Tibshelf

Very often, I don't talk to anybody else on my country walks and explorations but today's adventure began differently. 

At Tibshelf Cemetery in eastern Derbyshire, I met the two men shown above. They are Dean and Ashley and they work for Tibshelf Parish Council. As well as maintaining the cemetery, they have several other responsibilities within the parish and often receive instructions from councillors.

Dean has worked for Tibshelf since 2002 and Ashley joined him eleven years ago. I conversed with them for twenty minutes or so . They were both proud of the fact that they had never had a single day off for illness and I was struck by the pride they clearly had in caring for Tibshelf come rain or shine.

After they had driven off in their van, I took the following picture of Nethermoor Cottages and then walked back into the cemetery grounds.

There was only one other person there - a lone man leaning over his car door and looking at a floral display that spelled out the word, "Sister". He raised his hand to me in greeting and said "Hello". He was probably my age or a little older.

Soon we were engaged in a conversation about the death of his wife. Seems like she had complained of a pain in her stomach last September. One thing led to another and she died from stomach cancer on January 11th. Her cremation took place in the first week of February.

"It must all feel so raw", I said to him.

He wanted to talk. He seemed quite lost, still not quite believing that she had gone.

"She was always knitting," he said. "And I miss the clicking of those needles when I am watching the telly. It's so quiet now."

They had been married for forty nine years - not quite making their golden wedding anniversary. He confided in me that she had not been able to bear children but they had been very happy together all the same. They had a touring caravan that they often took to the coast.

"Look after yourself," I said as I left him with his reflections. "Keep going!"

"I'm not sure I can," he replied with a slightly ominous grimace.

Soon I was in Newton, a former mining village that is just half a mile south east of Tibshelf. I spotted the street sign shown above and would love to know for sure why that street acquired such an unusual name - Wire Street. The 1888 map of the area offers no clue.

Above - Newton Methodist Church which would have once enjoyed a congregation of coal miners with their families. Below, an old cottage opposite St John the Baptist Church in Tibshelf. This would certainly have predated the age of coal.

Procrastination

My To Do List

Take Clint to body repairer re. long scratch along passenger side

Arrange test drive in new Hyundai Bayon

Contact roofer re. lost slates at back

Dig over vegetable plot

Go and see Bert for catch up

Get a beer and a slice of pork pie from the fridge

Make new hanging bird table to replace old one

Read "Middlemarch" by George Eliot

Plan holiday to Nova Scotia

Make "Welcome to Yorkshire" sign for Ringinglow Road

Tidy up this computer desk

Sort out photo files on computer

+

Find portable hard drive I was given as a present

Re-string my guitar

Replace gate at top of the garden

Weigh myself ready for NHS  lung screening call next week

Use £400 hotel voucher I was given for my 70th birthday

Create a pen and ink picture of Phoebe's cuddly sloth - Monty

Plan a Friday photo-walk in the sunshine

Write a blogpost titled "Procrastination" with pressing items that are (amusingly) crossed out using the "strike through"icon

Speed

In Great Britain, speed restrictions mean that the maximum speed  you can legally travel at on our public roads is seventy miles per hour. Go above that speed and you are liable to receive a hefty fine or points on your licence that may result in a driving ban.

It is not unusual. This is the same in most other countries,

As some of you may recall, my motor vehicle is a silver Hyundai i20 called Clint. When driving him along, I stick strictly to the speed limits in built-up areas. However, when out on the motorways I confess that  I will sometimes push Clint's speed up to 80mph. Thousands of drivers do the same. This is also not unusual.

As it happens, a Hyundai i20 is very capable of travelling at 116mph. That is its official top speed even though Clint's speedometer suggests a maximum of 220mph.

Clint is an ordinary, economical car manufactured for the mass market like all of his siblings. However, many car models are souped-up and styled like racing cars. At the top of this page you can see the fastest road car in the world. It is produced in Sweden. It is the Koenigsegg Jesko Absolut which has a top speed of 310mph and incidentally will set you back  £2.3 million.

310mph is well over four times Britain's maximum speed limit so I simply ask, what the hell is the point of owning such a car?  Legally, you will never be able to test the car's capacity for speed.

On the one hand you have governments, the police and road safety organisations urging drivers to stick to the speed limits. On the other hand, you have car makers producing cars that possess the ability to totally smash designated speed restrictions.

What is going on? Surely manufacturers should be warned in no uncertain terms not to make cars that tempt fate with regard to speed. It is very easy to blame drivers but surely car makers are largely to blame for selling cars that encourage drivers to go fast - Ferrari, Lamborghini, Audi, Porsche, Bugatti. McLaren - but also the mass market producers - Ford, Kia, Volkswagen, Hyundai, Toyota and the rest.

If "they" were really serious about addressing speed on our roads, "they" would ban the production of souped-up racing cars and even common cars like Clint would not have the ability to go beyond 100mph.

There are men and women who go all starry-eyed about speedy motor cars and for some, owning such a vehicle is perhaps their prime goal in life. - their dream. I am not one of those people. Usually, I do not think about cars very much at all and I am not even slightly interested in the Formula One circus nor car programmes like "Top Gear".

To me, cars should be all about getting people efficiently from point A to point B, preferably burning  as little fuel as possible, not speeding along like a racing driver. There - I have said my bit. What do you think?

Awakening

Last Thursday night  - 11pm

I am sitting in our lounge with my feet up watching "Questiontime". The chairwoman, Fiona Bruce, is refereeing the discussion that follows a question from a member of the audience about the end of the world and America's 47th president. I am sorry but I cannot remember his name.

Anyway, I am suddenly conscious of movement on our staircase and then the closed living room door is slowly pushed open. A moment later and there's our Phoebe in her Bluey pyjamas, holding her cuddlesome friend, Monty the sloth.

We had put Phoebe to bed at 8pm following her bath. I had had to read her two stories though one was the real life tale of the American gymnast - Simone Biles.

"Hello Phoebe!" I say warmly, with my arms open as if to say - come and join me on the sofa!

But Phoebe just stands there in the doorway. I ask if she is all right and then I notice that she is visibly upset. She isn't smiling and her eyes are filling up as though ready to cry.

"Is something wrong?" I ask.

"I want Mummy and Daddy," she manages to communicate with difficulty.

"But you'll see them tomorrow. Grandma and Grandpa love you too you know. You are safe with us darling." 

With my arms open again, I invite her over to the sofa. With hesitation, she crosses the divide and comes over to sit with me. I give her a one-armed hug. She asks what it is that I am watching and I tell her that it is just grown-ups talking.

"I'll turn it off if you want. Do you want to watch something else? You can have whatever you want."

"I want Peppa Pig please Grandpa."

And so I find Peppa Pig on YouTube. Then I ask Phoebe if she wants some warm milk which means a two minute trip to the kitchen and a ping of the microwave.

Back in the living room, Peppa and her family are visiting the local swimming pool. They are all in their swimming costumes - her brother George and her parents - Mummy Pig and Daddy Pig. Strangely, in all the Peppa Pig cartoons I have watched, Peppa's parents have never been blessed with first names. 

Phoebe has calmed down now, not threatening to cry. She has been such a happy strong-willed girl thus far in life, not liable to tears. We are close together on the sofa now and she is under the fleece throw. We agree that she will only watch one more Peppa Pig episode before going back to bed.

She - Phoebe not Peppa - finishes her warm milk and without complaint she remounts the stairs. 

I want to just make up a story when I put her back to bed but she insists that I should read one. With the subdued light in her room, it is hard to follow the writing but I struggle through, give her a kiss and say "Night - night Phoebe".

To me it has seemed like a step in her progress to adulthood. At three years old she would never have sobbed for her parents and it reminds me of a night when I was a child - probably two or three years older than Phoebe. Lying there in my bed, I suddenly wondered what my life would be like if my parents died. I would feel so bereft, so empty and I started to weep so that my pillow became wet with tears. I still remember that moment as if it was yesterday.

The journey from the innocence of childhood to full-blown adulthood is a long one and to be truthful, I think we are all still on it.

__________________________________________

Ballad of the Sad Young Men

Here's another song from Roberta Flack. She partly wrote it herself. It was inspired by the times she played piano and sang in late night bars. When interviewed about it, she said she was thinking of the young, homosexual men she encountered at those venues. Roberta was often thought of as a significant supporter of LGBTQ rights, long before such support became fashionable...

Sing a song of sad young men, glasses full of rye

All the news is bad again, kiss your dreams goodbye

Miscellany

Firstly, I would like to take this opportunity of wishing farewell to Roberta Cleopatra Flack who died this very day in New York City at the age of 88. She was born on February 10th 1937 and was blessed with the voice of an angel. She could take a song and get lost in it, totally absorbed. I have mentioned her a few times in this blog and five years ago I showcased a video of her singing "The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face" on the BBC back in 1972. She was thirty five and at her peak, comfortable in her own skin and at one with the lyrics of one of the most plaintive love songs ever written. Here it is. In her memory, please give it a listen.

Secondly, I would like to welcome Arctic Fox back into the blogging fold. He was lost but is found again. I used to joust with him in the early years of my life in blogging but then, in 2012, he disappeared as sometimes happens. However, In Arctic Fox's case, he chose to return just this year after a thirteen year gap - possibly because he had time on his hands after losing his job. He is a Yorkshire lad like me and the way he writes is kind of quirky but genuine too. Why not roll over there and check him out? 

Thirdly, one of the other guys who regularly contributes images to the Geograph project is a fellow called Julian Paren who worked for many years with the British Antarctic Survey team. He is retired now. The other day, I stumbled across a video he was commissioned to produce  eight years ago  by  the  Gatliff Hebridean Hostels Trust. It looks appreciatively at the island of South Uist in Scotland's Outer Hebrides. I found it peaceful, mesmerising and enticing - taking me away from  the continuing worries most of us are having about Ukraine, Gaza & Israel, Putin, The White House and the future of our planet. Maybe you would like to visit South Uist for a little while too, courtesy of Dr Paren's video...

Words

That old man who currently occupies the post of President of the USA is interesting to observe in relation to the language he uses. Remember how in his previous presidential term and during Mr Biden's presidency, he would often bang on about "fake news"? It became something of a catchphrase as he constantly sought to denigrate particular newspapers and television stations. No doubt he was deliberately trying to blur the general public's trust in news organisations. It was all fake, fake, fake - according to the old man when of course it wasn't fake at all.

This time round the "fake news" obsession appears to have melted into the background. His use of the terms "fake" and "fake news" is greatly reduced.

In the run up to last November's election there were a couple of occasions when the current president, pondered over the word "groceries". It was as if he had never heard the word before as he rolled it on his tongue. At the Detroit Economic Club last October he said, “The word grocery. It’s a sort of simple word, but it sort of means everything you eat. The stomach is speaking, it always does." And in December he said, “I won on groceries. Very simple word, groceries. Like almost—you know, who uses the word? I started using the word—the groceries. ... I won an election based on that.”

The truth of the matter is that "grocery" and "groceries" were clearly novel words to the man in question.  Most other adults in the English-speaking world were already  very familiar with these words. They were hard for us to get excited about.

Another word I should like to focus upon is "asylum". Regarding immigration across the southern border of The United States, the old man has often referred to the incoming people as criminals and drug takers etc. He has also frequently referred to immigrants breaking out of mental hospitals and mental institutions.  The current president clearly understands that historically such places were often known as "asylums".

It occurs to me that the present incumbent of  The White House really has no idea what "seeking asylum" means. In his confusion he thinks that there are hordes of Central American mental patients seeking asylums in The States. It is as if the idea of looking for sanctuary and safety from all manner of threats is a concept that the old man does not recognise. Maybe nobody ever spelt out for him that there are two different meanings of the word "asylum" in common use.

You might imagine that I am just jesting about his ignorance but I am not. 

Hermit

I am home alone like Kevin McAllister. Shirley went off with a bunch of local women friends yesterday. They have rented a house in a small coastal town called Hornsea which, coincidentally, figured importantly in my teenage years. It is just six miles from the village where I was born and raised.

This morning I rolled over at 7am, pressed the button on our radio alarm clock and drifted back to sleep as the radio churned out news from home and abroad. I finally got up at 9am.

Weatherwise, today was quite nice - bright and dry with temperatures hovering around 12°C. I considered undertaking another long walk somewhere but instead chose to tackle a job in the garden. I didn't even need  to don a coat.

Several days ago, I trimmed a little tree that hangs over the path halfway up our long, rectangular garden. This involved standing near the top of an aluminium stepladder six feet above the ground. It also required the use of a saw and secateurs.

All through the winter, I had been noticing how many long shoots had burst from that tree, reaching up to the sky. It had been pruned before but  the last time was perhaps three or four years ago. This time I remembered to wear safety glasses to prevent sawdust from getting in my eyes.

In two sessions, I managed to cut away all the troublesome shoots. Some of them were up to twenty feet long. I laid half of them on our lawn and the other half under the apple tree that is next to the stump of our Ian's old horse chestnut tree.

Then some wet days came along so I  delayed processing those long, spindly branches. I planned to clip away side growths and finish up with long shoots and thin branches for possible use in a side project that arrived in my imagination a few nights ago. I had the idea of weaving some rustic border edging - only about six inches high. This will require a number of short poles to be hammered in the ground at intervals. Well, we will see if that daydream materialises in the coming weeks.

At half past four, I came back in the house ready to watch a big rugby union international - England versus Scotland in the annual Six Nations Championship. It was a gripping game in which there were various missed opportunities but in the end I am delighted to say that England won by sixteen points to fifteen. To borrow from Scotland's national anthem - we sent them homeward "to think again".

For my late evening meal I had a baked potato, fine green beans, fried onions and mushrooms with a fine rump steak that I had bought in anticipation of this solitary day. To accompany the meal, I treated myself to a glass of "Kinvale" cabernet sauvignon wine from South Australia.

Soon "Match of the Day" will be on BBC 1 as it is every Saturday night during the football season. I haven't spoken to a soul all day - either in person or over the

telephone. Perhaps we could all do with days like this once in a while.

Limpopo

Some words, some names form pleasantly in the mouth and are nice to say. One such name being "Limpopo". It is South Africa's most northerly region and also the name of the thousand mile river that skirts that region in a great arc before heading sluggishly through Mozambique to the Indian Ocean.

To reach Zimbabwe from South Africa you must first cross The Limpopo. It also demarks a long stretch of  South Africa's north western border with Botswana.

The Limpopo is a lazy, languid river that is unsuitable for major shipping. In its upper reaches it dries out every year while in its lower reaches it is prone to flooding - the waters spreading out like a vast puddle - bringing sustenance to the land and the creatures that dwell thereupon.

Draining the Limpopo River basin, there are twenty significant tributary rivers that all feed in to the main Limpopo River. They include the Umzingwani River and the Mogalakwena River. Two more names that sound nice upon the tongue.

In the picture above, you can see a zebra group drinking from the Limpopo in their bar code pyjamas. Other creatures that the river supports include elephants, giraffes, hippopotamuses, rhinos and crocodiles. It should also be pointed out that  around fourteen million people live in the Limpopo river  basin and their lives are also directly connected to the river.

Over the last 150 years there has been a great deal of mining activity in the Limpopo region and that continues to this day - sometimes clashing with the concerns of conservationists and naturalists.

Possibly, like me, you knew almost nothing about The Limpopo this morning when you sprang out of bed  singing "Oh What A Beautiful Mornin'" from the 1950s musical - "Oklahoma". But now you know a little something. By the way, I struggled to find a simple map of the river's location in southern Africa so I used the one I found in an academic paper that focused on the survival of baobab trees in a lesser known national park called Skelmwater.

And now to finish this short blogpost about The Limpopo, here's an amateur African YouTuber covering her first visit to the river. I believe she is at South Africa's border with Botswana. Gentlemen should look away as she negotiates the wire fence...

History

         Haworth Parsonage - Home of the Brontës  ©Ken Biggs

Once upon a time a man called Patrick married a woman called Maria. She was six years younger than him. Eighteen months after the wedding, their first daughter was born. She was named Maria after her mother. Little over a year later, the couple welcomed a second daughter who they called Elizabeth.

Four more children followed in quick succession. The third child, another daughter, was called Charlotte. Next came a son who was christened Branwell for that was his mother's maiden name. A year later Emily arrived and eighteen months after her came another daughter - christened Anne.

They were the Brontë family and in the first half of the nineteenth century they lived together in the Pennine village of Haworth, here in Yorkshire. Patrick Brontë was the local vicar. Mum and Dad with five daughters and a son - how happy and fruitful they should have been.

But then the deaths began to happen. Maria, the mother, was the first to go in 1821 at the age of just thirty eight. Then Maria, the daughter, died at the age of eleven in the late spring of 1825 followed six weeks later by Elizabeth (aged 10).

Twenty three years passed before the family was struck by another tragedy. Branwell died at the age of 31 in September 1848 and later that same year Emily died at the age of thirty.

The very next year Anne died in Scarborough at the age of twenty nine and on the last day of March in 1855, Charlotte died at the age of thirty eight. The final member of the Brontë family to die was The Reverend Patrick Brontë himself who breathed his last breath at the age of eighty four in 1861.

None of the Brontë children had children of their own though Charlotte was pregnant at the time of her passing. Mostly, the Brontës succumbed to diseases such as typhus and tuberculosis though Branwell's alcoholism played a part in his early departure.

Charlotte, Emily and Anne were brilliant young women as the writings they  left behind demonstrate. With good health and more decades of life they would have undoubtedly left an even richer literary legacy behind them.

When it was announced in 2013 that the first female literary figure to grace a British banknote  would be Jane Austen, I must admit that I felt quite miffed. I wanted it to be Charlotte, Emily and Anne - partly because I find the writing of Jane Austen to be tiresome in its polite reserve, its comfort and curtailment. There is something much freer and forward looking in the works of the three Brontë sisters - or maybe I am a little biased because they were Yorkshire puddings like me.

Topsy-turvy

                                                                                                               ©Nicola Jennings

In this blog, I have been consciously trying to avoid political commentary in recent months but I just cannot overlook what the current American President said yesterday at Mar-a-Lago. Referring to Volodoymir Zelensky and to preliminary endgame talks in Saudi Arabia, The American President  said:-

“Today I heard, ‘Oh, we weren’t invited.’ Well, you’ve been there for three years. You should have ended it three years ago – you should have never started it. You could have made a deal.”

The elderly speaker seems to be amazingly and dangerously ill-informed. Of course President Zelensky did not "start it" back in February 2022. His country, Ukraine, was invaded by Russian military forces and ever since it has been under siege. Millions of Ukrainians have fled for their lives. The war was started by Putin and of that there is absolutely no doubt.

What "deal" could Mr Zelensky have possibly made apart from surrendering Ukrainian territory to Russia? What kind of a "deal" is that?

The American President and his minions appear to be on a mission to flush truth away and replace it with falsehood. They cosy up to Putin without admonishing him or suggesting how he might be made to pay for his tyranny. Because of Putin, some 700,000 Russian troops have been killed and some 300,000 Ukrainians have been killed or wounded.

Now The American President is trying to sully Volodoymir Zelensky's legitimacy by pointing out that there hasn't recently been a presidential election in Ukraine. But how could a meaningful election be held in a war zone from which millions have fled and many towns and cities lie in ruins? Besides, the Ukraine president has a higher approval rating than the current American President himself  has in the USA.

It's all so topsy-turvy. It is hard to believe what is going on. And you have got Sergei Lavrov, the Russian foreign minister, saying that it would be "unacceptable" to Russia if European troops formed a peace-keeping force to police Ukraine after the war. Surely, the aggressor's opinion should have no currency and any American president worth his salt should be saying that loud and clear. But of course the current incumbent isn't a real president is he - he remains a greedy real estate developer devoid of wisdom or compassion.

Sexy

North Lees Hall was once visited by Charlotte Bronte

 Haiku or sushi?

Quite the same to me

Feed body and soul

Don't worry! There's going to be a little more to this blogpost than another haiku. Judging from the visitor count for yesterday, I would say that haiku poems are about as popular as Russian Foreign Minister Sergei Lavrov. In fact, I have previously found that when my blogpost title is "Poem", visitor numbers dip like limbo dancers. That is why today's title is "Sexy". As a consequence, I expect that this post's view count will rocket. The Russian bots will be panting like racehorses.

If you have got this far, I should inform you that this blogpost will contain no "sexy" revelations whatsoever. If you want "sexy",  I suggest that you visit NakedBloggers.com  or BloggerOrgy.org.

For February 18th, this was a good day weatherwise. The north of England saw sunshine and blue sky. I was determined to get out for a decent walk and make use of the clement weather.

Roadside wall with Stanage Edge beyond

Not wishing to travel far, I left home just after one o' clock. Twelve minutes later, I  parked Clint in a lay-by  to the west of Stanage Edge - close to Sheepwash Bank.

With boots on, I set off on a two hour circuitous walk that took in North Lees Hall, Ridgeway Side, Birley Lane and Gatehouse. Though this is a walk I have undertaken several times before, I had never previously noticed a special bench in a sheep field dedicated to Wendy Billing (1962-2020).

It appears that she was a wife, mother and keen orienteer. She lived in the nearby village of Hathersage. Cancer was responsible for shortening her life and stealing her away from her family, her friends and her approaching old age. I understand that Wendy designed the bench herself. It suggests the shape of an apple core and it bears that name - "Apple Core". It is an outdoor art exhibit that looks up to the sky.

Wendy Billings's bench "Apple Core"

Path behind North Lees Hall

Bronte Cottage near the track to North Lees Hall

View of Cow Close Farm from Birley Lane

Haiku

 

Idle river flows

A fish leaps in the air

Splash! Water reclaims

⦿

I took the photograph of The River Idle south of Retford, Nottinghamshire in October 2020.

Four

Here in England, the BBC is responsible for various radio stations and most people have their favourites. Mine is BBC Radio 4. Essentially, it is a non-music station and like all other BBC radio stations, it contains no annoying commercial advertising.

Radio 4 provides an excellent independent and in-depth news service as well as entertainment programmes. Just about every weekday morning, I wake to the "Today" show which covers the main news items of the day - both national and international. There are also interviews with key politicians, experts in particular fields and public bystanders.

Entertainment consists of original dramas, informative documentaries, a continuing soap opera called "The  Archers" and comedy shows - some of which are genuinely funny.

One of these is "Just A Minute" in which guests are asked to speak on given subjects without hesitation, deviation or repetition. It has been on air since 1967 bringing light relief to thousands of homes for more than fifty years. Some guests, like Paul Merton, are seasoned and capable contestants while others are quick to stumble.

It is all just a bit of fun - like a middle class parlour game and quintessentially English too. I cannot imagine that "Just A Minute" is popular  in many poorer, deprived homes or where there are people with a non-British heritage. The game requires listeners to have an intimate appreciation of our language and a solid educational background.

The following YouTube video is almost half an hour long but to grasp the concept of "Just A Minute", you only need to listen to a sample of it. I imagine that in some foreign lands the show will be met with incredulity - proving that British people really are nutty. I am fine with that.

Gulf

Once upon a time I stood upon the southern strand of St George Island, Franklin County, Florida. I looked seawards as a pair of pelicans flapped by, low and languid. Beyond them, The Gulf of Mexico sparkled fabulously in that midday sunshine.

I thought of the Italian explorer Amerigo Vespucci and of the wooden Spanish ships that followed in later years - sails taut, easing between The Florida Keys and Cuba till they entered a vast gulf that was at first called The Spanish Sea. It would soon be renamed The Gulf of Mexico following contact with native inhabitants on the far shores - whose very lifeblood was connected with the wondrous Aztec civilisation.

Back in England I began to read everything I could find about The Gulf of Mexico. It became something of an obsession and here are just a few of the books that are now in my Gulf of Mexico collection:-

At the top you can see my new Gulf of Mexico mug - now my preferred vessel for the consumption of tea.

Even as our tired old planet advances or declines, The Gulf of Mexico will endure, shimmering in sub-tropical sunlight, reminding us that there are things that will outlast our brief sojourns upon this Earth..

Memory

The Hobsons' house today. The market gardening business was at the rear. The 

houses to the right stand on what was once our recreation ground.

(courtesy of Google Streetview)

Here's a true tale from my childhood that involves a dastardly insult. I previously alluded to this memory eight years ago.

In the East Yorkshire village where I was born and raised, there were five significant roads. At "The Hare and Hounds" pub, four of those roads met. They were North Street, South Street, West Street and East Street. Pretty imaginative, huh?

The fifth major road was called High Stile. At the bottom of South Street by "The New Inn", it headed off in a north easterly direction, meeting up with East Street after a quarter of a mile. This meant that in the heart of the village there was a large triangle of land - about ten acres all told.

Near the angle of East Street and High Stile there was a recreation ground with a large butter-coloured tin hut known as the recreation hall and beside that a precious grassy area  where village lads were allowed to play football. We did this incessantly at weekends and and on dry summer evenings.

Next to the recreation ground there was a house that had a small market garden business behind it with a high brick wall extending northwards from the house. I have racked my brains to remember the real surname of the married couple who lived there but over time that name has evaporated and so I shall refer to them pseudonymously as   Mr and Mrs Hobson.

One summer evening, there were about ten of us playing football. I guess I was nine years old. We were having a fine old time until somebody booted the ball over Mr and Mrs Hobson's wall. It didn't land anywhere near the big greenhouse they had at the back of the property.

Mrs Hobson had revealed her unsunny character before so the boy who had kicked the ball over was very reluctant to retrieve it. It was decided that I should be the one to go round and I felt slightly apprehensive but very capable of fulfilling that task.

Nervously, I went round and I could see our ball in the potato patch but I didn't want to risk just grabbing the ball and running back to our football game so I knocked on the kitchen door.

Mrs Hobson opened that door after a few minutes - wearing her floral housecoat.

"Yes. What do you want?" she asked.

"Excuse me Mrs Hobson. Somebody kicked our ball over the wall. May I get it please?"

"Where is it?" 

"It's there in the potato patch."

She came out of the house in her slippers and walked up the garden path to retrieve the ball. However, when she returned to her kitchen door she kept the ball. I was open-mouthed.

"You're not having it!" she snapped.

"What? You are keeping our ball?"

"Yes!"

I was infuriated and though I knew some proper swear words by that age I had never used them so instead, I said, "Well I think you're a... you're a damned rotter!"

"What did you say?" 

She had raised her voice . She grabbed by arm and dragged me into her kitchen where she said she would telephone my father and then asked for our phone number which  consisted of just three memorable digits - 272.

Dad arrived after what seemed like an age and Mrs Hobson recounted the incident, possibly expecting me to be later clouted like a disobedient dog. But I was not afraid of my father. I loved him as he loved me. He led me away, holding the lost ball.

The other boys were still in the recreation ground wondering what had taken me so long. Dad tossed them the ball  and advised them to keep it down but for appearance's sake he led me away - back down High Stile to "The New Inn" and then right up South Street to the schoolhouse.

Years later, he recalled the incident with amusement and agreed, "She was a damned rotter!" It was the kind of remark that Billy Bunter might have made or Lord Snooty in "The Beano".

_____________________________________________

"Enough hate - can you have a post of words that are compliments?"

That is what Ellen from Illinois wrote after yesterday's blogpost. I am happy to oblige - after all this is Valentine's Day, so here we go. Please feel free to refer to this short lexicon before addressing or describing your most loved ones...

paramour, darling, sweetheart, beloved, charming, courteous, affectionate, dependable, principled, loyal, sweeting, dillydown, magnificent, beautiful, handsome, treasure, truelove, light of my life, cherub, epitome, paradigm...

I feel sure that Ellen from Illinois will have heard all of these words before - wafted in her direction. But I do take her point. In these times of anger, division, misunderstanding and anxiety about the future - it would serve us well to take frequent pauses, reflecting on what is good and what is positive about "Life on Earth 2025" - including the very words we use.

Insults

My last blogpost - "Fable" seems to have engendered collateral interest with regard to the business of insulting. The English language has a wealth of insult words. We really don't need to resort to swearing when we are peeved with someone or overcome with angry bloodlust. 

Instead, just dip into the lexicon of insults to find words that will undoubtedly cause your target human to rock back on his or her heels. Here are ten of my favourites with definitions or notes

⦿

nincompoop - dating back to at least the 17th century - a foolish or stupid person.

lickspittle - an obsequious licker of boots who sucks up to others

pillock  Once one of the hundreds of euphemisms for the male sexual organ in the English language. For several hundred years this was apparently the main sense of the word. However, beginning in the late 20th century pillock took on another meaning, which is that of an idiot or fool of some sort. Both of these uses are almost entirely confined to British English

dipstick Someone who's being particularly dim or slow. Like the dipstick in a motor vehicle that has no other use but to measure the oil level in an engine.

wazzock - a stupid or annoying person. This only dates back to the 1970s. Favoured insult in the north of England - often applied to Londoners.

numpty - An incompetent or unwise person ("Don't be such a numpty, you can't charge your phone in the microwave!")

moldwarp - a stupid or shiftless person. I think this insult may be Shakespearean.

rapscallion - mischievous person - variation on "rascal"

numbskull - a stupid or shiftless person

scallywag - yet another word for an untrustworthy rascal

Fable

Once upon a time, there was a little girl called Phoebe. Her best friend was a cuddly sloth named Monty. They went almost everywhere together but Phoebe was not allowed to take Monty to her nursery school.

One day, Phoebe was poorly so she had to stay at her grandma and grandpa's house. They allowed her to bring Monty too.

Her grandpa was sitting in the computer chair yet again. He was typing away on the keyboard.

"What are you doing?" asked Phoebe.

"I am visiting the blogosphere," replied her grandpa.

"May I go there too?" asked Phoebe.

"Of course," said her grandpa.

Very soon, still cuddling Monty, Phoebe entered the blogosphere.

It was like a ride on a ghost train with hideous monsters round every corner. They were all grown up. Every one of them.

She met Jilted John, Monstrous Meike, Deadly Dave, Jailbird JayCee, Crocodile Cro, Moonwalker Mary, Spiteful Steve, Jihadi Jennifer, KKK Keith Kline, Naughty Nurse Pixie, Angry Andrew from Melbourne, Eerie Elsie, Manic Monica, Brutal Bruce and a bunch of other equally scary monsters.

"Help! Help! Let us out!" cried Phoebe and Monty together banging on the computer monitor screen from the inside. It had been like the worst nightmare ever!

Later, as she spooned strawberry yoghurt into her mouth, Phoebe said, "I never want to visit the blogosphere again Grandpa! It was horrible in there!"

Monty was so stunned by the experience that he did not speak ever again.

THE END

Quiztime

Too many days have passed by since the last edition of "Quiztime". The theme on this occasion is The Gulf of Mexico. As usual, the answers will appear in the Comments section. Good luck!

⦿

1) Bordering The Gulf of Mexico, which country has marginally the longest gulf coastline?

(a) Cuba  (b) Mexico (c) USA (d) Brazil

2)  When did the Spanish version of The Gulf of Mexico -  "golfo de México" first appear on a world map?

(a) 1550 (b) 1776 (c) 1876  (d) 2020

3) How many states of the USA border The Gulf of Mexico?

(a) 3 (b) 5 (c) 6 (d) 11

4) How many states of Mexico border The Gulf of Mexico?

a) 3 (b) 5 (c) 6 (d) 11

5) There are many millions of  atlases in the world   - in libraries, schools, universities, offices and people's homes. In each of those atlases, how is the body of water bordered by Mexico the USA and Cuba labelled? 

6)  Can you work out this anagram? (Clue: A body of water west of Cuba)

ECO FLU FOG MIX

7) 

A Mexican resort called Progreso is located on the northern tip of The Yucatan Peninsula but what is the body of water that lies beyond the colourful signage shown above?

(a) Mediterranean Sea (b) The Persian Gulf  

(c) Lake Superior (d) The Gulf of Mexico

8) Allegedly, who was the first European seafarer to explore The Gulf of Mexico in 1497? Here he is:- 

(a) Christopher Columbus (b) Amerigo Vespucci 

(c) Ferdinand Magellan (d) Francis Drake

9) Name the gulf into which the waters of the great Mississippi river flow. (Clue: It is not The Gulf of America)

10) What is the name of the ancient capital of Cuba that overlooks The Gulf of Mexico?

(a) Havana  (b) Banana (c) Guantanamo (d) Miami

⦿

Okay. How did you do?