Time Trousers

The trousers of time are a familiar concept in Terry Pratchett's Discworld books. As you travel along your timeline you arive at a junction - the trousers where your whole future is determined by which trouser leg you follow.

This photograph was taken on a holiday in Lanzarotte in about 1980. The following year we went to Port Isaac whereSara and Jamie went off Pony trecking. This was definitely a Time Trouser event. They both became obsessed with Horses but what if they had gone down the other trouser leg and become obsessed with camels? how do you change a camels rug? Do they need fly spray? How do you get one on a lorry if it gets stroppy? What a surprise for local farriers etc.

Health Update (Brware)

Health Update August 29th

Had a terrible day today – probably worst so far. Fortunately this was the day for me to see the Consultant at Royal Shrewsbury Hospital so I was able to give a full report

Woke up early with terrific headache which would not respond to my usual medicine. Then had nausea which eventually evolved into sickness. Also had all the usual array of aches and pains. I also have an array of medicines but none were effective. It has beeen a long time since I hung out of a car door to be sick at the side of the road - usually for a more easily understood reason.

Saw the consultant in the afternoon (a different one again – Dr Johnson this time!). I explained My Situation and he quickly decided that I had been taken off the steroids too soon. (fortunately for him this agreed with Sara’s diagnosis). He has put me back on steroids but an increased dose for a longer time, I also have to take what my GP calls ‘tummy protectors’ to reduce possible side effects of the steroids. When we got home Sara terlephoned the surgery. My GP rang back within 5 minutes. Sara explained the ituation and my GP immediately generated the necessary prescription. This was collected by the local pharmacy and we were able to collect the medicine this morning.

Dr Johnson said that in his opinion my problems were caused by the malignant melanoma. He said this is pressing on the back of my brain and the pressure will cause headaches, tiredness, confusion, lack of concentration and nausea. There may be some specific problems but they are hard to predict. I need to be wary of problems with eyesight, hearing, balance. He gave me a very detailed examination checking eyes, ears etc. I was very impressed by his attention to detail and his laow reliance on electronic evidence although, to be fair, he had clearly read the notes and did not keep asking me to rehearse what they said.
He also said that the purpose of the Radiotherapy was to shrink the melanoma or slow its growth. Whether that has been successful will become clear over several months rather than weeks and the evidence will be if I experience less of the problems listed above.
He argued that the radiotherapy would lead to symmetrical pains - both ears not just one for example - good point, I thought.

He sent me for a blood test and I am to see him again in three months time. I also have an appointment with a different consultant on October 10. If I am still having problems I can ring his secretary for an appointment at any time.

For those desperate for a Poppy story. While I was waiting to go to Shrewsbury she jumped on my lap and left a trail of foot prints across my shirt. The consultant spotted the footprints when he was examining me and then we had a big discussion about what sort of dog she is and I now know that he has Golden Retrievers at home!

Cigarettes

One of Sara’s friends came to visit one day last week; it was a nice day so we sat in the garden. Sara’s friend smoked a small number of cigarettes. I was pleasantly reminded of just how nice it can be to have a background low level aroma of cigarette smoke – far better than ylang ylang.

The smoke brings back many happy memories for me. When I was a lad we would often visit family groups in West Brom, Hill Top, Coseley, Tipton and Smethwick – even Dawley sometimes. At most of those family homes a small number of people (usually the father) would smoke a small number of cigarettes. The smell of the smoke brings back many happy memories of talking, listening to gossip and always lots of laughter and good humour. Most of my family smoked Woodbines and bought them in those little packs of 5. My Great Aunt Annie in Great Bridge only smoked when she had visitors. I am sure she did this in memory of late Uncle Joe. She would smoke ‘Passing Cloud’ a strange cigarette of elliptical cross section sold in flat metal tins. Great Uncle Joe had been a sergeant in the South Staffs in the 1914-18 war. He had served at the Somme where he won a Military Medal but lost a kidney rescuing wounded comrades from no-man’s land between the lines. I cannot remember much except that he was often ill when we visited. He would always get up from bed to see us; I was always puzzled by the way he appeared from a cupboard in the sitting room. I now know that putting the stairs in a cupboard was a feature of some old houses. He was a very pleasant man, always cheerful and full of stories. He would smoke one pipe of tobacco. He died some years later when his remaining kidney collapsed.
The smoke also brings back happy memories of time with friends in public houses. I may have been lucky to have groups of friends where a small number would smoke in moderation. I can remember laughing long and loud but cannot remember coughing or any of the symptoms so beloved of the Smoke police. Same is true of playing Bridge in someone’s kitchen.

I also have many fond memories of sitting in staff rooms where a small number of teachers would smoke in moderation. Lots of chatting, lots of philosophising, lots of mocking senior colleagues, lots of laughter. Perhaps I was lucky to avoid the smoke filled staffrooms one hears about but I was fortunate to work in places with modern devices like windows or even extractor fans.

I detest the modern tendency to demonise smokers. I do not deny that smoking can damage the health of the smoker but I hate the myth of passive smoking. I had a grandfather and two uncles who died of lung disease and they all smoked for many years. They also all worked in heavy industry for those years, two of them worked with asbestos (Handsworth Carriage Works) and the other had the delightful job of cleaning components by dipping them in an acid bath.

Another example: When I arrived at Dudley College each morning I would walk across the car park and meet some dear friends standing outside the entrance where they had been exiled by the Smoke police to have a cigarette. I would exchange pleasantries with these friends. Is anyone seriously suggesting that I risked my health through passive smoking when I said hello and chatted for a few moments? On the other hand I am sure that my mood and day were improved by this pleasant start.

Some of my favourite people smoke. Some of my favourite people do not smoke. My life would have been impoverished if I had denied myself the opportunity to enjoy the company of any of these people.

One of the things I really dislike is held in the famous old quotation:


“They use Statistics as a drunken man uses a lamp post – for support rather than illumination.”

I now spend a lot of time watching TV and have come to dislike the patronising, opinionated, glossy presentators who inhabit breakfast television.

Last week a Maths professor was trying to explain that Statistics should be used carefully and if you quote statistics you should think about how those stats were collected and what definitions of terms were being used. The presenters were horrified at the thought of how much thinking they would have to do and said it was ‘impossible’ to have so many thoughts as they did not have time and their brains would not cope. I restrict myself to shouting abuse at the screen but have to be sure that I do not have any heavy objects to hand.

One final point. Greta Aunt Annie and Greta Uncle Joe had one son, Ken, who had the best job in the world. He was chief electrician at Firkin’s PorkPie Factory – if only I had had such a job!

When I ran the annual Maths quiz at Rowley I tried to get us sponsored by Firkin’s. No luck but I did get £1000 from a calculator import company in Aston. Sadly the Maths quiz was one of the bits of Rowley that were unwanted when we were taken over. Tired now but might do a post on the quiz one day – another opportunity to ridicule the media.

Poppy and the Greyhounds

These are my son's two retired greyhounds. Jamie is holding Milo (Avago Milo) Sara is holding Feisty Girl. Poppy is looking on in asmazement. Double click the picture for better view.

Both dogs had a racing career before retiring. Milo being particularly successful. Milo and Poppy get on really well but not Poppy and Feisty - they are inclined to fight if not watched - we do not want Poppy to hidt feisty of course.


Interesting story about Feisty. Fesity used to run at Sittingbourne stadium. The stadium offers special party prices for groups of women - a night at the races with food, drink etc. These special prices attract groups of women from offices, hen nights etc. When they see the name 'Feisty Girl' they all think it is about them so they all have a bet. This means that when Fesity runs she always has poor odds because so much money has been bet.
The lesson here is if you have a female greyhouing called it "drunken slapper" or "aging spinster" or you will never get decent odds on a win.

Walking Poppy

My mother always used to say that she could not go out for a quick walk because people kept stopping to talk. This ecam a family joke but now I find the same if I go out walking Poppy. Lots of people stop but I now think they stop to talk to Poppy and talking to me is incidental We went for a walk in Mortimer forest on Friday. We met a lady who I vaguely remembered but I had no idea until she called to her fox terrier Roger and then I remembered. I recognise people's dogs far more than people and, of course, people recognise Poppy before they remember me. When we are out we meet Digby, Gipsy, Floss, Roger, Rosy and many other dogs.

Up in Mortimer forest there is an 'all ability trail' where we often meet Cocoa. Cocoa is a large poodle type dog with a very tangled coat that looks like he is covered in dreadlocks. He is chocolate brown in colour - hence the name Cocoa. Strangely he is scared of Poppy and runs to hide in the bushes. I have an often repeated joke with his owner where we agree that Poppy ought to wear a muzzle if she is going to frighten other dogs. I must get a photo of Cocoa.

I am told that most people who read this bLOG do so because of the Poppy stories - perhaps it should be called 'Poppys BLOG'

Poppy's family

The dog on the left is Coco, Poppy's mother. Coco does not lik me and barks long and loudwhenever she sees me so difficult to photograph. The one on the right below the N is Nelly, Poppy's sister. Double click on the picture gives you a better view.

Nelly is a very nice, friendly dog. After this photo Nelly was sitting by me while I stroked her. Poppy took offence and pushed Nelly away but no fighting!

Poppy and I were up on a grass bank when I took this. Coco and Nelly would come no closer

and Poppy would go no closer to them because they are all afraid of nettles.

Walter RIP

Sadly I have to report the demise of Walter the Cock.

He has not been well since his fight with the fox. He has been unsteady for some weeks and when I went to find him yesterday he was clearly and undeniably deceased. I suspect that the recent 'heat wave' may have been too much for him in his weakened state.

Hill Top Again

I remember that there was a pub half way down Holloway bank called the 'Flash Harry' Does anyone know who Flash Harry was? The pub sign was a man in tails brandishing a conductors baton (orchestra not bus!). I met my cousin there one day and when we came out someone had pinched his Krooklok but left his car! I have had cars like that.

I hate the modern trend of dumping old pub names that have stood for years in favour of stupid 'witty' names about slugs etc.

When I started travelling from Ludlow to college I was thrilled to see that BridgeNorth had a pub called 'The Charles Fox' with a picture of the great Charles Fox as the pub sign. Since then some philistine has renamed it 'The Fox tavern' - how sad.

Years ago a group of us maths teachers used to meet at 'The Newton' in Great Barr complete witha sign of that great man experimenting with a spectrum. That is now called the Aspbury Tavern Q.E.D I think.
If you know the 'Labour in Vain' in Telford - there is one I would not dream of keeping - a pub in serious need of a new name.

Football

This is the sign outside Ludlow Town's ground. Unfortunately I missed the previous sign which advertised "Ludlow Legends" v "Manchester United Legends". That must have been a clash of titans! The match has now taken place and I do not know who won but I suspect the Ludlow Legends gave them a good thrashing, destroying the confidence of Man Utd. and leading to their current poor performances.

This is the new ground, opened only last year. When the old ground was demolished the builders found a time capsule that had been included when the old ground was built in the early 1900s. The contents of the capsule were displayed at the local library and the only thing I can remember is a ticket for a game between Ludlow and Wolverhampton Wanderers in 1906. The ticket said "Amission 2 s 6d (working class 6d). I wonder how you proved you were working class, perhaps it was obvious in those days.

No idea who won and there may be a conspiracy. Perhaps the Wolves were thrashed and now they are powerful they have concealed all the evidence.

Poppy on The Gallops

This is Poppy exploring the gallops used by Henry Daly to exercise his Racing horses. And not for the first time! It is an impressive sight to see the horses galloping with wild abandon and a dangerous place to be but if you are careful about day and time it is perfectly safe. This area is Poppy's toilet of choice when we walk along the top road and also a good way to avoid the few bits of traffic.

I know little about Horse Racing but I am told that Henry Daly is a prominent and successful trainer. Some of our neighbours work for him which leads to some amusing stories but no good betting tips - unfortunately.

Despite being the top road and the highest point in the parish the road got flooded in the recent downpours. Some local citizen made a hole through the fence into the gallops allowing the flood to subside. This was very annoying to Mr Daly on two grounds, the gallops were flooded and he fears horses may escape onto the road. He is trying to find out who did it but the concensus view is that if he does there will be a robust exchange of views so he has been unsuccessful so far. He is looking for someone with a tractor or JCB so he has a large supply of suspects around here.

The other interesting story is that he rents his current place and has recently purchased a large estate over towards Peaton. This estate includes a listed building in need of repair and he has been quoted £250,000 for the repairs. Clearly Race Horse Training is a good business. It appears to be the better end of the sport compared with the betting end.

He currently rents from the family who own Titterstone Cle Hill and the surrounding land - an interesting idea in itself. Much of the land around here is owned by the Plymouth estates raising other interesting questions.

Another Poppy Tale

These are pictures of me and Poppy competing in 'who can sleep longest in one day. In fact we are competing for the Bronze as the cats are a 'shoe-in' to share gold and silver. They are champion sleepers.

Teacher Tales - The Play Leader summer

Not too well today. woke up with really bad head ache but have taken the jollop and walked the dog so feeling better and keen to start this project

I was a real teacher with a real job for about 33 years. By real I mean I was responsible for groups of learners - trying to explain things, setting and marking homeworks, writing reports etc. trying to inspire! I m not trying to imply that I was any good - that is for others to judge.

In the summer of 1971 I worked as a play leader on the Overdale Estate in Telford - if you know the area you will know it was not going to be easy.
I had a little hut and a large supply of paper, paint and sports equipment.

On the first day the kiddies all appeared and I decided we would all Paint. There was one little lad aged about five. will call him 'A'. 'A' wore an oversized school blazer that must have been handed down by an older brother or sister. He also wore a pair of very large wellies that flapped about if he walked or ran.

Anyway they were all painting happily or so I thought. Two littlegirls came across and said "come and see what 'A' is doing". He had a paint brush, a pot of red paint and a frown of deep concentration. He had found a clear area on the hut wall and was carefully creating a little sign with the phrase 'fuk of''. This had not come up in our training sessions so I did not know whether to chastise him or correct his spelling. I explained that this was not proper painting and he should be painting something nice on paper like the others. He took offence and walked out.
He did not get far. He somehow got onto the roof of the hut and positioned himself above the door from which vantage point he spat on everyone who came in or out. Some girls complained so I retrieved him from the roof and told him that he must not spit.

He then drew himelf up to his full height, lbeit limited, Fastened his blazer and said "I shall never come here again". He then walked off in as dignified a manner as his flapping wellies would allow. . he was a classic picture of righteous indignation.


After af few days I was closing up one eveningwhen I was approached by a large aggressive young lady. If you have seen a Les dawson sketch when he dresses as a woman then you can picture this young lady. She had a short denim skirt partly covering robust legs. She had removed removed the sleeves of her leather jacket to rxpose tattood arms. She said " I hear that you have been saying that you fancy me." I explained that this could not be true as I had never met her before - she agreed that this was true - furthermore I did not know her name so could not say things about her. She said "well you better not". I assured her that I would not and asked her who had told her such tales. She turned to her slightly smaller friend, gave her an almighty thump on the arm and said "It was you what told me". Her friend denied this but blamed a third party. I was required to promisethat I would not talk about them after they had gone. I did so and they headed away with the samller one in orbit about the offended one.

leila Berg

Readers of my generation may remember Leila Berg's classic book "Risinghill, Death of a Comprehensive School"

I was sorting my book collection recently and I am so fond of this book that I decided to donate it to one of our local charity shops. If I have misremembered Author or title please let me know.

Anyway, when I was doing my Teacher Training Course we were required to read this book as a homework task. I read it and then in the next lesson got into an argument about it with the lecturer. it was my contention that the facts were interesting and worth discussion but Leila Berg had missed the point by making it into novel for dramatic effect and thereby missed many important points. It quickly became clear that I was the only one, apart from the lecturer perhaps, who had bothered to read the book. (Some may remember that I do not respond well to staff conferences, management training, Customer Service course etc. I feel some more posts coming on).

I am wondering now if someone should write "Rowley, Death of a sixth form college" - this is a challenge to Pete and Mike I. If I do retire and have sufficient control of my faculties I might do it myself. At one point my faculty included Mike Feist, Barry Davies, Geoff Keaton, Dan Crofts, Mike Ibrahim and John Russell and if I could control that lot then I should be OK.
Risinghill was very different. It had an imaginative, clever and creative Head teacher who was obstructed by his staff - how very different from Rowley.

Every Monday on the Training course we had a one hour lecture on Philosphy which was OK followed by 1 hour on psychology where the lecturer read out loud from his own book having coerced us all into buying a copy - this was hopeless. We then had one hour of something that still bemuses me. It seemed to involve writing words inside rectangles and then joining the rectangles with lines - it was an abuse of flow charts. At that time flow charts and OHPs occupied the space now occupied by Powwerpoint and White Boards. No one seems to have grasped that tedious claptrap is still tedious claptrap np matter how smartly you present it.
The fnal hour was a lecture on the importance of PE, Sport, tutorial work and other stuff that could be seen as peripheral. This lecturer was excellent, his material was fascinating and thought provoking. He made the mistake of starting by saying "this is for interest only, there will be no assignments or examination so no marks to contribute to your final grade". At that point 60% of the audience walked out, me and a few friends were the only ones who attended these weekly, excellent talks. I was very disappointed by my fellow nascent teachers. Why is it that so many teachers have so little interest in talking about education?

FE Managers

Just been talking to my Mother and have to share this - especially for ex Rowley folk.

My nephew has just successfully completed an HNC in electronic and electrical engineering at Telford College (TCAT). My sister worked in the library at TCAT for several years so between them they know the place well.

I was suprised to hear that they agreed that the Principal at TCAT bears a close resemblance to Captain Mainwaring of Dad's Army both in appearance, attitude and mannerisms.
I immediately remembered that at one stage we at Rowley had managers including Miss Diane, Swiss Don and Captain Square of the Eastgate Platoon. I think this is brilliant - is it just me?

We had a scally on the staff at Rowley who kept a tally of how often each of these managers ventured into the staff room to mingle with the other ranks.

Another Poppy story

This is the horseshoe weirr near Ludford Bridge on the Teme in Ludlow.

So Tuesday my Chauffeur is off shopping in Ludlow and drops me and Poppy next to the bridge so we can have a walk along the river. Another Weir has recently been repaired and I thought it would be interesting to see. We set off but we soon find that the river is very smelly. My GP did say that as my tumours grow following the RT I might see strange things and detect strange smells. BUT I think this smell is due to the Welsh doing unmentionable things upstream and the new weir churning the water. So we keep going but not too close to the smelly river.

Unfortunately Poppy does not understand footpaths - we do not have such fancy things up in Hayton's Bent (nor do we have street lights). Poppy cannot understand why we are walking on the verge rathe than in the Oss road. At every opportunity she dashes out into the 'main' road, running from side to side. I try to get her back on to a short lead. I am walking with a stick now if the ground is uneven and it is not easy when you have a stick, a long, extending, lead and a mischievous dog around your legs. We eventually find an area of grass where she can have more fun.

I then set off back to meet my lift. We get to the road again and Poppy is off again. I am struggling with stick and lead when I am chastised by an old lady on the other side of the road. She shouts at me " you want to get that dog under control or it will get killed, the cars go very fast along this road.". My natural politeness stops me fron saying "what do you think I am trying to do?" or "Do you have any concern that the dog might topple me into the road and get me killed?"

I do not wish to get into an argument as I understand from recent news how dangerous it can be and I do not suppose that old ladies carry knives but they often have knitting needles which could give you a severe injury - I do not wish to be another statistic. Anyway no harm done and Poppy and me are taken home.

Fed up today. This is the first time since 1972 that I have not gone into work to see the A level results.

Felt OK today but have only done this BLOG post and aches and pains are coming back. Off to see Cash in the Attick now. I would not dream of cticising this TV programme but am a little concerned that I am now looking forward to it.

Could be worse. I have still never seen Big Brother or anything involving Simon Cowell (have I got this right? I mean those dreadful Opportunity Knocks lookalikes)

Brilliant comment this year on QI. They were discussing Joseph Balzagette the man who designed London's Victorian sewage system. It appears that his descendant now runs the TV Company responsible for Big Brother. The Irony is that Joseph managed to remove sewage from London but his descendant is putting it back in peoples living rooms.

For The Cat Lovers

I am full of pride - I have got two pictures on to one BLOG!

Arnold at the top, Cleo below him.

We think they are 15 years old. We got them from RSPCA Barnes Hill, Birmingham, in March 1999 and the RSPCA folk estimated their age as seven years.

They say people asnd their pets become similar. These cats are champion sleepers and manage 16 or more hours each day. I get more like them every day. I have not yet gone out at night to catch a rat.

They recently went through a phase of providing a dead rat each morning. We were not sure where they got them from and then Sara spotted two rats in the chicken pen pinching the corn. Sara examined the pen and found some tunnels from the field - sadly I am too ill to crawl around in the pen - guess what is on the floor. I think this falls under 'cluds and silver linings'. The rats are doing the Great Escape in reverse with the Cats being the Gestapo. Anyway we block the holes with wire netting and rocks and our supply of dead rats has dried up.

We think Arnold does the catching and Cleo does the killing. Arnold is a mighty hunter. His finest hour was in Birmingham. He caught a magpie and carried it into our neighbour's kitchen.

You cannot tell from the photo but Cleo has a very short tail. Vets have different theories. Some say it was from birth but some suspect a car accident - she also has a slightly twisted jaw. I have found that vets are as decisive as doctors.

Another old Photo

Photo taken at Birminham Uni in 1969. All mathematics undergraduates. Mostly just finishing year 1. Some year 2 and the chap in the middle ath front is Profeesor Kuttner (Pure Maths) I think.

Can you spot me?

In a class of our own

I was in this class at the Old Park Institute in 1955. Can you spot me? The only person I can remember is the girl sitting next to me. Her name was Drusilla Plant, a girl with ambitious parents.
Why was I educated at an Institute? Old Park was a tiny village in Shropshire. It has now been covered by Telford Town Centre. The house where I was born is under Sainsbury's car park - you would think they could put a plaque on one of the bins or maybe on a parking ticket machine.

Old Park had only about 50 households, A Post Office, A bakers, no pub, no butcher's, no church or chapel. for fun you had to go to the big cities of Dawley or Oakengates.It was many years after this photo that I got interested in local history and read that in the early 18th century Old Park had the second biggest Iron Foundry in the whole world. The biggest being the Abraham Darby works near Ironbridge. So Old Park was there at the start of the Industrial Revolution. It had lots of mechanics and it had a mechanics Institute to train them. By 1955 the Industrial revolution had long gone and the Institute became a tiny Primary School with one class and one teacher.

The Institute closed in about 1957 and we moved to Malins Lea Junior school. This meant a 2 mile walk across the fields. We crossed a field called the Red Ashes by the locals. I did not understand this as the field was not red nor had it any ash. I found out the story much later. There had been a strike in the late 18th century. Workers were asking for higher wages. The foundry was owned by the Botfield family and was facing severe competition from latecomers to the Industrial revolution (Europe again!). The Botfields were well connected and the militia were called out. Some of the strikers were shot and killed in the area that became known as the red ashes. Old Park's own Peterloo.

the Bull Story

Walter is the cock so this is the other bit. Those who know Debbie Inett may know that she gets very excited over pictures of Walter.

So one winter's night Sara and I are watching the goggle box when there is a strange noise outside. Sara says "there must be someone at the door you must go and check". I go to the front door but all is silent. I return to the box. The noise persists, I am told "You did not look properly, go and check again". I do as I am told.

I walk across the back of the house. Turn to check the rhubarb patch and I am looking into the eyes of a very large Bull. he is one of those big white ones with curly hair around his huge forhead. We look at one another and I quietly back away and go back in to report.
I am instructed to go back and make him go away before he does any damage! I do as instructed but when I get there I find he has legged it and is down in the field. This seems to be one of those cases where he is more scared than me! We got some bostin Rhubarb later that year.

The field is rented by a farmer from Presteigne. Cliff, a neighbour,checks the animals daily. Sara tells Cliff what has happened and he persuades the farmer to repair the fence. Farmer not too pleased - it appears that the Bull is friendly and harmless, the farmer clearly thinks we are soft townies who do not understand country ways. He fixes the fence anyway so it has not happened again and we have a nice new fence to keep us safe from the cows and sheep who use the field occasionally for a holiday break.

Later that year I am working in the garden and I notice that the Bull has been staionery at the far side of the field for sometime. I wonder if he is in dificulty? I carefully sneak around the edge of the field to get a closer look. I get to a point where we are close but separated by a stout fence. Davy Crockett in a flat cap!
The Bull has a length of barbed wire wrapped around his back leg. It has puntured him in places and he is bleeding. What shall I do? I contemplate wrassling him to the ground in the manner of John Wayne so that I can remove the wire. Sense then prevails and I telephone Cliff. Cliff and his son arrive. I am pleased to see them sneak up as wussily as I did. When the Bull sees them he shakes his leg, the barbed wire falls to the ground and he walks away disdainfully. Cliff sprays some magic stuff on the bull's leg and then moves quickly away. Cliff thinks he will recover but will check again later. It all worked out OK but one day the farmer took the bull away - best not to ask where he went.

Better Weather

With the weather drying up I thought it was time to walk across 'Hazel's Field' again. This is a couple of meadows that are owned by someone who lives in London and the meadows are reputed to be the best wild flower meadows in the area. There are a few bullocks in the meadows - it appears you need them to maximise the wild flowers. Best to keep well away as Poppy is inclined to bark at them and they do not like it. It was a lot drier but there is still a swamp across the middle. Anyway I persevered but had forgotten that I would have to climb over a fence at the end. Not really up to climbing but had a go rather then turn back. Doing OK until I got my foot caught in some barbed wired. I go a right purler, bang my head on the bank and end up in a ditch full of nettles. The pain of the nettles distracts me fom the headache but I still prefer paracetamol. Luckily no-one around to see my disarray. Cimb out of the ditch to find that Poppy has gone to watch the cow committee have their breakfast. This is always a very exciting event. The farmer shouts for them and then they gallop from all corners of the field with lots of excited bellowing - clearly much more interesting than me wallowing in a ditch.

Get home to find that I have lost my spectacles - presumably in the ditch.

Walter's tale

This is a picture of Walter the Wyandotte and Daisy the Dorking.

In February 2007 I had Walter and eight assorted hens. They were all laying well (except Walter) and we were getting so many eggs we had to give some away.

Then the fox struck! All I found of Daisy was a sad pile of feathers in the adjacent field. Daisy had no chance, she had severely damaged feet and could not walk well. We had rescued her from being a snake's dinner at the Circus that overwinters in the Corve Dale. She was a grumpy thing but suffered badly with her feet so it was forgiveable.
I found the bodies of the two french maran hens down the garden. They were both heavy ungainly birds so would have had no chance of escape. The older Welsummer had survived two previous fox attacks, she is a wily old bird and had hidden in the nest box - a triumph of experience over youth! The Andalusian can fly well, she likes to taunt Poppy and then fly away. She escaped in the trees. I f I get any more hens I shall get more Andalusians. She lays a really nice cream coloured egg almost every day. When Sara heard the commotion she went into the garden to find the fox had the younger Welsummer pinned against a fence. Sara had to kick the fox before it would release the hen. The hen was distressed but recovered fairly quickly. Poor old Walter was in a sorry state and it was clear thet he had fought the fox. He was very battered and could not lift his head, it just hung against his chest. I doubted he would survive the night, he was so sad that I was able to pick him up and put him in the nest box - he did not try to peck me or disembowel me with his talons so I knew he was really ill. It took him weeks to regain some confidence and even now he is shaky on his feet. My friend the local farmer who keeps selection of rare breed chickens thinks Walter may have suffered some nerve damage in the attack.
So now I have poor Walter and three hens and a serious dislike of foxes.

All local poultry keepers have had the same experience with foxes this year. Is it just coincidence that fox hunting stopped locally last year and we are all now suffering unheard of levels of fox damage by some very brave foxes? My friend with the rare breed stock has lost £1000 worth of stock to foxes this year so far.

The Committee

It is always Cows week here.

Poppy and I visit this small group of cattle most mornings.

They are always gathered near the gate. This may be their morning briefing but I like to think they are a committee.

One or two look interested. there are always some chewing the cud and paying little attention. There is often one taking the piss. Best of all, you cannot tell from the picture but they are a load of bullocks. Is this a committee or what?

Cattle have an endearing habit of always gathering around the gate, which quickly develops into a latrine. They may simply be waiting for their next meal but I think they like to see who is going past. Cattle seem to be quite intellingent animals.

This gate habit means that cattle fields always have a very distinctive smell. It is not an unpleasant smell and is a real memory trigger for me.

For the first ten years of my life I lived in the small village of Old Park. A track ran past our house and twice a day a large herd of cows would walk past going to or coming from the milking parlour. If my Grandma was visiting she was terrified by these cows. She had lived all her life in West Bromwich, a town not know for its cattle. My Gran would run and hide in our outside toilet. We still had a good old bucket lavatory in a shed at the end of our yard. Is this what they mean by bucolic?

The NHS

I have nothing but praise for the NHS. I think they have been brilliant in their support for me over the past two years – thank you Tony Blair. (I do not care what they say. I still think he is a great bloke - mind you I am still having treatment for my brain).

But they are a big organisation and like all such they do some funny things – I have worked for several big organisations and they all have their own strange ways – mind you the LSC always have to take things too far.

So the day after my last Radiotherapy session I get a letter from the hospital. Usual wad of leaflets. I have my own Key Worker! Sister Davenport knows all about my case, she will meet regularly with the gang of consultants who are following my progress. If I have any questions I can call at anytime 9 to 5 during the working week.
I do have some questions so I decide to make use of this splendid service. I telephone. I get an answer machine – Sister Davenport is on annual leave for two weeks. I can telephone Sister Davies who is covering for the two weeks. So I telephone Sister Davies. I get another answering machine. Sister Davies is busy comforting the sick but will get back to me ASAP if I leave my number. To be fair she rings back later that afternoon. Unfortunately she cannot help as she does not know who I am and cannot find my records, those naughty people in Radiotherapy have not sent them back. She will ask one of the consultants to give me a call after clinic on Thursday.

The next day I see my GP. She is a bit cross as she has had no information from the hospital despite the fact that everything is now electronic and she should have immediate access. I go through my story again. This is normal practice. Every time I see another Doctor I have to go through the story again. I used to think this was a cunning ruse to check whether I can think and talk but now I believe that Doctors do not trust anyone else’s notes and always want to do their own – just like teachers of course. My notes are now a huge brick And I do not blame them for avoiding reading them – I had a sly read one day as I returned form an X ray and they do not make very interesting reading. It would be quicker to read the last Harry Potter and far more interesting.
Now my GP is a redoubtable, assertive woman and the next day she contacts the hospital and soon has the records. She also talks to the boss consultant. She then telephones me! I have never been telephoned by a GP before and am amazed by such service. My GP quickly resolves all my questions. She is off on holiday now but will telephone again when she returns. Have I offended all these people? Why are they all leaving the country. The MacMillan nurse also went off two days after meeting me.

I first bought a house in Hill Top, West Bromwich thirty years ago – to be honest it was a shared purchase with the building society. My Aunty Betty said “Yoh doh want to move there our Bobby, the place is full of foreigners”. Relatives can be so embarrassing. Wrong too, I did want to go there, it was a friendly place.
The local surgery was a very battered house attached to a Funeral Parlour – is this symbiotic? You approached the surgery through an overgrown garden having blazed a trail through the shrubbery. Once you got inside the Doctor was a pioneer of recycling and you sat on Church pews – very hard wood, you needed to be fit to wait in that surgery. There was a one bar electric fire but it did not help as several of the windows had been carefully broken by local youths and the wind howled across the room. There was one of those Tesco Deli systems where you took a ticket and then engaged in negotiations with fellow inmates when the Doc opened his door and yelled ‘next’.
Then it was off down the linoleum to his little office. You hoped not to undress as there was a risk of frost bite.

Now I have a Doctor who telephones me at home! If I do go to the local surgey I have an appointment which they keep to and the Doctor comes to the waiting room to invite me in. I like things better now.