Christmas Trousers

Overheard while Hay was talking to her father:

Hay: "Well, this year we're all going to have Christmas at your place.

Hay's Dad: "Oh yes, it's my turn, isn't it. I'll have to give some thought as to where I'll be going then."

No.1 Son lost his phone on Saturday night, but didn't realise it till Sunday morning. He finally discovered he'd left it in a friend's car and wanted me to drive him to collect it. He was still in his pyjamas, so I told him to get ready immediately and I would take him. Two minutes later he presented himself - and suddenly realised he'd put his trousers on inside out. It wouldn't surprise me if someone turned it into a fashion.

This 'n' That

Overheard:

TV Voice: "Just what brought ancient man to Amesbury?"

Chairman: "The A303!"

Later:

Chairman: "Did you read that story about a boy in India having a 20cm vestigial tail surgically removed?"

Hay: "Weird bits of DNA from our distant past keep cropping up - you occasionally get people covered in a thick layer of hair, for example. Just look at yourself, for a start."

We were travelling through the countryside yesterday on the way back from the garden centre in Nailsworth, through acres of fields of stubble from this year's crops, and it struck me that if wheat is a variety of grass, then why when it's cut do farmers need to plough the fields and plant new seed? Surely it should just grow again from the roots, like my lawn?

I understand that wheat, unlike wild grasses, retains its seeds and hence it's difficult to reseed a field naturally, but then my garden lawn never even gets to seed stage, yet it continues to grow from year to year without self-seeding. Perhaps a farmer can explain? Must be something to do with the root system.

The same goes for other crops. I can hack weeds down in our field, and they keep coming back year after year. Why not cabbages? Perhaps they would, but they wouldn't be as vigorous?

Ejucayshun

Term time holidays were in last week's papers again. The headline in the Sunday Times was; "No causal link between term time holidays and academic performance." However, when you read the story, what the researchers said was that the data was contaminated by absences for reasons other than holidays and therefore no hard evidence could be concluded, Not exactly the same thing as 'no causal link'.

It's simple common sense that absence from school, whatever the cause, will have some effect on learning if no remedial steps are taken. The effect will lie on a continuum - no school at all and you wouldn't expect good academic performance;  a perfect attendance record in itself does not guarantee a good performance, but it would guarantee a better performance than no school at all. If the pupil concerned is diligent and catches up, then yes, there will be no effect.

The problem as I see it is that parents who put holidays before school, for whatever reason, are generally the kind who don't place a high value on education. With that kind of millstone, the child is, unfortunately, unlikely to be academically inclined in the first place.

I would never dream of taking my child out of school for a holiday, unless it was justified from the perspective of adding to their overall education, and even then I'd have to think very hard about it. Sitting on a beach in either Benidorm or the Maldives adds nothing to a child's education, whereas touring the Prada Museum or being forced by their parents to speak a language they are learning with locals in the holiday destination will. That said, that can be done outside of term time.

If you can't afford a foreign holiday in the peak season, then rein your expectations. A foreign holiday is not a human right. Your child's education is infinitely more important.

Insomnia

I don't actually suffer from insomnia, but for various reasons I do get up frequently in the middle of the night and can sometimes find it quite difficult to get back too sleep due to thoughts crowding my mind.

I have developed a strategy to counter this; I imagine a thruppenny piece coin, enameled with various colours - the type you sometimes see as pendants or cufflinks. I find that focusing on that mental image stops the extraneous thoughts, calms my imagination and helps me drift off to sleep quite swiftly. Why a thruppenny piece? I have no idea - it just works for me, but it has to be highly coloured, more than the one below.

The other solution would be to read, but switching the light on would bring complaints from her indoors. I always  read, without fail, on going to bed in the evening and it takes no more than half a dozen pages to send me into the land of nod, regardless of how I feel.

Carpe Diem

Theresa May's carpe diem speech.  Rousing, invigorating, but just words. Can the leopard change its spots? She wants to turn the Tory Party into the party of the average, working-class millionaire - sorry, worker.

For  long time the Tory  Party has been like a lot of (not all, by any means) self-professed evangelical American Christians, the type who flaunt their Christianity in public - the least tolerant of individuals. The more Christian they proclaim themselves to be, the less tolerant they appear.

I suppose that begs the question of whether Jesus was a socialist. He must have been - looking after the poor, loving your neighbour, diatribes against violence, turning the other cheek etc., etc.. You couldn't get much more socialist. Why is it them that American Republicans, who  never miss a chance to exhibit their Christian credentials, are among the least tolerant people in the world and don't appear to give a toss about the poor or the dispossessed?

I'm not talking about the many Christians who wear their Christianity quietly and unassumingly, but the vociferous ones whose politics defines their brand of Christianity, rather than the other way round. That, I believe, is the root of their problem. He did preach against tax avoidance though (Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar's) so he came from the socially responsible wing of whichever strain of politics he represents.

Back to Tats

No.2 Son has been progressing an application to join the Royal Navy, wanting to become helicopter aircrew, using the RN's facilities for gaining A levels and possibly a degree - after all, some 40% of RN officers come up from the ranks. The CPO looking after No.2 Son's application doesn't think commissioned officers actually do any work, as evidenced by his comment when No.2 Son called him 'Sir'. He barked; "You call me Chief, not sir. I'm not an officer - I actually work for a living."

The subject of tats came up during the application, with the rule being: "Tattoos that are offensive, obscene or excessive in size or number will be a bar to entry or re-entry. Tattoos that are visible on the head, neck and hand when in parade uniform are a bar to entry. If you have any you will be asked to complete a form describing your tattoos. They will be seen during your medical examination."

While looking up potential recruits' reactions to this I came across the following: "Completely understand where you're coming from but the problem is that it's supposed to be a disciplined service and the fact is that most people actually know what the rules are, but wish to challenge them. Those that display a poor attitude to discipline and authority in these days of lean manning and a surplus of applicants are entirely at liberty to apply for jobs elsewhere. No, it doesn't mean that they would be any better at their job, but it does perhaps suggest they would be prepared to do what they are required to do when it matters most. Doubtless there are many tattoo-free drug addicts and career criminals knocking about, but a line needs to be drawn somewhere."

While aggressive tattoos may make you look more fearsome in a battle, which could be a psychological plus in a hand-to-hand combat, I doubt they'd go down very well on parade inspection by Mrs Queen.

Older people dislike tattoos as they once had a very identifiable association with an underclass - criminals, thugs, ladies of the night, sailors, Edward VII, etc.. That association is had to break. I'm of the generation where our parents frowned deeply on tattoos and I was intensely ashamed of mine. The fact they are now fashion items (mistakenly, in my opinion) should change attitudes over time, but don't expect me to like your tat or give you a job if you look like Keith Flint in Firestarter. I have my reasons...

Funeral For a Friend

Went to an Old Boy's funeral yesterday afternoon. I'd been asked to do a eulogy, which I accomplished without fluffing my lines. Also had a couple of poems to read - The Conway Gulls by John Masefield (who was an Old Boy of the school) and Tennyson's Crossing the Bar.

Masefield imagined gulls on masts being the souls of returned HMS Conway Old Boys.

THE CONWAY GULLS

They died in the gales' roaring, in the smash

Of some green billow whence they never rose;

Some diced with Death with many lucky throws

Till the last throw, that nulled them into ash.

Some were for all adventure, being rash;

And others died, in thirst and fever-throes,

On frontiers at the furthest that man goes,

Or on the foreman's muzzles, in the flash.

And being gone, they wander home again

Here, to the Ship, and settle on her spars,

Mewing and going gleaning in the sea. 

They are our brothers, so let them be,

Old Conways, fellow-sharers of the stars,

Advanced another link upon the chain.

A bar in nautical parlance is a shallow, generally sandy area across an estuary which can only be crossed at high tide, or you go around, if you can. Crossing the Liverpool bar is a colloquialism for arriving at one's home port, or kicking the bucket.

CROSSING THE BAR

Sunset and evening star, 

And one clear call for me! 

And may there be no moaning of the bar, 

When I put out to sea, 

But such a tide as moving seems asleep, 

Too full for sound and foam, 

When that which drew from out the boundless deep 

Turns again home. 

Twilight and evening bell, 

And after that the dark! 

And may there be no sadness of farewell, 

When I embark; 

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place 

The flood may bear me far, 

I hope to see my Pilot face to face 

When I have crost the bar.

Eulogising held no terrors for me, as I wrote the words and can generally remember the gist with just a few key words on a piece of paper. The wedding speech was good practice too. With a poem, however (especially when the audience has a copy in the Order of Service) it's not easy to cover a fluff with some ad-libbing. Archaic language only adds to the problem.

Overhard at Tyntesfield

Went to Tyntesfield (National Trust) in Somerset again yesterday.

Overheard in the grounds of Tyntesfield:

Visitor: "Hebe!......Hebe!......Hebe, where are you?"

Chairman: "Is that chap calling a plant?"


Later, on seeing a chap in a Hawaiian shirt:

Chairman: "I'd like a Hawaiian shirt."

Hay: "You have to be rake thin to wear one, else you'd look like Christopher Biggins or a children's entertainer. Come to think of it, you already look like Christopher Biggins."

Bet you've never seen poinsettias like these in the Tyntesfield greenhouse:

Apparently the ones you get at Christmas are treated with a growth inhibitor to keep them small. These specimens were over 7 feet tall.

It's Not for Locals Anymore

I do TripAdvisor reports for most hotels and restaurants I visit, but I get annoyed at some of the reports I read for pubs where locals complain that it has been taken over by new management and is no longer a local pub.

The point of owning a pub/hotel is to make money, not just cater for the odd local who sits in a corner nursing his pint for several hours. One place in the North Yorkshire Dales comes particularly to mind. It was losing money hand-over-fist under the previous owners, who sold up precisely because it was what the locals wanted - swirly carpets and bad beer. The new owner spent a fortune refurbishing the whole place (some 11 bedrooms, a restaurant and bar) and has turned it onto a boutique hotel attracting people from all over the country. It's pricey, but it has to be to pay for the renovations and a top class chef, but it brings wealthy people into the village who spend money locally when there.

It will doubtless be a while before it's profitable and the owner has recouped his costs, but we make a beeline for the place every time we go oop north for a weekend of walking. Were it not there, we probably wouldn't have ever gone to Clapham.

If locals want a local pub, they should get together and create their own - and learn what it's like to lose money with a business.

A Series of Overheards

Overheard:

Hay: "Right, I've made an executive decision, we're going for dinner tonight to The XXXX."

Chairman: "But they'll not be best pleased with us - remember we were in serious discussion with them about having the wedding reception there. I suppose we can just say we put it off for a couple of years."

Hay: "The wedding rings will be a bit of a give-away."

Chairman: "We can say we ended up marrying other people, which is why we had to put it off for a couple of years - till the divorces come through."

Overheard on the way to the restaurant:

Chairman: "Which car shall we go in?"

Hay: "The Pool Car."

Chairman: "But you can't go out looking like a million dollars and turn up in the Pool Car."

Hay: "But you only look like thrupence."


Overheard at the venue:

Hay: "So what is it?"

Chairman: "An Allard."

Hay: "Is that like a Mallard, but less ducky?"

Wasn't as nice as this though, which I saw in London earlier in the week:

Overheard during dinner when talking about universities:

Chairman: "But I never went to university."

Hay: "You didn't need to, you already know it all."


Overheard later during dinner:

Chairman: "Do you think I should select my pall bearers now, and tell them, or is that a bit morbid?"