Tuesday

National Emergency Services Museum in Sheffield

On Tuesday of this week the weather was as  changeable as meteorologists had promised. Showers and sunshine. I decided to head back to The National Emergency Services Museum that we had visited with the grandchildren a month ago. The ticket was still valid and without the little ones  I would be able to take it all in. I even remembered a torch (American: flashlight) so that I could read display boards in  shadowy corners of the museum.

I spent two hours in there and then in the museum shop I encountered a typical meist. She was, she said, a retired teacher and as a regular museum volunteer she pretty much ran the shop. I was looking for little gifts for Phoebe and Margot but the meist woman had other ideas. Me, me, me, my son, my work, my daughter, me, me, me - what I think about this, what I think about that. AAAAARRRGGHHH!

I just wanted to say, "Shut the f*** up! I want to have a look round the shop!" Fortunately, after about ten minutes of the one-sided torture, a young father appeared with his little girl and the meist spotlight turned upon him. I grabbed a small police notebook for Phoebe and a little replica lifeboat that Margot could sail in her bath and then I scarpered before that silver-haired torturer could claw me again. 

World War II gas mask in The National Emergency Services Museum

By the way, it turned out she was never a teacher after all. She was a teaching assistant for a mere four years before she retired and yet that didn't stop her from spouting off about schools and education to a trapped listener who had been an actual teacher for thirty seven years - fifteen of those years as a hardworking Head of English. She did not want to know as this would have stalled her gushing meist narrative.

After leaving. Up through Paradise Square, across Campo Lane and along St James's Row, past the cathedral. I crossed High Street and cut through George Street before catching a Number 88 bus home.

It had been a good way to spend my Tuesday afternoon. I learnt more about the Victorian criminal Charles Peace who shot a man dead just fifty yards from this keyboard. Apparently, he is even referred to in The Beatles' 1964 film, "A Hard Day's Night". Late Victorians viewed him  as a kind of celebrity but he killed a young policeman in  Manchester and an outraged husband here in Banner Cross. Peace was no hero - far from it. Here's his actual mugshot from the 1870s...

Thirties

When my oldest brother Paul died in June 2010, it all seemed so very tragic and unfair. He was only sixty two years old. My father, Philip,  died at the age of sixty five in 1979 and my younger brother, Simon, was sixty six when he faded away in 2022. Three male members of my family gone before they had ticked off their three score years and ten. Gone too soon.

But let me tell you about three deaths that have occurred just this year concerning thirty somethings.

The first was Charlie - short for Charlotte. She was one our daughter Frances's closest friends at The University of Birmingham. Charlie lived a chaotic life but she was creative and interesting and in many ways back then she was still finding herself. She came to recognise that she was gay and married her long time partner in London just last year. She had just directed an avant garde film which I hope to see one day though it will never be watched by a wide audience. It was something she had always wanted to do. And then her body began to send out nasty signals. Fairly quickly she became the victim of aggressive breast cancer. Maybe Charlie had ignored the signals for too long. She died in March at the age of thirty six. Frances attended the funeral down in London.

It was down in London when Frances was working for a company called Source Breaker that a young Lebanese man joined the team. I am afraid I do not know his first name and Frances is not here to ask. He also got married in London and his wife gave birth to two boys. The oldest is five - just like our Phoebe. Apparently, the young man  was fit with no history of serious health issues. He was playing with his boys on the lounge carpet when he had a massive heart attack and was dead before ambulance personnel could reach him. He was thirty five years old. How will his young Lebanese wife cope? How will the boys fare in future years?

And then there's Carla. She was a Spanish pharmacist living in Sheffield. She had married the oldest son of one of Shirley's closest nursing colleagues. Carla was the mother of two young boys and she fought like hell to stay alive but the cancer was spreading everywhere and in the end - just a month ago she could fight no more.  She was thirty eight years old.

Three thirty somethings gone way before the whistle should have been blown on their lives. It makes my own losses - Dad, Paul and Simon seem a little less tragic because they were each granted almost thirty years more upon this field of life.

All of us - reading this blogpost - we have something terribly precious in the palms of our hands. Life itself. Let's live it with as much delight as we can muster in memory of those three thirty somethings and all of the others who departed far too early. They would have given the world for our good fortune

Picture credit © Grejak Dreamstime.com

Meism

The other day, I mistakenly thought I had come up with a wholly novel quasi-religious term and it's "Meism". You have probably encountered members of this cult in your own life. Meists are people who only want to talk about themselves - their families, their achievements, their adventures, their homes, their ailments. They are not much interested in other people's lives. It's all, "Me, me, me, me"...endlessly.

To some extent, we are probably all a bit meist and cynics might argue that blogging is all about self-interest and trumpeting your thoughts and experiences to others who spend time here in Blogworld. Perhaps it's all just a question of degree.

So many times in my life, I have found myself listening to meists as they drone on about themselves and their lives. I am a very good listener and I believe that other  people sense that. I react to what is being said and pose follow up questions but so often I reach a point in my head where I say to myself, "They have not asked me anything" or "They know nothing about me" or "Am I really so uninteresting, so unworthy that they just do not want to know?"

I could have titled this blogpost "Empathy" because I suppose that a lack of it is the foundation on which Meism is built. If you possess empathy you are aware of who you are communicating with. It's another human being whose view of the world may be delightfully different from your own. They are worthy of attention no matter what their station is in life. They could teach you something or give you food for thought.

If you manage to hinder the meist flow and intervene with a point, a memory or an idea of your own, the meist will look slightly irritated as if to say, "Let us get back to the main subject". And the main subject is a combination of what I have done, where I have been, what I  have spent money on, my family, what I have watched on television, my budgerigar, my car - on and on and on. Me-me-me-me.

I am not saying that meists are all bad. Maybe they just cannot help themselves. Perhaps their meism is connected with internal self-doubts - something like that. Maybe they became meists in meist family homes.

Being a meist is rather different from egomania but it's certainly edging in that extreme direction. This is how the dictionary defines egomania:-

...a psychological term for an obsessive, irrational, and excessive preoccupation with one’s own ego, self-importance, or needs. It is characterised by delusions of grandeur, extreme selfishness, and a lack of empathy, often manifesting as an intense, frantic desire for admiration and power. 

Yes, meists are generally not that far gone but I can think of a current world leader who possesses all of those traits aplenty. Know who I mean?

Monday

Over three hours with Barry Hines's brother Richard this afternoon and his lovely wife Jackie. Their son John was also there - up from Brighton where he lives. As usual, the conversation flowed like water in a mountain stream - tumbling over the rocks and down to the valley.

I had lent Richard my copy of "Walking Home" by Simon Armitage and I am pleased to say  that he has very much been enjoying it. So much so that he wanted to keep the book and asked me to sign it. I said it would be an 81st birthday present.

More and more, I discover that there were other parts of Richard in the iconic novel "Kes". Not just the boy who trained a kestrel. There were bits of the book that were lifted directly from Richard's experience of education in a secondary modern  school. Barry himself went to a grammar school after  passing his eleven plus examination.

Because I needed to pee - and I have never been upstairs to the Hines's bathroom - I made my apologies and departed just before five o'clock.

Shirley was down in London today - visiting Buckingham Palace with some other members of her Women's Institute. They had tickets to see an exhibition of our late queen's clothes.

Later I asked if Queen Elizabeth's bra and knickers were on show but apparently not - nor were her suspenders and fishnet stockings. Apparently Prince Philip liked that particular outfit.

Shirley was home by 7.15pm and very soon after that I presented her with a bowl of stir fried chicken with noodles and chopped vegetables which we ate together before I strode out. Down the road to watch the second leg of the Championship play-off semi-final at Frances and Stew's house.

It was an exciting game but Hull City came out on top as the deserved winners by two goals to nil. So beautiful that I am still smiling now. We are on our way to the Wembley final and who knows - who knows - we could end up in The Premier League once again! It's quite incredible really.

I was so happy that when I walked home I called in at "The Dark Horse" micro-pub for a celebratory pint of Aspall's cider. Now all that I need is a match ticket. They will sell like hotcakes. We will be playing either Middlesbrough or Southampton on Saturday May 23rd. Up The Tigers!

Algerian playmaker Mohamed Belloumi scored Hull City's first goal

Leftovers

This evening we ate roasted chicken with suitable accompaniments. Two hours later, I stripped as much remaining chicken meat from the carcass as I could. Then I put the stripped  carcass and all remaining pieces out on the lawn. This has been my habit for years now.

In winter months, when darkness falls early, I never get to see the disappearance of the leftovers but tonight with summer evenings returning, I looked out and saw a wary dog fox patrolling the lawn, sniffing here and looking there. This was less than five minutes after I had taken the roasting tin outside.

I am sure he was a little nervous in case he was about to become the victim of a cunning trap in which a fresh cooked chicken carcass might in fact be bait. But he had no need to worry. Quick as a flash, he gripped the chicken in his jaws and ran off into the shrubbery with it.

Urban foxes are so clever, so opportunistic and their sense of smell must be so supreme that it is hard for we mere humans to imagine. To survive in a city cannot be easy for any of the creatures so I am always glad to help out. Besides, my disposal practice means that tonight's carcass did not end up in our household waste bin - thence to landfill or the council's massive waste incinerator.

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Over in Newfoundland, the Skote Outdoors couple - Matty and Kelly Clarke are now back on their island with a healthy baby boy that they have named Sonny Ray Clark. All is well but in the run up to the birth many online visitors - myself included - were anxious about possible complications with a home birth. Maybe we'll never get to know fully what happened last week as 9.5 pound Sonny Ray emerged from the happy place where he had been hiding.

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And before I sign off, here are three more images from my pre-match walk in Hull late on Friday afternoon.

A lone cyclist is heading towards me on the elevated riverside walkway.

John died in October 2016. I do not know for sure but I suspect that he took his own life hereabouts.

On Hessle Road - the traditional home area of Hull's fishing trawler families but that's all part of history now. Any idea what "Hullizza" might be selling?

Timeline

By The Humber yesterday

What a full day yesterday was for me. You get days like that don't you? Many days can be kind of empty - nothing of note happens - but occasionally you have days that are full to the brim and that was my Friday. I think I will explain with the help of times.

8.00 - Out of bed and into the shower. Downstairs to a simple breakfast with a mug of tea.

8.45 - In Butch the Juke with Shirley and we are on our way to Scunthorpe.

9.15 - At last we are on The Parkway heading away from the city having battled with morning traffic.

9.55 - We arrive at The Woodlands Crematorium in Scunthorpe.

10.30 - The funeral service is over. Farewell to Shirley's Auntie Mary. She was eighty six and one of her father's younger sisters. During the service - as she had requested - a song by Queen was played - "I Want to Break Free". Fortunately, Aunt Mary did not break out of her coffin. I must give some thought to my own funeral music. Could be any day now.

11.10 - We have arrived at a bungalow to the south of Scunthorpe town centre. We are here with Shirley's sister Carolyn to meet up with their brother Steve and his wife. For some odd and uncertain reasons they have not met up in over a decade. There was a rift over something or other but today was not the day to address that division. It was a time for healing and reconnecting. We sat in their summer house and drank coffee, nibbling at homemade oatie biscuits. As a kind of uninvolved bystander, it was nice from my point of view to catch up with them again. I hope the two sisters and the brother can move on now, leaving whatever it was behind them.

13.38 - I am on a Number 6 bus heading to Scunthorpe bus station. Shirley is driving back to Sheffield in Butch the Juke.

14.15 - I am on a Number 350 bus heading north to The Humber and then across The Humber Bridge to Hull.

15.45 - I have arrived at the Hull Transport Interchange.

16.00 to 17.30 - Walking. First to the old town in Hull and then along the north shore of The River Humber, passing old dockland and remnants from history. I arrive at The McDonalds  at The Quays Shopping Centre. I am only in there to use their toilet facilities. Thank you Ronald! I needed that.

17.40 - I am in  The Mahal Tandoori Indian restaurant on Anlaby Road. I order chicken bhuna, one chapatti and an onion bhaji. For once I decide not to bother with rice. They also bring me half a pint of Kingfisher beer and a pint of tap water.

18.20 - I leave The Mahal Tandoori and set off walking to The MKM Stadium

18.40 - As pre-arranged, I leave my  backpack at The Security Office. They are doing me a special favour. There are now strict rules about what you can take into a football stadium and even a medium sized camera is not permitted. Don't ask me why. In the past there was no problem.

18.50 - I climb the stair to the top level and buy a hot chocolate from the kiosk which is called "The Hunger Bridge".

19.10 - Tony and Karl appear and we have a good old chinwag about the football, politics, womenfolk and the price of fish.

19.55 - We are in our seats but I am sitting away from them next to a season ticket holder called Trevor from Cottingham. We were born in the same year. The two teams come out of the tunnel - The Tigers of Hull and The Lions of Millwall. The stadium is packed and once again we heartily sing, "I Can't Help Falling in Love With You". Thank you Elvis - or should I say Hugo Peretti, Luigi Creatore, and George David Weiss who actually wrote the song.

20.48 - Halftime. It has been an engaging match but no goals. Some stalemates can be gripping. I meet up with Tony and Karl again. Three wise men putting the world to rights and bemoaning the rise of the horrid Reform Party  in this country. Why are some voters so flipping stupid?

21.50 - The game is over. Still 0-0. Down to London for the second leg on Monday night but tickers for that match are as rare as hens' teeth.

22.00 - I have picked up my backpack from the Security Office and I am heading to the club shop. There are some nasty Millwall fans around. They have a wicked reputation. Maybe they did not approve of Hull City fans singing , "Back to your shithole! You're going back to your shithole!" I buy Phoebe a plate with Hull City written in amber  four times around the rim.

22.10 - Hundreds of City fans are still milling by the steps up to the railway bridge. Progress is  slow but after that bottleneck I am marching on to Hull Paragon Railway Station. I have a ticket for the 10.45 train back to Sheffield.

22.40 - I reach Platform 1 with five minutes to spare.

22.45 - The train is not crowded. There are a few Millwall fans on board but they are surprisingly civilised and not spoiling for fights with the other passengers. I read another chapter of my book. The train stops at Brough, Goole, Doncaster, Conisbrough, Mexbrough, Swinton, Rotherham an Meadowhall but it is bang on time.

00.15 - I disembark at Sheffield Midland Station and because it is a pleasant, dry night, I decide to walk home. I march the 2.5 miles and only stop for a rest outside "The Porter Brook" pub where there is an inviting seat though the pub itself is closed.

01.00 - I have achieved something from my personal bucket list. At last, I stand on the grassy roundabout at Hunter's Bar with its mini-woodland and its ancient toll bar. There is very little traffic around. Then I march up the long hill that is Ecclesall Road, never stopping until I reach our house.

01.15 - I am sitting at this computer with a large glass of red wine and a rice cake.

02.00 -  Bedtime.

Phew! On yes, blogmates, that was a day and a half that was and it was good just  to be alive - unlike Auntie Mary whose days are done. She lived them well and found a lot of joy in her eighty six years but now - just like Freddie Mercury - she has broken free. Perhaps she is in Grimsby.

Quiztime

There are some pictures to tease you with in this episode of "Quiztime". How many can you work out? As usual, the answers will appear in the Comments section. Good luck!

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1) Cross section of a sporting item but what is it?

2) This is a super close up of something  - with multiple choice answers.

(a) An African cigarette  (b) One of Donald Trump's bone spurs

(c) The tip of an apple core stalk (d) The anus of an earthworm

3) A close up of something that you can eat. But what is it?

4) Seen from below and in a European city....

5) Who is this chubby American schoolboy?

6)  And that leads to this. The young of a certain creature but which one?

7) You will have definitely seen pictures of this famous Asian building - but what is it?

8) From a human body - but thankfully not mine. What is it?

9) Sadly no longer with us but who is it?

10) Super close up of a head  but what or who is it? (Don't have nightmares!) Multiple choice answers to choose from...

(a) Pete Hegseth  (b) a chihuahua puppy

(c) a very bad LSD trip (d) a woodlouse

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That's all folks! How did you do?