrep that An provided.  "The mixer is kapot, I have spilt egg on the floor and I have hurt myself!"  I cannot remember the order now but my first instinct was to look at the mixer, this was encouraged by the continued kneading of the dough and relatively low priority given to the injury by An.

My experience in handling damage control in HMS Ark Royal means it is easy and quick to prioritise the tasks.  I had by now caught sight of the growing pool of blood gathering beneath the left hand.  The blood was bright and, I presumed, oxygenated.  It has not quite contaminated the main part of the dough, which An was pounding with her serviceable hand, it was as though she was holding off the kamikaze attacks, staying at her post whilst not quite mortally wounded.

I quickly started to clean wound the would, as it was, surrounded by thick cloying dough.  An initial clean and then application of kitchen towel with pressure applied.  An continued to knead throughout.  I felt like one of those medics urgently tending to the injury of my machine gunner colleague, all the while trying to keep pressure applied.  I dashed back to the bedroom to get the plasters and antiseptic.  I would have to clean more thoroughly.

I was back down in a jiff and had seen seepage, not enough pressure!  An urgently called, "I need the bowl to put the dough in!"  What?  Okay!  I applied pressure to her little finger and 'danced' around her as I stretched to get the large glass bowl from the other side of the kitchen.  I am sure it was not like this on Omaha beach!  "You need to swill the oil around the bowl!", pleaded An.  It never made it as An suddenly remembered that she needed to add the butter, is this real, I thought?  Are we prioritising brioche over body?  I was impressed that she was holding it together, I mean the egg on the floor was a distant memory by now.

Butter kneaded in and now the dough was in the bowl, but then I needed to put the bowl aside and, "Not in the sun!", exclaimed An.  Dough crisis controlled we could now turn to the wider clean up and dressing of the wound.  A bit of warm water is best to clear the sticky dough from her tiny hands, I noted that she had not even removed her wedding rings before starting.

Carefully I cleaned and examined the cut, which had been a result of An removing the very sharp, dangerously exposed and serrated blending fitting from the mixer.  I have horror stories of my mother with corned beef tins, knives and even blunt objects causing cuts and bleeding, at least my brother was around to handle that!

I dropped a couple of drops of antiseptic onto the relatively deep cut, she has tiny fingers and this was her pinkie.  I cut and applied a strip of plaster and then bound it with some sticky bandage.  As with damage control, once the main threat has been dealt with it then becomes a cleanup operation.  The mixer defect would have to wait whilst I cleaned the blood and dough off the counter, mentally, I had not allowed the blood situation to get to me.  I can cope when I don't have to think about it.

The mixer has a UK plug on it and had been clearly over strained, An had assessed this by noting the aroma of burnt out motor that she could detect.  I was hoping that it would be just a fuse and thus went to my UK plug stowage to see if I had a suitable part that I could store-rob (naval parlance for canabalise).  To our collective joy, a systems operator check revealed that the motor was in fact functioning fine, although it is difficult to tell if permanent damage has been done.  During the diagnostics and de-briefing I asked An if she had used the correct fitting and she confirmed that she had used the egg whisk device at an earlier point, not realising that is was an egg whisk device.  Needless to say the egg whisk device is buggered so she took the next best thing, a sharp bladed fitting instead!

Emergency and de-brief over, An sought solace in the garden in the sun and I retreated back to my standby location in the loft.

The brioche turned out very well, in fact so well that An told me to post pictures on Facebook and wanted to inform the local press.  It was very nice with a crumbly kind of crust and very soft interior.  I am glad she fought off the Kamikaze and that I was able to dance with her in the kitchen.

Corona Virus - Lockdown

The road has been quiet, the wide expanse of the M1 is a joy to drive.  I have seen relatively few lorries and cars since I started out from London, keeping to my strict 79mph on cruise control most of the way.  Leicester, Chesterfield and then Sheffield flew by. Driving alone always makes the journey seem longer.  

Then I saw it, the police patrol car as it shifted almost casually from between two lorries and into the middle lane.  I am Mr Grey when it comes to driving, I keep my speed steady, my driving sensible (for the most part) and I follow the rules even if it means a long detour having missed an exit.  I watched him like a hawk and clicked my cruise control down several notches to about 72mph.  I have only ever been stopped once before for speeding and that was speeding at just under a ton.  It was also many, many years ago.

Slowly and inevitably the patrol car caught up, no special effort, no flashing lights, just gradual, calm controlled approach.  Little did I know that the occupants were conducting some mandatory checks before proceeding with the stop.  The police have an amazing ability to track and interrogate the details of cars and, due to the unique crisis at the moment, they were running through an extra set of checks.

As I watched the painfully slow approach of the car I started to wonder if my tyres and lights were okay or perhaps something else I had not noticed.  The patrol car joined formation behind me and kept a safe but slightly intimidating distance behind me.  By now my cruise setting had dropped to bang on 70 and normally the police would sweep past, probably amused that they had asserted their authority without actually doing anything.  For my part most of my focus was not on the road in front but the spectre haunting me from behind like death itself.

Mentally I started to go through a checklist of possible offences I may have committed and I ticked them off, in the negative sense, as I worked through them.  I had not got started when the blue lights sent that epileptic inducing flash bouncing off my rear view mirror.  Immediately I indicated and angled onto the hard shoulder, coming  to a stop beneath one of the motorway gantries.  Okay.  Here we go.

The patrol car came to a halt some 3 metres behind me and, after what seemed like an age, the nearside door of the patrol car opened and the officer stepped out.  I rummaged in my glove box to get my documents and my driving licence ready.  I had it in time for him getting to my window. which I lowered about half way.

Licking the Knife

Twisting and lifting aloft, he held the blade at a slight downward angle to avoid the rivulet of blood from running down the handle, over the fingers and onto the wrist.  It was in vain, as the blood ran too quickly.  Instinctively he used the tip of his tongue to stem the leading droplet.  Expertly following the reverse path, he licked up and over the fingers to the blade, and then cleaned both edges.  Despite this, the stain of red could not be cleansed from between the hairs on his fingers and ridges of his knuckles.  Only moments before he had taken the blade and drawn it across the throat of his long time adversary. Asleep as he was, he offered no resistance.  The urgent attempt to catch the drips was rendered entirely futile, given that blood was now spurting over his otherwise pristine shirt and trousers.

Well, that is one imaginative interpretation of my title, however, it is not my intended interpretation.  When I thought of this I was actually thinking of the childhood pastime of licking the honey or jam off the knife after making a sandwich, the same urgent desire not to spill anything is still part of the deal though.  In fact more so as I would deliberately overload the knife for the sole purpose of getting a freebie.  If I am honest, this habit has stayed with me, and now I am 47!

Now I do think about the germs I leave and potentially the fact that my wife may come along and unwittingly use the knife.  Usually though I give a guilty shrug of the shoulders and drop the knife into the sink.  In my own mind I am averse to taking a used knife, not because my wife or anyone else has licked it 'clean', I just don't like the contamination of condiments such as cocktail sauce or, heaven forbid, rhubarb jam (Yuk).

When thinking of the title I was feeling a bit sentimental about my childhood days, in particular when we used to go to my granddad's house for Sunday dinner.  This was where the family gathered.  My grandfather would be at the social club and come home after a few drinks, my auntie (at the time the sister of my grandfather, family is complicated as we later found out) would walk about a mile from her house, my uncle (grandfather's son) would always appear and disappear in time for food, my mother, stepfather and brother made up the rest of the regular crowd.  

Sundays comprised of:

• The journey to granddad's house 
• Playing in the garden (weather permitting) or inside the house if not
• Pre lunch boxing matches where my brother and I fought for the entertainment of the family.
• Sometimes going to Saltwell park  (and having the crap scared out of me on boats or swings)
• Being bored senseless watching football, snooker or formula 1 on the TV
• Catching a war movie or western (if we were lucky and there was no sport)
• Having Sunday Lunch and then tea (sandwiches and pudding)
• Baking of scones and apple pies by my auntie
• Bath time (a once-a-week event)
• The journey home - which could be interesting when my granddad drove!

The general formula was the same with variations for special events like shrove Tuesday, bonfire night, Christmas and birthdays.  Sometimes we took special trips to the car wash, beach or rarely we went to the Jingling Gate for a pub meal.

As my brother and I got older, the family evolved, as they do.  My uncle left for London, time moved on and things invariably changed.

My brother and I would take occasional trips to accident and emergency at the Queen Elizabeth Hospital to get a tetanus injection after stepping on a rusty nail or having an otherwise routine injury.  I think my brother just liked getting needles stuck in his bum by nice nurses.  He was and is a risk taker and his tally of injuries and hospital visits reflected this.

The Journey

I cannot remember what time we would set out but it must have been around 10 ish.  We would walk about a mile or so, which to a six year old seemed like much, much further.  I don't remember many times when we walked the route but I do recall one time when my mother, brother and I walked along Rectory Road.  Rectory Road was at the bottom of our street, Cromwell Terrace (now demolished).  It was the opening leg of the walk, anyway we would walk past a house where a girl I knew lived (most of the houses were terraced, with little or no garden and a small backyard).  This girl, Claire, leaned out of an upstairs window and called me as I walked past, it was so embarrassing and I tried to ignore her as I was cross examined by my mother and brother, in a friendly fun poking way.  The girl in question was my first girlfriend, which at about 6 or 7 years of age was an early start!  She was a tomboy and, looking back on things, it was an interesting experience.  Of course nothing could be divulged to the family!

The route, importantly enough, ran through territory that belonged to other kids.  On at least one occasion, when walking alone, I was surrounded by kids and under significant threat.  Thankfully a passer by intervened before anything could happen.  The gang in that case was led by one of the 'hard' kids that went to the same school as me but came from the other side of Whitehall Road.  School was a bit of a traumatic thing for me due to the bullying and general thuggery of the kids, fear was a big factor and I became adept at running and diplomacy.  Later on I would resort to fighting as a very last resort.  Really looking back on things, I should have thrown more punches and worried less about the consequences.  Unfortunately I worried about being caught and also I was not a bully or violent child.  Anyway, I digress.

The route was normally under escort with my brother and mother and if not it was a very rapid trip, so at least I was fit!  My grandfather lived in a council semi-detached house towards a boundary of housing that split the terraced (cheaper houses) with the more affluent (seemingly) semi-detached houses.

The great thing about my granddad's house was the scope for play.  The house had a huge garden with a gooseberry bush, trees (small ones that you could not climb), a large tree (made for climbing), an alleyway that you could play football in, a further alleyway (where you could pinch rhubarb from a garden), a shop directly across the very busy and dangerous Saltwall Road and a neighbour's lawn garden (where we were occasionally allowed to play).  I used to play with my soldiers in the garden and, indeed many other toys too.  My brother and I used to make bows and arrows from the smaller trees (Glen was much better than I was at this).  We would also fire these arrows at eacho ther!  In fact Glen managed to throw a spear and hit me in the waist (thankfully there was no broken skin).

The alleyway was used for football and had three posts at the bottom of the slope to stop cars driving through.  Later, much later, the local authorities decided to put up a railing to stop kids and balls careering across the busy road and down the street opposite.  Glen, if he was feeling kind, would let me have the goal at the upper end of the alleyway.  The reason this was helpful is that he was always a much better footballer than I, to the point where I would get bored and do something else.  Anyway if I had the lower goal I would spend more time chasing the ball down across Saltwell road and that would be a double whammy of having the downhill disadvantage.  When my uncle played there would be three of us and I would have this tiny side path, this was easy to defend but then that made me a target.  At least the path was level but you would be surprised at how far the ball would go!

Glen and Peter (my uncle) honed their ball control skills and I developed my strong dislike for football!

Anyway, that is enough for this particular post!  More to follow.