New Year’s Eve thoughts, especially about honours. And a bit of reminiscing.

It’s New Year’s Eve and at the moment the old year is going out quite brightly with a bit of wintery sunshine. Of course, that could all change within a matter of minutes, rather like our current government! Mind you, Sunak seems to have managed to remain in place for a good few weeks now. 

His predecessor, Liz Truss, has just revealed her resignation honours list. I think she managed the country for about 50 days, for some of which time the whole place came to a stop because of the death of Queen Elizabeth II. In view of the rapid turnover of Prime Ministers over the last year or so, maybe there should be a law which you have to be in office for a minimum length of time before you can award resignation honours? Or maybe it”s a deliberate ploy on the part of the Conservatives, gradually filling the House of Lords with their supporters so that if or when Labour wins the next election, they can make life difficult for them whenever a bill goes for a further reading in the Lords!

Now, here’s a link to a curious article about how very considerate the Majors were, especially Mrs Major, when it began to look certain that they would have to leave Downing Street in 1997. John Major is one of those politicians who seems to have grown in stature as he has grown older and wiser(?). Or maybe he Just looks mild and reasonable in comparison with what we have now?

The other night Phil and I watched a documentary about singer/songwriter Neil Young. We must have recorded it years ago and neither of us could remember having seen it before. It traced his musical career from the start, playing music very reminiscent of The Shadows and gradually developing his own style. One thing that came out all through was his determination to play the music he wanted to play, changing his style according to where the music took him. He didn’t want to be manipulated by managers into doing the same thing over and over purely in the interests of making money. 

I remember our going to see him in concert in Sheffield, many years ago. A friend of ours was so incensed by the fact that he played much more of his Crazy Horse  music than his more lyrical ballads that when the concert was over she marched off furiously towards our car, ready to set off for home. Unfortunately this was the friend with no sense of direction and when we reached the car there was no sign of her. We had to wait until the carpark was almost empty before we were able to locate her. Our son was amazed, amused, disconcerted to find that although the friend and I both had mobile phones we did not have each other’s numbers and so were unable simply to call and say exactly where we were. 

At that time it had perhaps become second nature for the young to contact each other quickly and regularly but for our generation it was not yet the case. My rather clunky mobile didn’t take photos and, truth to tell, I regarded it more as an emergency device in case I ever got stuck during my long commute to and from work. Those were the days! 

Neil Young began by playing for school dances and the like in his part of Canada, before moving on to greater things. At every stage he seemed to have a good time. As we watched I wondered about young musicians starting their careers now. The small venues have, I am told, almost disappeared. So how do they make themselves known? Social media I suppose. But do they have as much fun? It’s a different world. 

Life goes on. Stay safe and well, everyone! 

Goodbye Christmas? Hello New Year’s celebrations.

 You can tell Christmas is over because all the adverts for sales are appearing. Do people really have spare money so soon after spending on Christmas stuff? I am amazed (appalled?) to see dresses reduced from £170 to £65. Is that really a bargain? I suppose it is if you buy that sort of fashion clothing.

Also this morning I saw the first discarded Christmas tree. It was sitting on the scoop of a digger outside a house we pass on our walk around the village. Why does it need a digger to remove a tree? You might well ask. Maybe this is the case if your tree is about 6 feet tall. However, the 30th of December seems a little early to be dismantling all your Christmas decorations. But … each to his own!

(Despite the dull weather, we have been trying to walk around the village every day, not quite following the same route as I run first thing. This is part of an early New Year’s Resolution to get us both fitter for 2024. No doubt other resolutions will be made and broken. That’s the way it usually goes.)

People keep asking me how we will celebrate New Year’s Eve. My usual reply is that I’ll probably go to bed early and then send Happy New Year messages out on Monday morning. 

We used to celebrate a friend’s birthday on New Year’s Eve, all of us contributing a food item to the party, a habit which began when he hit 50 on Millennium Eve and which we kept up for a good number of years, even after his untimely death almost ten years ago now. Then Covid came along and prevented us all getting together to toast absent friends and somehow we’ve never reestablished the tradition.

My Spanish sister and her assorted Spanish family and friends are organising a party in the house they have rented over in Southport. My English sister and her family will be there. We were invited but the prospect of sleeping on the floor no longer appeals. We’ll go over for lunch on New Year’s Day. Our niece, daughter of my English sister, had laid in stocks of a particular brand of beer at the house in preparation for the party. The favourite beverage of one of the family, it was supposed to be hidden away. However, the Spaniards discovered it, popped it in the fridge to chill  and proceeded to drink it. Well, other supplies were intended for them so it was understandable that they would think the beer was too. So they have had to hunt out supplies of the favourite beer! These are things that happen in families!

Life goes on. Stay safe and well, everyone!

A bit of nostalgia about Christmas visits.,

 Today we had complicated arrangements for doing a sort of family reunion. It was still only a partial reunion. From photos that Facebook threw up (You have memories of this day to share with x, y and z: you know the kind of thing) the last time we had everyone together, including my son and his then girlfriend now his wife, was some 14 years ago. Of course, the youngest members of the family did not even exist at that time. 

Anyway, my daughter and Inset off with Granddaughters Number Two and Four and Grandson Number Two, to drive over to Southport to meet my Spanish sister and her family and friends at the house they have rented there for the long weekend. It’s a very nicely renovated Victorian detached house by the way, with rather more bathrooms and better plumbing than it had originally. We arrived in brilliant sunshine and congratulated ourselves on having chosen such a fine day to get everyone together. By the time the Spanish contingent arrived it had started to rain.

My Spanish nephew complained that the wind in Southport is much colder and stronger than anything they ever have in El Puerto de Santa María, across the bay from Cádiz. I didn’t remind him of the cold rain and wind we experienced the last time my English sister and I went out there to visit them. In fact, on that occasion the wind in that bit of the Iberian peninsula was so strong that our plane was unable to land at Gibraltar airport and we were diverted to Málaga.,we also experienced some very stormy weather in El Puerto itself. Memory can play tricks.

Anyway, we all got together. My English sister also turned up, having escaped her bossy daughter to drive herself the couple of miles from her own house. Strictly speaking I think I agree with her daughter that she should not drive with a bad back and severe arthritis but there it is.

We had some rather indifferent fish and chips for lunch. Belated Christmas presents were exchanged. The small cousins mostly played well together despite the language problems. Then we went on a visit to the Botanic Gardens, almost a ritual for the family. My Spanish sister tells me she plans to take her Spanish family and friends to the red squirrel reserve at Freshfield, weather permitting. I wonder if her son will remember the occasion when he was small and we drove into the carpark and hit black ice. Amazingly I remembered to steer into the skid and my car spun around. The small Spanish boy cheered and asked me to do it again. I wonder if he also remembers noisily frightening away the red squirrel that was about to eat from my son’s hand. Ah! Nostalgia!

We managed to visit the Botanic Gardens in the afternoon. My now grown up Spanish niece reminisced about visits there in her childhood and the aspects that have disappeared and which her own children will not see. The rain managed to stay away while we visited the park, fortunately.

Then our party headed for home. We’ll do a repeat performance on Monday, with family members unable to attend  today, and with a pub lunch rather than indifferent fish and chips … hopefully. 

Life goes on. Stay safe and well, everyone!

Dodging the storm. Blowing the roof off. Being evacuated - here and elsewhare. .

 I looked at my weather app first thing. It told me: “Drizzle stopping in 10 minutes, resuming in 40 minutes.” I checked out of the window to be sure; it wouldn’t be the first time that the real world and the virtual world of phone apps are radically different. But this time it seemed to be correct so I hurriedly donned my running gear and set off to go round the village. All good. It has rained on and off since then but at least I was not out and about in it.

So here I was, congratulating us on having more or less been ignored by Storm Gerritt, nothing more than a lot of gusty wind and rain, some of it blown horizontally along the street but nothing to write home about. Then this morning I read reports of houses in nearby Stalybridge having their roofs blown off by a tornado, just part of Storm Gerritt! 

This is not just a few slates blown off but the whole roof lifted as a slab, exposing the attic space underneath to the elements. Imagine how terrifying it must be to wake up to that happening. It’s major construction work, and no doubt it will have repercussions in the cost,of buildings insurance! In one case, my daughter tells, the tap half of the gable end of a recently built row of terraced houses was simply torn away, destabilising the whole building.. Good grief! We expect to hear that sort of thing up in Scotland but this is getting a little close to home! People have been evacuated to sleep in town halls.

Of course, it doesn’t begin to compare with the evacuation still going on in Gaza, where groups of 60+ people are trying to live (or at best survive) in three-room apartments. Where they weep at having to turn away yet more families who ask if they can join them. Where they feel guilty that all they can offer as shelter for the families they have to turn away is a tent. Where they feel guilty because it is so hard to find somewhere to pitch a tent. Where they feel guilty if they have food, knowing that others do not.

Riad’s latest Gaza Diary entry ends like this:

“9pm. It is Christmas today. In another country, far away from ours, there is a family celebrating. Their house is full of light, they are smiling, hugging each other out of love, sharing gifts and hoping for the best future.

Here, there is no Christmas. Instead, there are families living in complete darkness, sad, hugging each other out of fear, sharing prayers, and hoping they will get out of this nightmare alive.”

Life goes on. Stay safe and well, everyone!

Stormy weather. Being fiercely independent. Teaching children to play together.

 It seems that we can expect the arrival of Storm Gerritt, moving in from the west across the country:| -

“Drivers have been warned of potentially hazardous conditions as Storm Gerrit hits the country on Wednesday.

The storm is expected to be felt across the UK, with a number of yellow wind and rain warnings in place.

The Met Office has chosen to name the storm as it is expected to be a busy day on the roads, with people returning home after Christmas.”

Nonetheless I managed to go out for a run first thing without  being rained on. There were three young swans on the millpond - elegantly swan-shaped but still with some muddy brown plumage. They optimistically swam over to where I was standing but I had nothing to give them. Nodding acquaintances’ dogs also look at me optimistically, expecting me to have a pocket full of dog treats: after all, almost everyone they meet has a dog and, therefore, a regular supply of treats. I draw the line at carrying swan/duck and dog treats around with me. Later in the day Phil and I did a brisk walk around the village. Very windy but still not raining. Maybe the rain in the small hours was our share of rainfall for the day.

Every so often I hear something about Brexit benefits - usually non existent! Today I read about a strange one. Soon it will be possible to buy  “pint” bottles of wine - 568ml for those who stubbornly insist on being metric. Before we joined the Common Market, I am informed, pint bottles of champagne were sold in the UK and remained on sale until 1973 when we caved in and started to use metric measurement. Even my milkman delivers litre bottles of fresh milk! But now we have “taken back control” and we are set to benefit from new post-Brexit "freedoms", according to the government. I’m pretty sure the wine will taste the same. The standard size of a bottle of wine sold in supermarkets, off-licences, pubs and bars is 750ml. Will they charge the same for a slightly smaller bottle? I wonder!

Oh, boy! The joy of being fiercely independent. 

Here’s Michael Rosen on the subject of being fiercely independent: 

“'We're fiercely independent, aren't we?' said the King.

'Absolutely,' said the tutor, 'and luckily the Emperor supports our independence.'

'Yes,' said the King, 'I've often wondered why he is so supportive.'

'Because we create regional stability,' said the tutor.

'Yes,' said the King, 'though I have noticed there is some occasional regional instability.'

'And when that happens the Emperor is there straightaway to help us deal with it,' the tutor.

'Could we deal with the regional instability on our own?' said the King.

'Probably not,' said the tutor.

'But we're fiercely independent, aren't we?' said the King.

'Absolutely,' said the tutor.”

And here’s a comment from someone on Faceboo’:

“Let’s not talk about the weapon stockpiles in our closely guarded warehouses. Move along there, nothing to see. Fiercely independent.”

Hmmm!

Meanwhile, there are little glimmers of hope about people wanting to live together in peace. Here’s a link to an article about “Standing Together”, a sort of craft centre/organisation for Jewish and Palestinian Israeli children. “‘We don’t want the kids to be afraid of each other’: the Jews and Arabs uniting to heal rifts of war” reads the headline.

I was reminded of Daniel Barenboim, more than 20 years ago organising a youth orchestra of Arab and Jewish children. Spinoffs from that are individual musicians and quintets who play all over the place, but apparently never in Israel. Here’s a link to an article about it, dating back to 2014.

Life goes on. Stay safe and well, everyone!

Christmas post. And Gaza Diary again.

 Well, yesterday went relatively smoothly. We had some family discussion via Messenger about what time everyone wanted to eat. I spent a good part of the morning working out a sort of Tetris puzzle in my oven, juggling which dishes would fit side by side or behind each other on which shelf, one shelf being taken up by a large chicken. Yes, I know turkey is traditional but, while I can roast a chicken so that it tastes fine, my attempts at doing the same with turkey have been singularly disappointing. 

Then my daughter and family arrived, in stages, daughter + some of her offspring and Granddaughter Number One’s neurotic dog who cries if left alone at home; the son-in-law + Grandson Number One + another dog. Apparently they felt that it was unfair to leave that dog at home alone if the other was coming to dinner. At least they brought a cage to put this one in while we ate as he is notorious for jumping up and stealing stuff off the table! The neurotic dog does not do that, thankfully. 

Whenever I plan on feeding almost the whole family, and even more so when we have the southern branch here too, I worry that I may have over-prepared, making too much of everything.  But my calculations must be all right as the food disappears and the leftovers are usually minimal. However, I suspect we shall be eating Christmas cake for the next month! The only untoward incident was when one of the dogs (the one who was in a cage and had been taken out to go into the garden and do what dogs do) managed to knock over a couple of bottles of beer that Grandson Number One (he is 18 and feels grown up and now occasionally drinks beer) had placed on the floor next to his seat. Inevitably one of them broke and we had to have fun and games mopping up beer and sweeping up broken glass. So it goes. 

Presents were exchanged and everyone seemed happy with what Santa had provided. 

We didn’t watch the king make his Christmas Day speech. We never do. I read that he planned to do so seated next to a real live tree which will be replanted outdoors once Christmas is over. Judging by the photos it’s an enormous tree. I suppose a king would have to have a larger tree than the sort of living trees I have purchased in the past and mostly failed to keep alive once transplanted to the garden. But I expect he has professionals to deal with that for him.

Today, Boxing Day, began with blue sky and sunshine. It’s the kind of Boxing Day when, back when we all descended on my parents for Christmas, we would go out as a family and walk through the pine woods at Freshfield, near Southport, looking out for red squirrels and even on occasion coaxing them to eat from our hands. I ran round the village, rather later than planned as I switched my alarm off and promptly went back to sleep until 9.00. But the sun was still shining and for once I didn’t need my raincoat. By the time I got Phil to go out for a walk later the cloud had moved in somewhat but it’s been considerably brighter than we’ve known it for a while. 

All that remains for me to do now is strip the remaining meat off my roast chicken and decide what to do with it. And of course, I have to mop the floor properly to remove any last traces of yesterday’s beer.

On a more serious note, here’s the latest instalment from Ziad’s Gaza Diary. And here’s something from this morning’s reporting:

“Israeli forces bombard near refugee camps in central Gaza, say residents

People in central Gaza have described a night of shelling and airstrikes shaking the Nuseirat, Maghazi and Bureij refugee camps, which are crowded with people who fled from the north in search of safety, the Associated Press reports.

“The bombing was very intense,” Radwan Abu Sheitta, a Palestinian teacher said by phone from his home in Bureij. “It seems they are approaching,” he said of the Israeli troops.”

It hasn’t stopped for Christmas.

Life goes on. Stay safe and well, everyone!  

Christmas Eve reflections here and there.

 It’s Christmas Eve. 

The smallest member of the family, Grandson Number Two, is very pleased. He told me yesterday he couldn’t wait for Christmas Eve. Why Christmas Eve instead of Christmas Day remains a mystery. 

At 3.00 in the afternoon, a young friend of mine reports that her 8 year old is already in her pyjamas and ready for bed - she wants to make an early start. 

Everywhere there are people busily doing last minute wrapping, or even last minute shopping! 

As for me, I’m baking apple pie and cheese cake and prepping vegetables. I have been informed that we need a lo of roast potatoes tomorrow, so I’ll peel them now and they can sit in a basin of water until tomorrow.

In a couple of hours the local farmers will drive their decorated and fairy-lit tractors around the Saddleworth Villages, wishing everyone a Merry Christmas.

Christmas Eve is a different story in the place where it all started. From Sky News we have this:

“Bethlehem praying for a ceasefire this Christmas as war rages on

The Church of the Nativity, normally heaving with tourists and pilgrims, is quiet, even during a Sunday mass in December. Reverend Munther Isaac told Sky News that "it is impossible to celebrate with a genocide taking place in our land against our people".

The Church of the Nativity, normally heaving with tourists and pilgrims, is quiet, even during a Sunday mass in December.

A few Palestinian Christians attend the weekly service and pray in the grotto where Jesus is said to have been born, but the excitement and joy of Christmas time are absent this year.”

And the Observer reports this:

At Bethlehem’s Lutheran Evangelical church, the nativity scene looks very different this Christmas. Instead of a cot in a hay-filled manger, the baby doll has been wrapped in the famous black and white keffiyeh associated with Palestine, and lies among broken breeze blocks and paving slabs.

Christmas celebrations have been cancelled across the Holy Land this year as the region mourns the Palestinians – now more than 20,000, according to the health ministry in the Hamas-run Gaza Strip – killed in the new war between Israel and the militant group. Munther Isaac, the pastor of the Lutheran church, said he wanted to send the world a message with this year’s nativity scene. “This is the reality of Christmas for Palestinian children,” he said. “If Jesus was born today, he’d be born under the rubble of Gaza.”

Michael Rosen has a poem for us:

Who loves children the most?

Parents step forward and say,

“We love the child the most

we care for our children

more than we care for ourselves.”

Teachers step forward and say,

“We love the child the most

we educate children

so that they can play their part in the world.”

Doctors and nurses step forward and say,

“We love the child the most

because we save their lives

and nurse them back to health.”

“Not so”, said a voice from the shadows.

“Who’s that?” they wondered.

“Who can love children more than

parents, teachers, do tors or nurses?”

“It’s me”, said the voice

and from out of the shadows

stepped War.

Here’s a bit more Michael Rosen, in a different guise:

“'Today,' said the King's tutor, 'I want you to imagine a way of waging war where there is no danger to the people waging the war.'

'How about if we had invisible soldiers?' said the King.

'Good,' said the tutor.

'What if we had magical soldiers?' said the King, 'who could make the enemy vanish.'

'Good,' said the tutor.

'I can't think of any more,' said the King.

'What about if you had flying soldiers?' said the tutor, 'they could fly over the enemy and drop things on them.'

'That's very clever,' said the King, 'but the things they dropped would end up landing on people who aren't soldiers, wouldn't they?' said the King.

'Yes, but that wouldn't matter,' said the tutor.”

There it is.

Life goes on. Stay safe and well, everyone!