anno domini 2007

My Christmas - Breughel's Census

Back online! Just in time for the New Year.

Received my new package including a 'livebox' to make our computers wireless. Rather daunting to connect - I could have had it done by my ISP's technician for £65 - but with both my sons home for Christmas, I was saved that expense!

This has been probably our last traditional 'family Christmas' (Mum, Dad & 'the boys') as our eldest is getting married at Easter. So being wirelessly connected 'the boys' (aged 25 & 24) spent most of the time playing a 2-player sci-fi game, 'Red Alert' - one on my desktop and one on my laptop, to the accompaniment of wall-to-wall Simpsons on TV. (Rather touchingly, though, they play these games as a team, both on the same side rather than against each other).

I wonder - if we'd had a daughter, would I get to watch 'Private Life of a Christmas Masterpiece: Breughel's Census at Bethlehem' or perhaps 'Giselle' or 'Cosi fan tutte' ? But, being outnumbered by males 3 to 1, no chance.

So - back to the Blog; but how on earth does one blog? I've forgotten. I was just beginning to get a bit more fluent, and now must start from scratch again. Help!

Their Christmas - 'Red Alert'

Off the Air

Dear Readers,

Sorry, I am Netless at the moment.

My ISP (v21) was taken over by Biscit and for some reason NetServices disconnected all v21 customers without any warning whatsoever!
So now I must wait for NetServices to 'release my MAC' - a migration code without which one cannot sign on with another server!

So - I can only access the net occasionally at my local library.

Hope to resume normal services as soon as possible.

Regards,
anno domini

11th November

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?

Only the monstrous anger of the guns.

Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle

Can patter out their hasty orisons.

No mockeries for them: no prayers nor bells,

Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, -

The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;

And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

This lad - a neighbour of my grandmother in Carlisle - joined the Argyll & Sutherland Highlanders. He was known in the neigbourhood as ‘Little Isaac’ . He was wounded in 1918, and repatriated. He died, aged 21, on 9th November, two days before the end of the 1st World War.

A couple of days later, my mother, who was a small child at the time, remembers seeing the coffin being passed out of the front ground-floor window of the small terrace house where Isaac’s family lived, en route to his funeral. As this was happening, the church bells rang out to mark the Armistice.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes,
The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing down of blinds.
Anthem for Doomed Youth. Wilfred Owen

These sentimental postcards were produced during the First World War for soldiers and their girlfriends. (But I suppose they had much to be sentimental about)

'Nobody reads my Blog'

No time to blog this week - so I'm cheating a bit:


T-shirt for despairing bloggers from: http://www.jinx.com/scripts/details.asp?affid=-1&productID=483

Mug, cushion and sweatshirt ('Everything you do can and will be used as blog material')

from www.cafepress.com/buy/blogging

Gunpowder , Treason & Plot

Remember, remember

the fifth of November -

Gunpowder treason and Plot.
I see no reason
Why gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot

In the early '70s I bought this old prayerbook in a junk shop in Fleet Road, near South End Green, Hampstead. It was printed in Cambridge in 1766 during the reign of George III. (On the endpapers of the book are various handwritten names and snippets from previous owners - but that's another story)

Frontispiece. Book of Common Prayer, 1766

The book includes a form of prayer - long since dropped - to be used on the 5th of November as a thanksgiving for the deliverance of King James from the gunpowder plot.

The service includes this contemporary prayer - strange to think that the sentiments expressed were 'politically correct' at the time!

Almighty God, who hast in all ages shewed thy power and mercy,

in the miraculous and gracious deliverances of thy Church,

and in the protection of righteous and religious Kings and States,

professing thy holy and eternal truth, from the wicked conspiracies, and malicious practices of all the enemies thereof:

We yield thee our unfeigned thanks and praise for the wonderful and mighty deliverance

of our gracious Sovereign King James the First, the Queen,

the Prince, and all the Royal Branches, with the Nobility,

Clergy and Commons of England, then assembled in Parliament,

by Popish treachery appointed as sheep to the slaughter,
in a most barbarous and savage manner,

beyond the examples of former ages....

There is also this prayer thanking God for the arrival of William of Orange in 1688 (also on 5th November):

..God...didst likewise upon this Day wonderfully conduct thy servant King William

and bring him safely unto England , to preserve us from the attempts of our enemies

to bereave us of our Religion and Laws...

It is hard to imagine such prayers being uttered in churches today.

Read about the Gunpowder Plot here:

http://www.gunpowderplot.parliament.uk/

The Plotters:

The Outcome:

Hanged, drawn & quartered

Bonfire Night

When I was around 6, we still lived in the town. One Bonfire night, Dad was working late, so on that dark, clear evening Mum and Auntie Gwen lit the fireworks for my sister and I. We oohed and aahed at the pretty showers of Roman Candles, felt the frisson of danger at a ‘Volcano’ and held fizzing sparklers aloft. Bangers were outlawed - we were gentle creatures then - but we agreed to just one Jumping Jack which we watched from a safe distance as it darted about in its random path.

At the bottom of the box lay a rocket. A small benign-looking affair.
‘No, Mum - too scary,’ we chorused.
But, egged on by the giggling Gwen, Mum stood the rocket in a milk bottle and lit the touch paper.
‘Quick, back to the house,’ We retreated to watch from behind the French-window. Swoosh. Silence. Then the crash and tinkle of broken glass.


Lights went on in the bedroom of the H’s house that our garden backed on to, and we could see the jagged hole in one of the panes.


‘Right - shut the window,’ Mum gasped, ‘Put the lights out.’


Hands to mouths, we stood shivering in the dark. We waited for the Knock on the Door.
When it came, Mum snapped back into Sensible Grown-up Mode. Patting her hair and straightening her dress, she put on a brave face and switching on the hall light, went to answer the door.







The next day Dad arranged for a glazier to fix the H’s window and neighbourly harmony was restored.


But I had learnt something about grown-ups.: Mum had been as scared as a naughty child. And for a moment had been prepared to take the ‘dishonest’ path, and to pretend that it was not our fault.


I’m glad she thought better of it!

When the Saints go marching in

Hard on the heels of All Hallows’ Eve comes All Saints’ Day
We have some interesting, though fairly obscure, British saints.


Here are the fun bits of a few of them:


St. Kentigern - the patron saint of the church in my home village. He is known in Scotland as Mungo . Kentigern’s mother was Tenew, an unmarried Scottish woman who is said to have had an affair with her cousin. The penalty for such behaviour (only for the woman, of course!) was that she be flung off a nearby hill. Somehow, the poor lady survived the fall, and she was then cast adrift in a coracle - an almost circular primitive little boat - which floated off and landed at Culross. Here a saintly monk, Serf, found her and took care of her and of her baby son. The boy was educated by Serf, and became a religious leader himself, and later a Bishop. He travelled around Scotland, Cumbria (Northern England) and to Wales.
A fuller version of the life of Kentigern/Mungo is here:
http://dspace.dial.pipex.com/town/plaza/aaj50/mungo.htm
St. Kentigern’s church in my home village in Cumbria can be seen here:
http://www.visitcumbria.com/churches/irthington.htm







St. Swithun (or Swithin)

Swithun became Bishop of Winchester in 852 AD. He built many churches and when he died he was buried at Winchester. Later his body was removed to a more splendid golden shrine in the cathedral; this move, on 15th July, was delayed by inclement weather, so arose the weather rhyme that the weather on the festival would prevail for 40 days:

"St. Swithun's day, if thou dost rain,
For forty days it will remain;
St. Swithun's day, if thou be fair,
For forty days 'twill rain na mair."

More about Swithun here: http://www.earlybritishkingdoms.com/adversaries/bios/swithun.html





St. Frideswide (c.665-735) It is thought that Frideswide was born in Oxford.


When she heard that a persistant suitor was planning to carry her off, Frideswide who had by now made a vow of celibacy, fled to the river Thames where she found a boat. She drifted to a ’place of controversial location’ (thought to be Bampton or Frilsham). There she lived in a deserted pig-stye. Through her prayers, a fountain sprang up providing her with the means to live undetected in the forest for several years.
More here: http://www.berkshirehistory.com/bios/frideswide.html




There are many many more less well-known British saints - a surprisingly full list is to be found here: http://www.britannia.com/bios/saints/

Hallowe'en

Scenes from Boarding School Life - 3

One day in the Autumn term, some of us rebelled during a hockey practice at the freezing cold Bottom Pitch. . For some reason, after shivering for half an hour doing dull little exercises, practising bullying off in pairs, etc. someone suggested we should protest by marching around the edge of the pitch . We were generally fairly well-behaved, but somehow I was seduced by the excitement of it, and egged on by others, I joined the protest.

We held our hockey-sticks over our shoulders like rifles, and marched round singing ‘When the saints go marching in’. Eventually, the teacher shouted to us loudly enough, and we stopped. I felt rather sheepish at the time.

Later that afternoon we were summoned to the head mistresses’ study (in Victorian fashion we had two headmistresses, known by us as B. & G - the initials of their surnames)

‘Because of your disgraceful behaviour, when the others go up to the Hall tonight, you will remain in your Common-room. You will miss the Hallowe'en Party,’ said B. The party was one of the two highlights of the Autumn term, almost as exciting as the Christmas party. We had made masks to wear (and to be judged) at the party too; I had put a lot of work into mine ; what a waste of effort.

Most of the occupants of the Common-room were heady with excitement on the evening of October 31st. . But for the hockey-pitch miscreants the place was cast in gloom. Then the others all trooped out, masks in hands, twittering like swallows on telephone lines. We few stood around in the huge empty room, making the occasional self pitying and self-justifying remark . No one could settle to anything.

Then after about half-an-hour, the door opened and B & G appeared. Oh no, not another ‘blowing up’
'Now then, girls - we hope that you have realised that your behaviour on the games pitch was totally unacceptable, and that you will never defy a mistress again.' G. said - she was always the more severe of the two.
'But as you have all worked on your masks, you may show them to us,' said B.

Pathetically grateful, we took our masks from our lockers and held them up for inspection. Unaccountably, I now think, I had made my mask in the shape of the school badge, with the words, ‘Trouth & Honour, Fredom and Courtesie’ - a description of the Knight from Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. (We, no doubt, would have preferred the Prioress‘s motto, ‘Amor Vincit Omnia‘)

'It is always a pleasure to see the School Motto,' said B. I glowed with pride. (I imagine that they had a laugh about that afterwards.)

Then B. said, 'As you have doubtless learnt your lesson - you may all now go up to the Hall, and join the Party'

With an enormous surge of euphoria, we wended our way from one end of the school to the Hall at other - and to the best Hallowe’en Party ever.

Petty Cash (or 'A Warning to Office Workers')

I came across this risque card among my late father's papers. It is politically incorrect by today's standards, (but that is partly why I like it). It dates from around the 1940s I think. (The money is pounds, shillings and pence.)

To Bin or not to Bin

The Perfect Utility Room - not mine!

I can’t stand the utility room any longer. It is a total mess. So I will forego my trip to town this morning and sort the thing out. I’ll take everything off the two shelves, sort them out radically, chuck masses of stuff out, and have one of those highly organised rooms you see in magazines - all white baskets in neat rows.

I’ve put everything in heaps on the kitchen table with the overflow on the worktops. Mmmm, the shower-room handtowels and bathmats will have to stay; so I refold them into their neat little pile and put them back on the shelf - almost where they were before.

All these candles - goodness, they’ve been there for 3 or 4 years! - that‘s because I never use them. Never. But, wait a minute - never? - I’ll probably use them this Christmas. I flap around them with a duster. And put them back. A little further along the shelf.



And this Hallowe'en pottery lantern? Well, maybe one year when the boys are here..? (They haven't been here at Hallowe'en for going on for 7 years). Shame to throw it out, though. Keep.

All these used padded envelopes. Dozens of them. Just can’t bear to throw them out. I can stick labels over those messy addresses, can’t I, and reuse them? You always need a padded envelope, don’t you. The trouble is, they’re gaining on me. I give up the struggle to rationalize this. Back on the shelf.

Two ancient exercise books. Full of sums in a childish hand. I was helping my son with subtraction. It is irrelevant, now. Into the bin. No, I can’t - it would be like throwing my little boy into the bin, wouldn’t it. (Even though my little boy is now a 25year old Chartered Accountant- so my help must have worked, then?). Mmm - I’m sure that spare paper will come in handy - keep them.

I spend all morning on this, and at the end of it I have one small carrier bag of stuff to go into the bin.

And the utility room looks very much the same as it did in the beginning.

Yes - this is the ‘after’ picture - I didn’t think of taking a ‘before’ version - but take it from me , you wouldn't notice the difference.

I should have gone to town after all

Don't Mention the War!

Change of Blog Title

Dear Readers,

You will see that I am changing my Blog title. I think potential readers might be misled into thinking that 'All Quiet etc.' is something to do with warfare (sorry to disappoint!)

Regards,
anno domini

Rabbit Pie?

I’ve just come across this postcard, which I bought some years ago in the market at La Baule
The caption says she is a ‘Jeune Fille de Quimperle’
But it is the rear of the PC which fascinates me. It was posted in Pont-Croix, Finisterre in Brittany on 25th February 1906

As you can probably make out, it is addressed to Madame Vailhen at 3 place de la Republique, Nantes, and a rough translation is:

Saturday evening.
I’m putting a rabbit on the train to gare d’Orleans. I think you’ll have it by Monday. Ant. [Antoine, Antoinette?] will be able to collect it. It is wrapped length-ways in 2 cloths.
Kind regards to Rue St. Jacques. Kisses [?] to the place de la Republique. L.

I love reading old letters and postcards - trying to get a feel for the past and to envisage the writers and recipients. What were these people’s lives like, and what became of them.

Who was L., I wonder, and was Madame Vailhen pleased with the gift? (and was it fresh when she took delivery of it!)

Did she enjoy her rabbit pie?

Spot the Boffin

Scenes from Boarding School Life - 2




I was reminded by the News that 17th October was the 50th anniversary of the opening of Britain’s first Nuclear Power Station at Calder Hall in Cumbria (or Cumberland as it was then)

I was there!


The whole school attended the event; I believe we actually went in coaches - a rare novelty (is that tautology?) as we would often traipse along the Cinder Track on Sunday walks, from the village almost to the boundary wire of the power station (known to us just as 'Sellafield')

We didn't have as good a view as this!

Opening of Calder Hall 1956

...and our view..

It was the school's misfortune that the power station was built virtually on its doorstep - well, about a mile away further up the coast. This was to have a detrimental effect on school numbers, and a nuclear accident in 1957 hastened the school’s demise.

The village expanded considerably during the late 50s, estates being built to house the ‘Boffins’.

The word Boffin summoned up a picture of a mythical being, something akin to a Hobbit (which is probably why there is a family so named in Tolkien's books)

Presumably these boffins were hard at work in their labs whenever we ventured out to the village to play hockey at Bottom Pitch (which we shared with the local team), and they must have been tucked away in their little boffinish houses when we processed along the road to Church on a Sunday. (Boffins surely would be sceptics, wouldn‘t they?)

Because all the time I was there I don’t think I ever saw one; I was sure that I would recognise one if I did.

No, I never once saw a Boffin.

One Day in History?

The National Trust (together with 'History Matters') has invited us each to write a 'One Day in History' Blog - the idea being to build a picture of an 'ordinary day' for the national record. Have a go here: www.historymatters.org.uk/output/page96.asp

Why does this happen on the most boring day for months? I don't imagine they would want entries that are this ordinary:

Went to town. Had Coffee.

Tried to buy some Christmas gifts (must get them early to catch the ‘last posting date’ for surface mail to the USA). Failed .

Tried to persuade myself to start clearing up the garden ready for winter. Failed .

Intended to screw up my courage to plan menus for impending visit of step-son, wife & 3 children. Failed .

Cleaned our bedroom. Succeeded at that, anyway

Attempted to write a contribution to the ‘One Day in History Blog’. Failed .

Do these people really want to know the embarrassing truth about my day?

Now, if The Day were to be tomorrow, well that could be a different matter all together: I might very well decide to go bungee-jumping, or white-water rafting on the River Kent.

Or perhaps someone will ring my doorbell and tell me that I’ve won the mid-week lottery - in spite of me having no ticket. (Come to think of it, perhaps I should forego the activities mentioned above - I’d hate to be out when he calls)

Tomorrow - anything could happen.