Fuming

I have lived in Sheffield since 1978 and through the past forty five years, Arundel Gate in the city centre has been one of the main thoroughfares.

Unbeknownst to me, in the name of reducing city centre pollution, Arundel Gate is currently part of a traffic management project. Essentially, the entire road  has been closed to private vehicles and is now only open to buses and taxis.

For the first two months of the experiment, offenders were simply sent warning notices but now fines are being doled out for the unwary. And it goes like this  - I don't know if it is the same in other countries - you are automatically fined £70 ($89 US)  but if you pay up within twenty eight days you only pay £35. It is a kind of unsavoury arm twisting to make drivers cough up some cash.

As I say, I knew nothing of the closure and never in my wildest dreams did I ever expect that a major thoroughfare would ever be closed off in this manner but today I received a penalty notice including CCTV photos of Clint and your friendly blogging correspondent behind the wheel.

The offence occurred on the evening of Saturday July 22nd. I had offered to drive Ian and his pregnant girlfriend Sarah to The Crucible Theatre. They had tickets to see "Miss Saigon". As I recall, it was raining  and visibility was poor. Besides, I never imagined such a drastic change to historical traffic arrangements. It was a route I have taken many times in the past.

Why would anybody knowingly drive along a heavily restricted road if they knew they would receive a hefty fine as a direct result of that decision? It just does not make sense.

The fine notice concerns my journey back into the city centre to pick Ian and Sarah up. It bothers me that I have not yet received a penalty notice connected with earlier that evening when I set them down outside The Crucible. Perhaps that one will arrive tomorrow to turn my fuming into a seething inferno of rage.

And if you are thinking of saying, "Get over it!" please don't.

Pole

Walking up to Stanage Pole once again, I noticed butterflies flitting around by the side of the moorland path and managed to catch this good example of  a peacock butterfly. To me those markings on the lower wings always look .like eyes. I have no idea if this is what Nature intended as this common butterfly evolved but some say it was all about scaring off would-be predators.

A pole has stood by The Long Causeway at Stanage for several centuries. About ten years ago, a new pole was installed on the rocks with the newly made iron holder pictured below. Is shows that the pole does not only mark the modern boundary between Yorkshire and Derbyshire but it once marked the boundary between the ancient kingdoms of Mercia and Northumbria

Mercia and Northumbria were just two of the old kingdoms that preceded the formation of a land that we now call England. Below, Stanage Pole as it is today rising up from the iron base. It is considerably shorter than it was when I first saw it in 1979...

Regular visitors to this blog may recall being taken up to Stanage Pole in previous blogposts but certainly not for a while. Looking to the north west from the pole you see Stanedge Lodge - the loneliest and highest residential building in Sheffield. It has been up for sale for a while now...

And looking in a more westerly direction, a neglected drystone wall rolls across the moor to Stanage Edge...

In spite and because of my sore back, I took this afternoon's walk just to see how I would do and to loosen up. I am happy to report that all went well and as always it was of course good to get out in the fresh air - three miles from our doorstep.

Frustration

The month of July just gone was the worst one I have ever known here in the north of England. The weather was very unsettled and though we are told that in the world as a whole it was the hottest July on record, here in Yorkshire that was certainly not the case. Almost every day was miserable and even when sunshine was threatening, rain and drizzle bearing clouds  would come scudding along to sadden our hearts. It has been the second wettest July on record in Sheffield since records began back in 1882.

One of the upshots of this grey pattern was that I couldn't get things done, There was grass to cut and our fifty yard hedges to trim, a vegetable plot to be tended and a sentry box shed to erect. Above all was my desire to address the  second level of our wooden  decking. There was never a dry period allowing me to crack on.

It was impossible to unscrew the old screws from the existing decking. They had been in place for twenty years. I could not get any purchase on them so I started to lever the boards off the undercarriage with a crowbar. I have always been as strong as a rugby-playing ox and have never before suffered any kind of back complaint. "Where there's a will there's a way" has always been one of my mottoes.

However, this time round, as I applied the brute force at an awkward angle I am sure I did something to my back and so I have been taking it easy the past few days. Getting up from a seated position has caused me pain and the same with getting into bed and climbing out.

Don't you just love it when other people moan about their ailments?

I am hoping that what I am suffering from is muscle strain and not something more sinister. I must admit that today the pain has eased off considerably and fingers crossed, I seem to be on the mend. There's a lot more work to be done to the decking but at least I have treated myself to a new, electric reciprocal saw and a new electric screwdriver. I will just have to be rather more careful.

A physiotherapy website I  scanned reassured me that nearly all back pain is short-lived and connected with muscle strains. Taking care but keeping moving seems to be the best way out for most people. Only a small percentage of sufferers have long-lasting chronic back pain which plagues them for years.  That must be awful and it is not a club I wish to join.

K!T

 A box was delivered to our door this afternoon:-

It contained  a sturdy new non-stick pan with a lid. I had been wanting a new pan like this one as the handle on our old one's glass lid detached itself some months ago and cannot be reaffixed. Since then I have been using oven gloves to take that lid on and off. The old lid can get pretty hot.

The "K!T" pan is actually made by "BOSH!" but I understand that the German "Bosch" company asserted their legal rights on this project as the two names sound so similar. They have endless funds to ensure legal compliance and when "BOSH!" started off they had a costly naming  battle with"Bosch" that they could ill afford. The names are not even spelt in the same way and British people have been using the word "bosh" without the "c" for donkey's years.

It is a great pan - heavy and substantial and I am sure I will be using it for many more years - probably till I cannot cook any more. It's kind of cool to think that my own son and his "BOSH!" partner Henry are responsible for this sidetrack from vegan cookery. I think they have had a few headaches with the process but hey - nothing ventured, nothing gained. We remain immensely proud of our Ian.

Standout

For some reason I bristle about certain language matters. Perhaps I am a pedant but the evolution of English expression does not always please me.  One compressed word that gets my goat is "standout". It is often used carelessly by radio and TV presenters in relation to sporting achievement. For example:-

"Smith was the standout performer for England against Wales."

&

"The standout team at the tournament has been Japan."

It might also be used in relation to stage performances - as in:-

"For me the standout out show in The West End right now is 'Crazy for You' ".

I hate "standout". Google has a facility called the N-Viewer which is able to track the frequency of word use in printed books over the past two hundred years. Whereas the word "prudence" continues to decline, the word "television" continues to rise. This graph shows the rising incidence of "standout":-

It is thought  to have first appeared in the 1920's but now its usage and acceptance seems to be quite widespread. As far as can be understood, it was born in America in relation to sports but it took quite a while to gain traction. Previously there had always been "stand out" which in most circumstances I have no  problem with - as in 

In  silhouette, the  mountain  seemed to stand out  far more than the surrounding hills.

&

At the identity parade, only one man appeared to stand out in the eyes of the firsthand  witness.

Instead of "standout" I prefer to say "outstanding" - as in:-

Smith was England's most outstanding player in the Wales match.

&

The most outstanding team at The World Cup has been Japan in my opinion.

To commentators and other users of the slovenly term "standout", I would simply ask - "In what circumstances do you ever use the word 'outstanding'?" Hopefully this would cause them to pause for consideration.

Although we have "jazz", "cool", "hip-hop", "chewing gum" and "Big Mac"  over here in England - all absorbed from American use of English, I think we should collectively put our feet down with regard to "standout". That is arguably a bridge too far or perhaps it is already a battle lost.

Fifth

 

Today my oldest brother Paul would have been 76 years old. He was born on August 5th 1947. There he is with our baby brother Simon in 1957. Simon was buried on August 5th 2022 - exactly one year ago.

Here's Paul in 2009, the year before he died. He had become a gifted fiddler and played in many Irish venues. He played with his heart as well as his fingers. If you had met him along an Irish lane in County Clare, you might have thought that he was Irish but he was as Yorkshire as me.

And below, that's Simon - dead at 66. He's in the village churchyard now waiting for his gravestone to be erected and probably berating me for the time it is taking. I find this selfie a little disturbing for I knew who he was and who he might have been. He was interred close to two plaques upon the church wall that he placed there in memory of our late parents whose mortal remains were cremated in 1979 and 2007 respectively. At least Simon did that

And finally, this was our father Philip who was born on August 5th 1914 - on the very day that the outbreak of World War One was announced in the British press. Dad is pictured during World War Two in New Delhi, India in his RAF uniform. The year was probably 1942. He would have been twenty eight that year.

And here he is drinking from a coconut. I seem to recall him telling me that this picture was taken either in Egypt or Palestine on his way home from India after the war but I might be wrong. Unfortunately, I cannot check with him as he died in 1979 and though we might remember them, the dead don't really speak. He would have been 109 years old today

August 5th. You can tell that on the calendar it is a special day for me just as it is for Cro Magnon in France whose own father was also born on this day. It was his blogpost that inspired mine.

Phoebe

There she is, our lovely girl - Phoebe Harriet - now two and a half years old. She had resisted her midday nap but succumbed to sleep when Grandma pushchaired her down to the local post office to mail a letter. This was yesterday afternoon.

As with all normal, healthy young children Phoebe's vocabulary and communication skills improve with each passing week. She can be very funny and seems more strong-willed than most. Whenever she comes to our house she likes to watch Peppa Pig and Trotro on our PC. She sits on my knee and we enjoy the cartoons together.

If I am in another room, she will grab my hand and say, "Come on Grandpa!" Yesterday this happened when I was in the middle of my lunch - a BLT and a mug of tea. Such details appear immaterial to Phoebe when she wants her screentime.

At the computer I will often say, "Just one Peppa Pig and one Trotro Phoebe!" And she will say "Just one!" before high fiving me in agreement. But when the two cartoons have been watched you can guarantee that she will say, "Another one please Grandpa!" and if I refuse her demand she will arch her back and moan as if she has just been sentenced to death.

Last Friday, something very significant happened in her short life. Daytime nappies (American: diapers) were withdrawn and she is now in a phase that all small children must go through called potty training. Shirley and I have absolutely no memory of helping our own children through this process.

Phoebe is doing fine - not too many accidents so far.

Meanwhile in Frances's tummy, Phoebe's sibling is growing. A baby who will steal much of the exclusive parental attention that Phoebe has enjoyed thus far in her short life. She may not appreciate that.

Frances is off work now because the successful London-based tech company she worked for for six years was taken over by an American tech company called Bullhorn and nearly all the original staff were laid off last month - including Frances. She will be seeking another job when the time is right but for now her generous severance package will comfortably see her through several months. She will be able to mother the new baby without worrying overmuch about finances.

And as for Phoebe Harriet, she can always chill out at Grandma and Grandpa's house.