Quiztime

Okay - so these were the blogging-related questions that John Gray posed at "The Blogger Arms" last night. To his immense irritation, he had to repeat some of the questions several times and there were problems with the overhead projector too. One blogger who shall remain nameless tried to use her smartphone to cheat so The Quizmaster screwed up her answer sheet in disgust. As usual, the answers are given in the Comments section.

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1) In what year was "Blogger" first launched by Pyra Labs?

a) 1962 b) 1999  c) 2005  d) 2017

2) Which company owns and hosts Blogger today?

3)  Roughly how many blogs are there in the world today?

a) 6 million b) 60 million c) 600 million 7) 6 billion

4) This picture currently appears as the header for a popular Florida-based blog but what is the title of that blog?

a) Bless You! b) God Bless President Trump

c) Bless The Children d) Bless Our Hearts

5) This bloke is a very popular blogger - currently wanted by North Wales Police for alleged intimacy with a sheep. But who is he?

6) This German blogger should be in Ripon, Yorkshire by now at the start of  her annual holiday. She is called Meike but what is the name of her blog?

7) What were the Canadians drinking at their table in "The Blogger Arms"? (Think back to yesterday's blogpost):-

a) moose milk b) maple syrup liqueur 

c) sparkling water d) cans of Molson beer

8) This Arizona-based blogger  is well-known for the "Friday Funnies" he posts each week but what is the name of his blog?

9) Which well-known, entertaining and brilliantly presented blog is represented by this anagram?   

HURRYING KIDS DOPE

10)  It is said that the very first blog was created by Justin Hall (below)  in 1994 but can you guess what it was called?

(a) Justin Hall's Nerd World (b) Justin's Links from the Underground 

(c)  The Justinside Weblog (d) Justin's Blogging Journey

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How did you do?

Arms

It's quiz night at "The Blogger Arms"  and customers have been teleported into the pub from every corner of the globe. Remember how they did it in "Star Trek"? Incredible technology.

Here they all are indulging in their favourite tipples before the quiz starts. Over there I can see Steve Reed with a dirty martini talking to Coppa's Girl (Carol) who is enjoying a pint of sangria with Cro Magnon who is supping neat "Ricard". In yon corner Dave Northsider is secretly canoodling with JayCee Manx. Both of them are married - it's scandalous!  She appears to be drinking a small gin and tonic but Dave has half a dozen bottles of Newcastle Brown Ale lined up on their table. So romantic!

Jason Fox (aka Arctic Fox) dressed in a rainbow coloured kaftan is swigging craft beers made in obscure Yorkshire valleys while Meike Riley is necking a bottle of best German Riesling. They are conversing with two American bloggers - Mary Moon who is drinking a dirty martini just like Steve and Bruce Taylor who is clinging to a pint bottle of Jack Daniels and doesn't appear to require a glass. He is wearing a red MAGA cap.

By the door is the Canadian table. Jenny O'Hara, Nurse Pixie, Keith Kline, Shammickite and Debra Whoseeks are politely sharing a medium bottle of sparkling water. On the other side of the door is The Australian table where Raucous Andrew from Melbourne and Wild Elsie from Adelaide, Doula Kylie Tai, Marcellous The Marvellous and Sweet Helen from Brisbane are sharing an endless supply of cold tinnies by Fosters.

It's hard to keep track of who is here and who is not. There's Ed from Iowa in his Hopalong Cassidy cowboy suit, martini-swilling Jennifer Barlow dressed as an air hostess and Bob Slatten in  his padded Donald Trump costume - complete with swollen legs and bruised hands. Gorgeous Ellen from Illinois is nattering with Luscious Kelly from Arkansas and poor Michael from Virginia just cannot get a word in edgeways. He appears to be drinking "Guinness". Tasker Dunham is playing his guitar and singing "The Goole Blues" over a foaming  pint of "Old Git" as Frances from Harpenden peers at him like a lovesick puppy over a green cocktail.

Mysterious Monica and Sagacious Thelma are sitting at the bar with Dogwoman Janice swigging tequila shots  as Sir Graham Edwards and Addy from south east London enjoy a game of cribbage with two old timers from Washington D.C. - namely David and his Hamster. They are drinking expensive French champagne as David is very wealthy and demands the best even when he is in the mood for boozing with lesser mortals.

Over there you can see the exclusive "D" table where blog visitors whose names begin with "D" can guzzle Spanish wine to their hearts' content - Diaday, Debs, Debbie, Debra, Deborah, Deirdre, Dora Peppalady etc.. Nearby, Traveller and Tigger's Mum and drinking crème de menthe at the "T" table as they compare the merits of different supermarkets.

Oh-oh! Here comes the quizmaster with his microphone. He climbs up onto the little stage next to the Gents toilet wearing a bright red Welsh rugby jersey. Why! I do declare - it's none other than John Humphrey Gray - the famous Welsh blogger from the mountain village of Trewlanyd. Expertly, he settles the boisterous attendees...

"All right! Shut the **** up and listen! The quiz will start in  three minutes! Make sure you have an answer sheet on your table and a pen too!"

The quiz will be teleported to tomorrow's blogpost.

P.S. Tonight, England Women beat Spain on penalties in the final of the Euros  tournament that was played in Switzerland. Such drama! Such delight! Well done my bonny lasses!

Unbearable

 

I know I should not laugh because for Japanese people who have been troubled by wild bears in the mountains, it's no laughing matter at all. Local police in the Tochigi Prefecture recently decided to conduct some useful bear control training.

The first officer, dressed in a fake blood-stained T-shirt, seems to yell out "Gorilla! Gorilla!" when it's obviously just his mate in a bear costume. Near the end, the fake bear complies with the instruction to lie down with his arms by his sides as another officer pokes his arse with a big stick.

I found the video unbearable but I would love a mask like that for my occasional visits to the pub. Then I would always be sure to get a seat but I would also be wary of other customers carrying big sticks, shields or loud hailers (American: bullhorns). 

Enjoy...

Moorland

The mound is spoil from the railway tunnel below. You 

can also see the top of the ventilation shaft

It would have been a good walking day. That is what I had planned but I was largely thwarted. Phoebe had had a sleepover and Margot was deposited here at 8.15am. Frances was off to get her hair done at a hair salon she had not used before. The appointment lasted for four hours and cost a bucketful of money.

We kept the little girls entertained and nourished all morning and then when Frances reappeared I made her a light lunch for she's on a Munjaro journey. Round about 2pm, she went off to Aldi to do some family food shopping, not returning till well after three. The better part of the day had gone when we said goodbye to the little ones.

I prepared an early evening meal which was a pasta concoction of my own devising involving a large courgette from the garden, red pepper, mushrooms, seasoned chunks of chicken and carbonara sauce. It was delectable. Afterwards - slices of yesterday's bramble pie with custard.

Head of the tunnel ventilation shaft on Totley Moor

The meal was over by six and soon afterwards I headed out to Totley Moor on the southern edge of the city. Boots on in the warm evening and off I went on a two mile circuit that took in the main ventilation shaft of Totley railway tunnel which was finished in 1893. As I stood close to the head of the ventilation shaft, I heard a train passing far below. Then back along Stony Ridge Road to where the new car was parked. I was delighted to discover that it had not been stolen.

It wasn't the long walk I had in mind but it was good to get out, letting my legs carry me round the moorland and giving my brain solitary wandering time. I only met one other rambler - a noticeably pregnant woman of about forty. We exchanged a few pleasantries before she went ahead. She is walking away in this image...

Ordinariness

Ordinary life for a retired Yorkshireman in 2025. Phoebe had been deposited at 8.15am before her mama took Margot to nursery school and then carried on to work. When  Bad Grandpa came downstairs, Phoebe was glued to the television and would not speak to me. Later, she said she doesn't like me in my dressing gown - she only likes me when I am showered and dressed.

My main mission of the morning was to take a huge builders' bag of plastic waste to the nearest council recycling centre at Blackstock Road, Gleadless.  In refuse collection there has been an ongoing industrial dispute for months now - the upshot being that there is nowhere to deposit one's soft plastic waste apart from at one of the city's five recycling centres. By the way, we used to call them "dumps".

Late morning I arrived at Blackstock Road and the queue was not too bad. Ten minutes later with our waste plastic conscientiously deposited I was away. The ridiculousness of having to burn petrol (American: gas) to get to and from the recycling centre struck me as just another of life's absurdities.

Back home, Shirley had taken Phoebe by bus to a pop up fun park in the city centre. I made a mug of peppermint and liquorice tea to drink while I sat at our outdoor table consuming another two chapters of "The Tenant of Wildfell Hall" by Anne Bronte. In my youth, I would have struggled with the sometimes turgid language of this early Victorian novel but now I breeze through it. More than that, I bring a better sense of time and history to the reading. I am greatly enjoying it - partly because I was very much in the mood to take on a well-known novel from that era.

Over the telephone, I renewed my drug prescription for hypertension and those various pills will be ready for me at our local pharmacy tomorrow afternoon - free of charge because of our NHS. The oedema I was experiencing has almost disappeared since I have been off the amlodipine pills.

Early this evening I prepared a family meal of Lincolnshire sausages, jacket potatoes, fried onions and garden peas - followed by a bramble pie that I  baked myself using brambles picked from the bottom of our garden. It was served with vegan ice cream.

There's a new series of the addictive "Mandy" by Diane Morgan  on the BBC right now and this evening, after putting Phoebe to bed, Shirley and I watched two episodes, Both of us laughed several times. However, I am not sure how well this comedy programme would go down with an American audience. They would probably sit stony-faced in their dens wondering what the hell was going on.

There's always tomorrow and our Friday weather forecast is good. When Phoebe is gone I might well venture out somewhere for another long walk. But where? This question is usually fraught with dissatisfaction when you have walked just about every path within a twenty mile radius of  home.

Xiaoxue

 

What do we westerners know of China? Most of us know very little about it in spite of its long history, its vast population and its economic power. Above - that is a young woman called Qingyunji Xiaoxue. She always introduces herself as Xiaoxue which is, I believe,  a fairly popular female name in China. It means "light snow".

She is a YouTuber but her videos are not about food or fashion or make-up. Instead, Xiaoxue takes us to remote and interesting locations in rural China - especially in the south western province of Guizhou. There, amid the mountains, the trees and the birds of the air, it is as if communism never happened, the modern economic revolution never took place and President Xi Jinping was never born.

This is how Xiaoxue introduces her channel:- "Hello everyone, this is Qingyunji Xiaoxue's official YouTube channel. This is a channel dedicated to sharing China's unique mountains and rivers. We show China's green mountains and clear waters, humanities and customs. We hope to show you China's traditional customs~ If you like our channel, please subscribe! Thank you very much!"

But what she doesn't tell you is that she and her cameraman take viewers to some truly incredible places of human habitation, work or worship - in caves, remote valleys or mountain tops. Many of the paths she treads are quite hair-raising.

The videos are all narrated in Mandarin but you can press the subtitles button to get a rough idea of what is being said. Along the way, Xiaoxue meets many rural people - most of them quite elderly. She communicates with them respectfully - often calling them "uncle" or "aunt".

Here are two example videos....

High on a limestone pinnacle in Guizhou:-

A cliff village in Sichuan:-

If you are reading this Xiaoxue, I just want to say thank you for your amazing videos and please keep up the good work!

Mix

 

This is the only picture I took yesterday when I went for a two hour walk. Not for the first time, I caught a number 81 bus to the suburban village of Dore, intending to walk back home via Ecclesall Woods.

The weather forecast suggested occasional showers but I hoped for the best and put my old nylon raincoat in my rucksack just in case. In the event, it rained steadily for the first hour and I became a soggy sight galumphing through puddles and along woodland paths. The temperature remained summery and I quite enjoyed the experience. Beware - here cometh the grinning drowned rat!

I took the photograph by a little wooden bridge in the heart of the woods, sheltering beneath a tree where I rapidly pulled my camera out of the rucksack - putting it back moments later to avoid raindrops.

Last night, Shirley and I finished watching a rather lovely four part drama courtesy of the BBC. It was called "Mix Tape" and spanned three decades and three cities - Sheffield - which is of course my adopted city, Dublin in Ireland and Sydney, Australia.

I loved the way that this tender story moved comfortably through time and from place to place. It was about teenage love that got cut off and then rekindled years later as you might infer from the image below. Alison played by Teresa Palmer and Daniel played by Jim Sturgess are picking up where they left off in previously unexplained circumstances.

On audio-cassette tapes, you could put your best songs in a "mix" and perhaps give them as special presents. Throughout this emotionally charged drama, the music of Alison and Daniel's youth can be heard - sometimes quietly in the background. It was the soundtrack of their lives. The whole thing was delightful but please be aware there was gritty reality too.

STOP PRESS  England Women beat Italy by two goals to one in their Euros semi-final match and will now play either Germany or Spain in the final on Sunday afternoon. Come on England!

Quiztime

 

Well, there hasn't been a "Quiztime" for a month so I thought it was about time. Today's cheerful topic is dead politicians. All of the figures shown below were famous in their time but who were they? For each of them, I have provided an helpful clue. Answers will, as usual, be given in the "Comments" section.

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1.

Born in Predappio, Italy in 1883.

2.

His middle name was Rudolph.

3.

His body was exhumed and moved to Mingorrubio Cemetery, Madrid in 2019.

4.

Assassinated in Rawalpindi, Pakistan in December 2007.

5.

The 23rd prime minister of Australia.

6.

Don't cry for her.

7.

Born in The Ukraine region in 1906.

8.

In 2007, he was the first international figure to be stripped of an honorary degree by a British university (University of Edinburgh).

9.

When he died in 1976, his internal organs were preserved in formaldehyde.

10.

Born in Huddersfield, Yorkshire in 1916.

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That's all folks! How did you do?

Reappearance

"Yorkshire Pudding" by Daniel Halksworth

Having "come out" in my last blogpost, finally admitting through poetry that I am a poet, I tracked back through the annals of this ancient blog to find a poem that I posted years back. Yes - it was getting on for twenty years ago when I shared "Ode on Yorkshire Pudding" with an unsuspecting readership.

Actually, in those days, my readership was exclusive which is often a euphemism for small. Where are they now... Alkelda the Gleeful, Brad the Gorilla, Hazed, By George and The Blind Winger Jones? And I was but a sprightly lad of fifty two.

Poets are generally spurned and privately accused of being word-juggling weirdos. Coming out as a poet, I wonder if there's a liberation movement I might join with placards and marches and a certain unique colour for our lapel ribbons. Masses of poets descending upon London, raising our voices outside The Houses of Parliament...

"What do we want?"

"Poetry!"

"When do we want it?"

"Now!" 

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Ode on Yorkshire Pudding

How simple thou art, risen through the years

I recall you marked my Sundays
Fat laughter and sharp tears
Golden wert thou - a vessel for mum’s gravy
Mashed potato memories
Brown ocean for a navy...
Of minted garden peas.

What an ordinary pudding you are -
Milk and eggs and plain flour
In a hot oven for half an hour.
You’re even made now by the famous Aunt Bessy
Supermarket packaging being not quite as messy
As beating those ingredients
In an old mixing bowl.

You bear my county’s name -
My land of hopes and dreams
From Flamborough’s chalky cliffs
To Barnsley’s deep coal seams
But in googling the world wide web
I find your fame at last has spread
From Timbuktu to Kalamazoo
The Yorkshire pudding rises…

Poet

Poet

I’m a poet I am.

I lurk in pubs taking mental notes

Or wander about on moorland

During thunderstorms

Or sit beside rivers in summertime

Observing ducklings under yon tree

As mellifluous water burbles 

On its journey to the sea.

When I am feeling bored

I wield my quill like a sword.

Yes, I’m a poet I am -

Seeking inspiration

Wherever I might find it

See me in the throbbing city

Or in the flattened streets of Gaza

Or in the throes of love

Or drawing images

From the well of memory.

Meticulously, I polish my lines

Occasionally making rhymes.

And when my poems are done

I bury them every one

In secret moorland hollows.

Yes, my precious treasure

Is hidden midst the heather.

Words like these together.

Folk say I seldom show it

But I’m a bona fide poet.

Friday

Just back from "The Itchy Pig" where I drank two pints with Alan the CAMRA man. CAMRA stands for Campaign for Real Ale. This is an organisation that celebrates good beers and well-kept hostelries. Recently, Alan has been on his rounds across Yorkshire seeking "the pub of the year". It is a hard job but somebody has got to do it.

This afternoon I was mostly out in the garden trimming hedges and bushes. Our garden is 45 metres long or 49 yards if you prefer.  There's a lot of trimming to do but fortunately on the left-hand side  the boundary hedge is only about twenty metres long. After that we have a fence, borders and the neighbours' garage.

It was hot and sticky out there. I made a dinner of chicken, salad and new potatoes. I had grown the lettuce myself - lollo rosso which is strangely unattractive to slugs that clearly prefer other lettuce varieties.

Later, after more garden work, I came back in the house to watch football on the television. It was the third quarter final of the Women's Euros in Switzerland. The host nation were playing Spain who fluffed two penalties but still manage to win the match by two goals.

It was dramatic but not half as dramatic as England's victory over Sweden on Thursday night. Our lasses won that game after extra time in a penalty shoot-out. Hurray for The Lionesses! They will play Italy in their semi-final next Tuesday night. Come on England!

Midnight is fast approaching. I have got to get this blogpost published by the witching hour. All I need to do now is find an  image I can slap at the top of this hurriedly written blogpost - something relevant to the content would be good.

Neighbours

We have lived on this street for thirty six years. There have been many comings and goings. Generally, it is a quiet, law-abiding street where residents look after their homes and show good manners towards each other. In thirty six years, you get to know people while often maintaining a polite distance.

Immediately next to us there's Joseph and Mary. Now in their eighties, they have been perfect next door neighbours. We attended  the weddings of two of their grown-up children and they came to Frances and Stew's wedding in August 2019. Joseph was an academic in the metallurgy department of The University of Sheffield and Mary was a primary school teacher. The only time we ever really hear them is when Joseph is practising his french horn. He is in a local brass band. As time has passed, Mary has become noticeably less mobile as arthritis claims yet another victim. She and I share the same birthday.

On the other side there's Wally and Dolly and their teenage daughters Molly and Polly. They arrived in 2007 and though I am not fond of them they are generally quiet people - except when he's engaged in one of his D.I.Y projects that always involves a lot of banging. During the main COVID lockdown in 2020, he decided to build a big shed at the bottom of their garden which meant that on many of those lovely warm days I could not sit outside reading. Too much sawing, hammering and drilling. They call that shed their studio but in the past five years they have hardly used it.

Directly opposite us there's Carol and Nigel and their teenage daughters Lucy and Laura. Actually the girls were not conceived with Nigel's kind assistance. Fourteen years ago, their blood father Maurice the laser scientist hooked up with a German work colleague and buggered off to Southampton to live with her. Lucy has special needs and is on the autism spectrum. She is picked up by a taxi driver every morning and brought home by taxi in the late afternoon. Her special school is twenty five miles away. The school fees and the taxi bills are all paid for by cash-strapped Sheffield City Council.

On the other side of Joseph and Mary lives a German woman called Hanna and her teenage son Lukas. His electrician father did a Maurice several years ago - buggering off with his new fancy woman.  Hanna is lovely and when Lukas was little I used to whistle the theme tune to "Postman Pat" when I knew he was playing in his garden. A kind of magic through the hedges. He remembers it to this day.

On the other side of Wally and Dolly there's Gertrude who has lived in the same house for sixty years. She is ninety now and gradually, like Mary, being claimed by the arthritis beast. She has always had an upbeat, cheerful attitude to life but nowadays you can see the pain in her eyes. I hope to god that that nasty creature does not get me or Shirley as more years trundle by. Stay away Arthur Itis! Not wanted here!

Very often when I go to our back door to put vegetable waste or teabags in our compost caddy, I think of Sharon who lived just a few doors away. One evening she was doing the same when she tumbled down her outdoor concrete steps and broke several bones - including her skull. She was never the same again and was dead within three years - at the age of seventy.

There are many more pieces of information I could convey about our neighbours but  I am drawing a line at this point...↓ ↓ ↓

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We never really choose our neighbours do we? People randomly come together - often for years on end. On the whole, I think Shirley and I have been pretty lucky with our neighbours. None of them ever behaved as if they came from Hell though they might not say the same of us!

P.S. In case you had not guessed, for privacy reasons, all actual neighbours' names were replaced in this blogpost.

Novel

 

I gobbled up "God's Own Country" by Ross Raisin in three days. It grabbed me from the first page. Of course "God's Own Country" is a term that is frequently used to describe Yorkshire so that is what probably first caught my eye and indeed the novel is set in Yorkshire - mostly on the North York Moors where there are sheep farms, picture postcard towns and villages and incomers from other parts of the country seeking some sort of rural idyll.

The central character is also the narrator. He is Sam Marsdyke the nineteen year old son of a poor sheep farmer. What should we make of him? He is a fantasist with a big chip on his shoulder. He seems to spend a lot of his spare time brooding alone upon the moors.

Sam is clearly in partial denial about past misdemeanours and his version of events that occur in the novel itself seems unreliable. He is a hard narrator to like or trust. As the novel ends, you wonder what might become of him, suspecting that all will not be well.

In the acknowledgements, Ross Raisin cites "The Yorkshire Dictionary of Dialect, Tradition and Folklore " by Arnold Kellett which clearly helped to make Sam's narrative voice  sound  authentic.

He reserves a special disdain for country visitors: "Ramblers. Daft sods in pink and green hats. It wasn't even cold. They moved down the field swing-swaying like a line of drunks, addled with the air and the land, and the smell of manure".

And here's Sam observing a school bus as it disgorges pupils from a nearby fee-paying school: "I crouched behind the hedge, spying through the mesh of thorns at the hubbleshoo of small boys spewing out the bus. They were all over the road in an instant, squawking zigzags through the mass to clobber each other round the head with their bags. Next were the little girls, slower, mingled in with the big-belly boys who weren’t so partial on chasing about. And then the older ones. The girls kept separate from the lads, paired up tantling down the road with a snitter of talk kept close between the two as if all they had to say was secrets, meant for the hearing of nobbut themselves."

In this blogpost/review I have tried not to give too much away about the book. The main things I wish to say are that I really enjoyed it and it was quite disturbing too. In America, it was published as "Out Backward". Lord knows what American readers will have thought about all the North Yorkshire dialect words and expressions.

Sentenced

Foreign visitors to this blog who inhabit far flung places like Australia, Ireland, Canada, Tristan da Cunha, Sweden, Germany and Trumplandia (formerly the USA) may be interested to learn what has happened to the two ignorant oiks who in 2023 cut down that iconic sycamore tree near Hadrian's Wall in Northumberland. They were sentenced today - several weeks after they were found guilty of a crime that pricked the conscience of  the British nation.

Daniel Graham (39) and Adam Carruthers (32) were both sentenced to four years and three months in jail. The judge - Mrs Justice Lambert - found them "equally culpable".

This was my original blogpost from back in October 2023 - just after I had heard the news about the cruel felling of the famous sycamore. And here I was in May of this year writing about the trial.

It seems to me that justice has been done in this case. Even though Graham and Carruthers may not serve all their allotted time behind bars, a significant chunk of their freedom has now been taken away. I doubt that they have the wherewithal to ponder upon their offensive crime with true regret - such is their ignorance.

Natural beauty is something to cherish and respect be it a mountain top, a rainbow, a swathe of heather on a moorside, a frog leaping into a pond, swallows winging in the summer air or a lone sycamore tree standing proud in the rolling Northumberland landscape.

Of course there are far worse people than Graham and Carruthers. They didn't kill anybody. They didn't fly an aeroplane into a skyscraper. They didn't detonate a rucksack bomb on a tube train. They didn't abuse a child or rob a bank. But they offended the society of which they are meant to be a part, finding inexplicable pleasure in destroying something that was so beautiful and defenceless and loved by thousands of their fellow citizens.

Throwback

Here in Britain, people of my generation had to endure some pretty ropy children's  television when we were little. Even so, we were enthralled by the limited menu - all in black and white of course. I guess that as children we had a better capacity than most adults  for making allowances for the amateurishness of it all.

This is a "down memory lane" kind of blogpost. I thought that visitors from foreign lands might be interested in getting a taste of what British children lapped up in the late 1950s through to the early sixties.

Here's "Andy Pandy"...

Here are "The Woodentops"...

And here are Bill and Ben  "The Flowerpot Men"...

Of course there was no catch-up TV back then. No videos. And these shows were screened only once a week. If you missed "Andy Pandy" you would have to wait till next week to see another episode.

Looking back, it is easy to deduce that the programmes I have flagged up were crude foundation stones  from which later, much more sophisticated children's television could evolve. Everything has to start somewhere.

Vicariousness

 

When you have children and grandchildren, you do not really need to live your own life. Instead, you can live their lives vicariously. You are with them as they suffer their lows and their disappointments and equally you are with them when they achieve special things - their highs, their moments of joy.

Above, that's a picture of our son Ian, taken this very afternoon. He successfully completed an ultra-marathon, running (and walking)  fifty kilometres from Wantage, Oxfordshire to Avebury in Wiltshire in an event called "Race for The Stones". Most of the way, competitors ran along an ancient track called The Ridgeway.

Shirley and I were quite concerned about this event as it happened to fall upon one of the hottest weekends of the year. However, all was fine. Ian set off at 5am in an early morning mist that hung about till around 7am before being burnt off by hot sunshine. He approached it all sensibly, taking advantage of aid stations along the way and he was buzzing at the end.

In Great Britain, it used to be that graduation ceremonies only happened in universities. However, probably owing to American influence, our secondary and primary schools picked up on the idea of graduation ceremonies for younger students too.

Yesterday, there was even a graduation ceremony at our oldest granddaughter's nursery school. Phoebe has been in attendance there for almost three years but now she only has a handful of weeks left before moving on to the local primary school.

The video of the ceremony made me laugh when I saw Phoebe literally skipping to the stage. That doesn't usually happen at university graduation ceremonies.

Tickets

Ring-ring, ring-ring...

"Hello. Wimbledon Ticket Office. How can we help you?"

"Oh hello there. My name is David Beckham*. I would like to speak to your manager."

"Of course. Just a moment Mr Beckham."

"Hello. Deborah Snodgrass here. I am the ticket office manager . How can we help you Mr Beckham?"

"Well, I would like to see the men's final this year and I was wondering if you had any complimentary tickets left in the royal box for VIPs?"

"Oh, for you Mr Beckham. I am sure we can sort something out. How many tickets do you need?"

"Just two Deborah. For me and my oldest son - Brooklyn."

"No problem Mr Beckham. I will leave two tickets for you at reception. You need to pick them up by three o'clock."

"Thank you for  your help Deborah."

"Bye-bye."

 Ring-ring, ring-ring...

"Hello. Wimbledon Ticket Office. How can we help you?"

"Oh hello. I am just phoning on the off chance that you might have some spare tickets for tomorrow's men's final?"

"Excuse me. Who are you?"

"My name is Grace Honey. I have been a tennis fan all my life but I have never been to Wimbledon."

"Are you a celebrity?"

"No but I am well-known here in Bridlington. I have coached children's tennis for the past thirty years, rain and shine."

"Oh. So you are not a celebrity?"

"No. Not really."

"I am afraid we can't help you then. Bye!"

Ring-ring, ring-ring...

"Hello. Wimbledon Ticket Office. How can we help you?"

"I would love to get a ticket for the men's final tomorrow but I am afraid I don't have any money."

"You must be kidding me! If you are not a bona fide celebrity then there's no way we can give you a complimentary ticket."

"But I am dying of lung disease."

"No way!"

"I am a paraplegic!"

"Nope!"

"I  once saw Roger Federer in a Subway sandwich shop."

"Just a minute. I will have to talk to my manager."

_____________________________________________________________

* - for David Beckham, you may substitute 
the name of any other well-known celebrity.

Nightwalking

 

Midnight on Shorts Lane.

The new car is parked snugly by a wall.

As soon as I turn the engine off I hear owls.

Not just one owl -

There seem to be several of them.

Night's timeless soundtrack.

No need for my fleece.

It is a warm night between two hot days.

The Buck Moon is rising

But still low as it climbs over Totley Moor.

It offers little illumination

As I walk along the valley of Blacka Brook

Under the arching trees

To the stepping stones.

Walking up to Lenny Hill

I can hear my own heart beat

Thumping in my head.

This is a route I have often plodded

But never before in the depths of night.

I have a little torch

For the pools of darkness.

There are tree roots and hollows.

I don't want to go tumbling down

Through the bracken.

Who would find me?

Da-dum-da-dum-da-dum goes my heart.

Up to the new bench on Lenny Hill

In memory of teacher Trish Brooks.

Breast cancer - that over-familiar marauder.

I sit and observe the stars

As my heart beat quietens.

Is that a satellite up there or an aeroplane?

What I am doing seems almost illicit.

Walking at night.

That's all.

I reach tarmac - Strawberry Lee Lane.

As anticipated, no need for the torch now.

Strolling along in the single headlight

That is The Buck Moon.

They say it was so named

Because by this time of year

Stags' antlers were fully grown.

The night air is delicious -

I breathe it in like honeysuckle.

Somewhere far away a dog is barking.

Soon I arrive once more at Totley Bents

"The Cricket Inn" is just a silhouette.

I hear voices by the cottages at Bents Farm.

A woman jumps in alarm

When she spots me.

They are care workers from foreign lands.

After putting an old lady to bed

They are getting in their little car.

Off to their next job.

I wonder if they have care workers

In Somalia and Sierra Leone?

After Avenue Farm I reach Redcar Brook

But there's no water at all

Just the rocks over which it is meant to burble.

A brambly briar attacks me

Causing a little blood.

Vengefully, I trample it down.

Under the trees, my silver torch is required again 

I tread with trepidation.

Minutes later I am over the old stone stile.

Back on silent Shorts Lane

The Buck Moon floats like a balloon

Painting sheep pastures with its heavenly light.

Are we allowed to worship the moon any more?

At least it is real and majestic.

Our forebears looked up to  the very same orb.

It's 1.22am and I am back at the car.

Then through the sleeping village of Dore

And back to our street - houses without lights.

The nightwalker is home again.