Author: cloptin

Around 0730 this morning I went to get the paper–

Just a thought, en passant, it’s interesting how ‘the paper’ has come to mean ‘the paper that you read’ – you wouldn’t say, for example, ‘I’m going to get the cabbage’ would you?

– Anyway, on my way back to the house, approaching the front door, I noticed a little snail, climbing up the wall. It was going very slowly, in fact I couldn’t detect any movement at all. I watched for a while, wondering what made him, (or her) decide to climb up a blank, white wall. Is there a thought process involved? Or do they just react to feeling cold? Or amorous? Or hungry? Apart from assuming it’s green stuff, I don’t know what snails eat, do you? It didn’t look to me as if there was anything of interest further up the wall, or on the ceiling.

Back indoors I pondered further on the process of thought and, being a normal, self-centred being, I thought of my own, which, it has been noticed, is sometimes a bit slower than average. Not that I don’t get to the point, but most people have moved on before I get there.

However, by way of compensation, my unconscious reaction speed is lightning fast. Knock a vase over on the other side of the room and my body will be flying through the air, arm and fingers outstretched, to grab it before the vase hits the floor!

I was once dragged into a cricket team – to make up numbers. I protested in vain. The opposing team had a locally famous opening batsman and our captain placed me at ‘silly mid-on’.

The bowler bowled, the famous opener swung his bat and the ball was heading for my tummy before I even heard the sound of it being hit.

I went into auto.

My hands adopted precisely the right position: wrists together, fingers slightly bent and stretched back in a wine-glass shape. The ball struck, my fingers closed over it and the power carried in that red, leather-covered missile knocked me over backwards.

But the locally famous opener was out! First ball! Caught – by me!

Nothing else exciting occurred during the match as far as I can remember, and although feted and praised for my wonderful performance (which could be summed up as having been in the right place at the right time to catch the only ball that came my way in the whole match) I declined – more firmly – subsequent requests to join the team as a regular.

Following my self-laudatory tale about an occurrence that occurred sixty years ago I’ll get back to the subject which set me off on this ramble: snails.

I googled the question and, apparently, they have at least two brain cells one of which might tell them that they’re hungry, the other that it can smell food. There must be a third which kick-starts them on the journey to the pie shop. I think perhaps that the snail on the wall at the front of our house might be missing that one.

Today I shelved another decision.

Sometimes they’re just too difficult.

I was cycling towards the ‘chicane’ entrance that leads into the park, near the eastern end of Tamworth Road.

I stopped because on the grassy verge, a little way beyond the gap through the hedge, was a greyhound, squatting to relieve itself.

A long cord led from the greyhound’s collar to the hand of an overweight lady who was standing in the narrow entrance, scrabbling in her bag. She was unsteady because the cord was taught and the dog was restless and shivery.

She pulled out a black plastic ‘poo-bag’ just as the dog stood up, but it decided it wanted to be in the park. It bounded past her and on down the path. She tried to hold it back, shouting angrily whilst trying to straighten out the plastic bag and bending down towards the little present the dog had left steaming in the grass.

But the dog was jumping back and forth, pulling and tugging at its lead, unbalancing its mistress as she tried to stretch the bag over her free hand. Then the dog gave a particularly hard pull: she let go of the bag, and nearly fell through the gateway. She recovered her balance, reined in the dog a little, abandoned the ‘poo-bag’ and what should have been in it, and walked on through the park.

When my ‘dumb phone’ gave up, long before ‘Corona Virus’, I wandered about incommunicado for a week or two and, slowly, little by little I began to appreciate not having to undo zips to scrabble in my pockets for the electronic ding-a-ling-ding thing vibrating against my hip or rib-cage.

Usually it would have stopped before I got hold of it.

Usually I didn’t ring back.

Apart from a couple of ‘get-the-kettle-on’ moments, when a ‘mobile’ would have been useful, on balance I was happy to rely on our land-line at home for speech communication with people too far away to hear me shouting.

And I had email on my PC! (and too many emails) so you can see I’m not totally stuck in the mud.

Then … imaginary roll of drums, curtain raised … my family presented me with a smart phone. An old, definitely not up-to-the-minute, model but a lot more sophisticated than anything I’d ever had before.

Eager supporters showed me how I could access the internet, find my way to the North Pole and do my tax accounts on it.

Ho! Ho!

As I’ve learned with other, modern electronic equipment, it was not to be trusted. I would dial (does anyone remember dialling?) a number and an unfamiliar voice would say ‘hello’ or no voice would say anything. Later, when the person I’d dialled complained that I hadn’t got back to them, I would smugly get my ‘phone out with the intention of showing them the record of my, possibly multiple, attempts to make contact. There would be no such evidence, a list of unfamiliar numbers maybe, but evidence of my attempt to call? None.

And when someone sent me a message, particularly if there was a photo attached, I would touch the screen to make it bigger or turn it to ‘landscape’ and it would disappear. And by the time we met, if I remembered, I would ask the message sender what it had all been about and they would have forgotten! If it was that forgettable, why bother in the first place? I’d probably tell them, smugly, that I’d accidentally deleted it anyway.

Well, that’s all past. I’ve got a new smart ‘phone.

A NEW smart phone!!!

I was persuaded. Not with pleas, or scornful comments about living in the iron age, much more subtle than that. It would all work so much more smoothly, it would be so much more versatile, and, I would be able to sign in to the government national health ‘talk-to-a-doctor-at-your-surgery’ scheme. I’d tried that recently, not wishing to bother them with a request for a face-to-face appointment when they’re so busy with the Covid stuff. It’s quite a steeplechase, the application process, but I managed to jump through all of the hoops (new feature in steeplechases) until it came to proof of identity. Despite the initial requirement to show evidence of who I think I am before being allowed to page 2 of the website I was now asked to take a video of myself writing a code ‘they’ had sent to my email address, with my passport or driving licence mugshot in the frame so that they could positively identify me as being who I said I was.

Maybe I could have achieved it, but at that point I gave up. I looked at my passport and driving licence and concluded that no-one would think that I was the person in the ‘photo anyway.

So this was all going to be easy on a new, smart phone.

I bought the recommended model. It came in a box with a few accessories and even fewer instructions. But, I read the instructions, charged the battery and began touching the screen, where I thought I was supposed to touch it. The first hurdle, at which I fell, was the requirement to enter my email account password.

Email account password???  I’ve been using the same email ‘system’, with the same email address for at least twenty years. Password? Does it have one? Where would I find it?

Don’t panic!

OK, I’m not given to panicking, but that doesn’t mean I’m in command of the situation, far from it.

A year or two ago, in contradiction to all the security advice I’ve ever read, I opened an alphabetically indexed book in which to record the various, and surprisingly numerous, passwords that I’ve had to create to accompany almost everything electronic that I’ve ever had to deal with. I haven’t counted but I wouldn’t be surprised if there aren’t at least fifty entries. And should I trust the security site, to which I subscribe, to keep them all safe? And how do I keep the key to the security site vault a secret if the only way I can remember it is to write it down?

Anyway, back to the new ‘phone.

The next hurdle was the Wi Fi account access. Ha! I knew about that, And I knew the password.

Rejected

After two more rejections I concluded that I was making a serious error, or I was entering the password for the wrong service.

At this point, Ida, my wife, noticed the swearing, shouting and smashing of furniture, which was my way of soothing my frustration, and came in to help.

We decided that the password required was that which is on the plastic card in the slot on the back of the ‘home-hub’.

It was. I entered it.

Now the demand was, again, for the email account password.

The ‘phone acknowledged the existence of my Google account (which I never use and until now never knew why I have it) but wanted me to change the password.

If you begin to sense that at this point I was losing my way you would be closer to being right than I was.

I didn’t know why my sparkly, new ‘phone wanted to be with Google as opposed to ‘Thunderbird’ but it did.

‘It will do as it’s told.’ I decided and proceeded to insert the Thunderbird account details. That didn’t work, and by now it was late and I was fed up with the whole process. And in any case I don’t have a sim card for the new ‘phone yet ‘cos the BT help line has a three-day waiting time (or something like that).

So I put the ‘phone back in its box with a sigh, and opened Thunderbird to have a look at my normal emails. Now that account is not working properly.

Goodnight, you may never hear from me again.

150121

Sunrise: 0801

Outlook: blue skies

Me: rise 0701

I put on my mask and rubber gloves (I was already dressed) and set off on the daily expedition – to the shop, three doors further along the road – to pick up our paper. Black dustbins were standing to attention on the pavements on both sides of the street. I could see the dustcart’s flashing, orange lights, further down the road. We’d forgotten that it was Friday.

I wheeled our bin out to join the bin parade and then went and picked up the paper.

Back inside the front door I sanitized my hands then walked through to the kitchen and washed them with soap and water – double precautions.

Quick cup of tea (as opposed to a slow cup of tea), a piece of toast with butter and marmalade. Coat on, gloves on, snood on and back door locked behind me.

I’ve taken to wearing the snood (what an awful name!) during the recent cold spell, it reduces the need for frequent sniffing and nose-blowing. Must be getting old.

The sky was bright but it wasn’t officially day-time yet so I switched on the bicycle lights. The back one didn’t work. Dead battery. Decision: rake around for the spare light that I know is in the shed somewhere? Or, given that the first half of my route to the sea is ‘off-road’, don’t worry about it?

I wheeled the bike across The Eastern Road – which was as busy as it was before the ‘lockdown’ – that’s another issue.

The paths across the common were muddy, but the walkers and runners and riders were mostly cheery. By the time I joined the quiet, residential streets around the eastern end of Locksway Road the sky was light enough for me to consider a rear light unnecessary.

I secured my bike to a bike-rack at the eastern end of Eastney Esplanade and climbed down the short set of steps onto the pebbles.

The beach was lovely: clean and sharp down to the water’s edge, the sea silver-blue, ever so slightly ruffled, right to the shore.

Further east the dark sands of the Winner Bank – only visible at low tide – stretched out for more than a mile from the south-west corner of Hayling Island.

I stood on the long, crest of the wave-built, shingle bank and looked towards the lightening sky. I’d worn thicker, warmer gloves this morning – the puddles were still ice ­– but I can’t operate the camera with both gloves on, so the right one had to come off.

I started clicking. It really was a beautiful scene. The tinge of red on the on the eastern horizon grew and the colour spread along the tops of the clouds still trying to hide the sun, and to their higher, wispy relatives above.

A path of delicate red stretched across the waves to the shore not far from my toes.

A few other walkers watched with me, and took pictures, until the magic spectacle gradually changed back to ordinary beautiful. We’re used to that so, for me anyway, it was time to go home and have another cup of tea.

I chose a paved route for my homeward journey, a little longer but without puddles of mud. And still a quiet journey, mostly on surfaced paths through parkland and common.

Back indoors, in the warm, with a cup of tea in front of me, I put the ‘photos up, one by one, on my PC screen. I try to limit the number of pictures that I save – I already have far too many – so I edit and discard carefully but firmly. I spent half-an-hour reducing my pictorial record of this morning’s sunrise to two pictures. It was hard to choose.

I clicked ‘cut’ on the two ‘equal firsts’ and pasted them into my ‘Sunrise’ folder. I opened Facebook – something I seldom do in the morning for fear of getting distracted from whatever I’ve planned for the day – with a view to posting my ‘prize pictures.’

And then I opened the Sunrise folder.

They weren’t there.

I’d remembered the last two digits of both of their identity numbers, so I checked the two adjacent folders. Not there either. I did a search of all my pictures and then the recycle bin and then the quick reference files and then the whole PC.

They’re gone.

But I still have lovely, visual memories and, so as not to disappoint anyone who has read this far, I’ll post one I took earlier.

There will be punishment. Self-inflicted. But not yet.

I Idled away the day.

I could have re-started editing my novel.

I played a few games, went for a walk, answered a couple of emails, visited son John, played a few games and had a look at a planning application which I’ve been asked to comment on. I clicked on the link. It’s eighty pages long!!!

I played a few games, skimmed a few significant paragraphs of the planning application, played a few more games and, rather than embark on a detailed appraisal of the proposed development, chose to sign the petition objecting to the plans.

It’s no wonder that we get building developments which nobody – except the developer who makes a lot of money – likes, it’s just too daunting, and, if you’re normal, too demanding to give such planning applications the scrutiny they should be given.

And now the punishment.

Two things to feel guilty about.

Bah!

I had my second vaccination against Covid 19 last Saturday and, as happened after the first, on the second day after the jab I felt overwhelmingly tired, and slept on-and-off all day, so I’ve done little else. I’ll try again tomorrow.

What Next?

Well, I said yesterday that I would consider my possible next goals, discuss them with myself and make a decision.

I’m in an enviable position. I live happily with my wife of fifty-five years, we’re both healthy, we live in our own, comfortable house, and we have enough money. Our children and grandchildren, with the exception of our youngest son John, are also healthy and, as far as we can tell, well and happy.

More about John in a mo.

So, as long as I don’t hurt or upset anyone in my family or any of my friends I can pretty-well do what I like.

I’ve had a mental discussion with myself and made decisions.

I considered the three personal projects at the forefront of my thoughts. And the Southsea Storytellers.

     1. Finish the novel I started twenty or more years ago.

     2. Find a cure for addiction. John, our youngest son (48) has been addicted to alcohol for at least eight years. We, his mum and I, gave him a home after he lost   his – along with his wife and family and his job. We’ve learned a lot about addiction. I’ve read a lot and discussed the problem with doctors, care-workers and addicts. And I’ve lived with John for all that time. Despite current government practice (worldwide) which is to treat injuries caused by addiction but not the addiction itself, I believe that there must be a cure.

     3. Get my boat seaworthy and habitable and make a voyage, probably with John.

     4. Inspire the Storytellers to tell stories!

So I discussed the projects with Ida. She agreed with my choices. Start tomorrow.

The Novel. This period of ‘Lockdown’ has to be the best time to finish my novel.

The Boat. I can do that.

Badger the SS.

I’ll put the search for a cure for addiction on the back-burner not least because I don’t think I’ll live long enough to see such a project through.

Like I said, Start tomorrow.

And, to start with, Where Have I been?

Literal answers or thoughts and dreams?

Where I’ve been. How much detail would you want? Half-an-hour ago I was in the Lidl supermarket in the Anchorage Retail Park in Portsmouth. Christmas 2005 I was in the South Atlantic a couple of hundred miles south of Rio de Janeiro. Mid 1961 I was in Kuwait on Op Vantage.

And when should I start? First memories? First significant occurrence? Or just pick a point? Who would know anyway?

Where I am is in my office, at the back of the house, in Hayling Avenue, Portsmouth, England and, apart from the local shops and the Registry (a building in town – and that’s another story) I don’t know where I’m going except that later this evening, I will climb the stairs, get undressed, clean my teeth, have a bath and spend the night in our bed in our bedroom.

And I have little control over where I go in my dreams – sleeping or waking.

But really, the question means: what have you done with your life so far? And what are you going to do with what’s left of it?

Now that I’ve formalised the questions I’ll think about them and try to answer them.

Tomorrow.