Category Archives: personal

amusements, personal, ramblings

The Village. VI.

The Village – A Story in Eight Pieces

VI. The Duck Pond

Andy the Angler, is trying his luck,
While bumble-y Bees, at the flowers they suck.

Cunning the Carp – a fish cannot drown,
Unlike the Ducks, all dabbling down.

There is Old Eb, who sits on the bench,
He’s watching the Fox, just seen jumping the fence.

There’s gaggles of Geese, they’re just flying sheep,
And then there’s old Heron, who’s off with a leap.

Winter brings Ice – see the skating is free,
Surprising the Jogger who stops for a pee.

Look! – a Kingfisher – just flashes of blue,
Zips past the Log we use as a pew.

Merry the Mermaid, we never have seen,
But here is a Newt – this one’s called Jean!

O are the ripples caused by a rock,
Thrown by the Parson, ignoring his flock.

A Quern Stone has made a step at the edge
Of the tall Rushes right next to the hedge.

A babbling Stream, with its water so clean,
Houses the Toad, all swarthy and green.

Running, the Urchin’s evading his Mum,
Ignoring a Vandal, fly-tipping – the scum!

Wet was the Witch they once ducked in the pond,
But saucy young Xena swims the millpond.

Yo, there’s a Yob, forever a pest,
To even the Zephyr which blows from the west.

Piece VII will appear on Tuesday 11 May.

current affairs, medical, personal, ramblings

Horrible Times 21: Lockdown 400

Today, Friday 30 April 2021, is our 400th day of Covid-19 Lockdown. And not a lot has changed since my last report on day 365.

  • In 400 days I’ve been off the premises just seven times: three to the dentist (one just to have some paperwork signed), for a flu jab, twice for vaccination, and one for blood tests. It really has been all the fun of the fair!
  • Noreen and I have now had both our injections of the Pfizer vaccine. Noreen went again to the Town Hall, whereas I went to the centre in deepest Southall. My experience was that this was not as well run as the Town Hall, and I seemed to spend most of the time moving from one queue to the next. Even so I was in and out in about 30 minutes. And Southall itself was grid-locked (well it was some Sikh holy day) and still the same dump that it always was. We now just await out booster in the autumn.
  • In less good news, I’ve had a really annoying bladder infection (I know, TMI already!). Yet again I’ve been impressed with our GPs’ being able to work with patients over the phone rather than face-to-face. This infection has resulted in two rounds of antibiotics (turns out the nasty little organism was resistant to the first antibiotic I was given), three rounds of urine tests and a visit to Ealing Hospital for an armful of blood tests (most of which were overdue for my annual diabetic check-up anyway). Amazingly most of the blood tests turned out to be OK.
    Ealing Hospital is the same appalling place it always was: a dismal ’70s concrete bunker which was never fit for purpose; badly signposted; and apparently staffed by the downtrodden. I hate the place and avoid it if at all possible; I just hope I never have to be treated there for anything serious.
  • Along the way I’ve also has two (different) Covid tests; both for research studies I’m signed up to. Luckily both were negative. Noreen has done one as well.
  • In good news the days are lighter, brighter and with longer daylight and the fruit trees and lilac are in flower. We’ve even had some warm sunshine, although it is still rather chilly unless the sun is out. The downside of this is that we’ve again suffered the daftness of changing the clocks. The garden was looking very ragged, but is coming under control now our friend Tom is allowed entry again and has done after several days work – although nothing much has been pruned over the winter.
  • Meanwhile the country continues to go to Hell in a handcart as our increasingly despicable government lies its way from one pathetic charade to the next. They keep getting caught out lying but seem not to care when any self-respecting government would have resigned long since and been banished.


Who knows what happens next?

I suspect the government will continue to ease the restrictions (regardless of the data) and I fear we’ll see a further spike in Covid cases over the summer and/or autumn when the great unwashed return from Costa Plenti. I can’t see us being clear of social distancing and mask-wearing this year. And we might even have another Christmas in lockdown – although I sincerely hope we don’t.

One tries to remain optimistic and cheerful through all the gloom, but as my father would have said “it’s hard to be optimistic with a misty optic”!

personal, thoughts

Living Like the Gentry

Some days ago, someone on one of the family history groups I follow posited the question of what our ancestors would have thought of our family history researches. Which in some ways amount to delving into their lives.

I don’t know what they would have thought. No! Wait! Actually I do: they would have wondered why we find them so interesting. It’s a bit like how Noreen reckons the medieval masons would wonder about why we spend so much time, effort and money shoring up our old churches and cathedrals: I’m sure their attitude would be “Why are you repairing it? Can’t you already do better than that!”

I’m also fairly sure that our ancestors would be astonished at our lifestyles. OK, so we live in a 1930s terraced house, which is really the 1930s version of a Victorian two-up-two-down. But we have more space, better amenities, and more money than most of them ever would.

One thing Noreen and I have been doing over the last year, during lockdown, is making sure that we eat well. Actually we always did eat well; just it got a bit better! Food and wine are two of life’s pleasures, so they help with keeping morale up and helping keep us healthy (maybe!).

Now our ancestors (both mine and Noreen’s) were in large part AgLabs, labourers (skilled and unskilled), mariners and fishermen. They would not have had a lot of money; nor good housing; and they may well not have had access to good or sufficient food, with the possible exception of bread and beer.

One of the comments Noreen often makes is to wonder what our ancestors would have thought of our food habits. We can (and sometimes do) have strawberries and cream in the winter; pheasant; decent sized pieces of good meat; fresh and smoked salmon; duck salad with asparagus (in season); wine with a meal; and at weekends a liqueur with our strawberries. As she says, they’d probably say we were living like the gentry.

But then compared with them we are the gentry! At least in terms of our disposable (and secure) income, secure housing, and easy access to good food.


The cottage in Rolvenden, Kent, in which my paternal great-grandfather,
Stephen Marshall (1849-1946) was born.
Top: as it was probably c.1900. Bottom: as it was in 2014.

It is salutary to think that my father’s maternal great-grandfather Jabez Hicks (so my great-great-grandfather; born c.1820, died 1905), a mariner in Dover, would likely not have had a very wonderful diet, or good housing – even after he became a coal & wood merchant and lived his last few years on his own means. He lived in a pretty ramshackle area of Dover, near the docks, for most of his life. His sons mostly did well for themselves: working on the railway; in a senior position for Dover Council; with a business as a fly-proprietor (the taxi/car hire company of the day). But then, largely due to two World Wars, things pretty much stagnated until our generation and the easier availability of good secondary education and universities.

Although we were born with no silver spoons in sight and we’d both say we’re working class (at the very, very best lowest middle class) by origin, yes, we’re privileged on many counts:

  • We’re white, cis, able-bodied, heterosexuals.
  • Our parents were married before we were born.
  • Although our families were never well off, they got by without state help or social workers.
  • We can read, write and think fluently.
  • Our parents engaged with us, encouraged us, and taught us many things outside school.
  • We had the last of the good, free, grammar school education in the 1960s.
  • We also had state funded university education (around 10 years between us) in academic subjects.
  • That enabled us both to have professional jobs for prestigious institutions.
  • Our jobs paid enough for us to buy our own house (despite stinging interest rates), without recourse to the Bank of Mum & Dad.
  • Our jobs also provided us with pensions; and our parents frugality with some money in the bank.
  • We’re our own people, with our own, considered, views and beliefs.

To our ancestors (in general) most of that would have been things to aspire to, and would certainly mark us out as at least solidly middle class. All basically thanks to our hard work and our parents’ thrift and foresight.

We may be privileged, but it is largely privilege of our own making. Thanks to the inexorable rise of capitalism (I blame a combination of Harold Wilson and Margaret Thatcher) sadly a lot of the younger generations today do not have many of those opportunities we had. I’m sorry to say that our generation of “boomers” forgot its (mostly hard-earned) privilege and we’ve buggered it up for the younger generations.

amusements, personal, ramblings

The Village. V.

The Village – A Story in Eight Pieces

V. The Sun Inn

Amber’s the Ale, the brewery’s best,
Poured by the Barmaid, a magnificent chest.

The Cider’s refreshing; the girls drink in sips;
While Tom’s Dog goes begging for peanuts and chips.

‘Ere is young Emma who always wears clogs,
And sits by the Fire, made up with good logs.

All the fine Glass is so sparkling and clear,
And still we’ve the Hat, which was left here last year.

Ice is in cubes – no, not in my beer!
There’s a jang-e-ly jukebox we wish wasn’t here.

Cute is yon Katy whose hair is dyed pink,
Thus deceiving the Lager that only poofs drink.

There’s food on the Menu, good pies do abound,
While Nuts is the cat who’s always around.

There is Old Arthur, still sucking his pipe,
And Polly, Stan’s Parrot, who’s language is ripe.

Lend me a Quid, I need five for a beer,
And top up Miss Rosie, who’s everyone’s dear.

The Snug at the back’s where the old ‘uns hold court,
Draining the Tankards which each of them brought.

There’s yeuchy Urinals where water we pass,
After drinking the Vino, that’s sold by the glass.

Wee is the Widow, still hearty and hale,
Sipping her 5X, a lovely strong ale.

The Young and the Yoof, so noisy and loud,
Still treasure Zog, our mascot, so proud.

Piece VI will appear on Tuesday 4 May.

amusements, personal, ramblings

The Village. IV.

The Village – A Story in Eight Pieces

IV. The Village Stores

A-2-Z Stores serves every and each,
Selling Bananas and Butter and Bleach.

Cheese just so special; Charcoal for the grill;
Detergent’s essential; Daffs for the thrill.

Ed sells no cake, nor bread, meat or fish
Frozen excepted, and Fruit for the dish.

The Fruit Gums are tasty; the kiddies they please,
And so is the Honey, from Freddie’s good bees.

There’s flavoursome Ice Cream, local and good,
With extra pink Jelly for trifle or pud.

The Kale it is rough, only good for the sheep;
Loo paper’s essential, and Ed sells it cheap.

There’s Milk and there’s Mops and even some Macs,
While the Nails and the Screws are in little packs.

There’s Olives and Oils, mostly pressed out of seeds,
And the little Post Office will serve all your needs.

There’s seldom a Queue, it never tops four,
There’s Rice as a staple for puddings and more.

Sandpaper, Sugar, and Seeds for our patch,
Plus trays of the Toffee Jill makes by the batch.

Greasy an Unction for toenails ingrown,
And varietal Veggies, most locally grown.

You need a new permit to fish by the Weir,
And Xmas is coming, no glitter this year.

Live are the Yoghurt, and Yeast, but more yet,
Zee are the last things we mustn’t forget.

Piece V will appear on Monday 26 April.

amusements, personal, ramblings

The Village. III.

The Village – A Story in Eight Pieces

III. The Church of St George

Green is the Altar, a table, today,
And Ben is our Bishop, who’ll visit one day.

Blessed is the Candle, with book and with bell,
Helping the Dean, send demons to Hell.

Eddie’s an Eagle, he’s made out of brass,
Admiring the Flowers, arranged by Miss Glass.

Stained is the Glass in the windows so bright,
Which with our Hymns, sends joy to the height.

Heavenly Incense, clouds flying like geese,
Blessing the Jurats, for keeping the peace.

Stout are the Kingposts supporting the roof,
Above the brass Lectern – that Eagle’ aloof!

We always hear Mass, we’re High Church round here,
Suiting the Nuns from the Convent quite near.

Ann is our Organist, ever adept,
While safe is the Pyx, where the Host it is kept.

The Quad is quite early, ’tis the cloister you see,
While the Rood was replaced in 1603.

Small is our Spire, barely reaching the sky,
On top of the Tower from which the bats fly.

You Unbelievers are certain for Hell,
And so is the Vandal, he’ll go there as well.

There’s Wilma the Witch who never comes near,
While X is we Christians, faithful and clear.

Uncaring the Yob, with hardly a nod,
Unlike the Zealot, ever speaking to God.

Piece IV will appear on Monday 19 April.

amusements, personal, ramblings

The Village. II.

The Village – A Story in Eight Pieces

II. Village People

Anthony, the Squire, lives up at “The Mares”,
While Bernard, our doctor, lives at “Three Bears”.

Cathy is new here, she teaches our school,
With pretty Denise, our champion at boule.

Ed is a twin, he runs the small store,
Bro’ Fred’s been our postman for ever and more.

George is a farmer, with sheep by the score,
Which Harry the butcher will bring to your door.

Grumpy old Ivy, is ever so prim,
While John, who’s retired, keeps our gardens in trim.

Ken and his trumpet, play jazz on the beach,
In duo with Lisa, a lovely young peach.

There’s Father O’Michael, our vicar for years,
And Nick, the bookseller, who likes a few beers.

Oh, here is Oscar, he’s just three years old,
And Poppy, just sixteen, already so bold.

Quarrelsome Quentin’s, the Squire’s youngest son,
While Roger’s our baker, always up with the sun.

Big Sergeant Stan, is mine host at The Sun,
With tiny Theresa, his wife with a bun.

An enigma is Uncle, we don’t know his name,
Who lives next to Vi, a feisty old dame.

Willowy Wendy, see how she can dance!
Partnering Xavier, an import from France.

Yvonne the alto sings a good song,
And Zeb is the Blacksmith, all brawny and strong.

Piece III will appear on Tuesday 13 April.

amusements, personal, ramblings

The Village. I.

The Village – A Story in Eight Pieces

I. Introduction and Allegro

Our Village is Ancient, it’s in Domesday you see,
We’ve Butcher and Baker and Blacksmith all three.

In summer there’s Cricket played on the Green,
A mile from the Deer Park, once owned by the Queen.

“End Cottage” is famous, it’s covered in bloom,
When Furrily Fair is held every June.

Our Church of St George dates from 1053,
While the Hall was brand new for Queen Vic’s Jubilee.

The “Ink Wells” they date from age of the quill,
But after “Jack’s Mill”, on the top of Fog Hill.

King George gave the Oak Tree in 1802,
It’s nearby the Library – managed by Lou.

“The Mares” is the Manor, the Squire’s big hutch,
There’s also the Nudists – they don’t bother us much.

Old Ozzy Gee brings fresh fish from the sea,
To sell at the Pump, where the gossip is free.

Noisy’s the Quarry that’s over by Krigg:
Stone for the “Rectory”, sprawling and big.

The Sea and the Beach are five miles away,
But here is our Teashop run by fair May.

Spooky the “Under Caves”, it’s said there are nine,
They’re under the “The Vaults” where Matilda sells wine.

We think there’s some Wiccans, but no-one’s quite sure,
Though X marks the Crossroads, with gibbet of yore.

“The Yews” are alms houses, 200 years old,
But new is the Zodiac Maze by “The Fold”.

Piece II will appear on Tuesday 6 April.

amusements, personal, ramblings

The Village. Preface

One sleepless night near the beginning of the year, I was playing a mental game of naming things to do with (or names of) an arbitrary subject: countries, lakes, forests, or whatever occurred. Of course this had to be an A to Z, something for each letter, and in order. Like the traditional children’s game: “A is for Aardvark, B is for Bullfrog … Z is for Zanzibar”.

This particular night I thought of “things to do with a tree” and had a mature oak tree as a guiding picture. In doing this I found myself making some of the choices a bit more descriptive – not just a jay, but a jay burying acorns. Then, over a couple of nights, some rhymes got added. This developed into a full verse of 13 rhyming couplets – a fairly droll technique, but one which worked and which wasn’t too hard in the darkness of the night when attempting to induce slumber.

A few nights later I chanced upon the village pond as a subject, and again found rhyming couplets emerging. So then I wondered if I could make a full 13 rhyming couplets: yes I could even if some were initially rather contrived.

Now remember that at this point nothing was written down, or even spoken aloud; it was all in my head. But I went on to wonder if I could construct a whole village, one set of 13 couplets at a time.

Out of this emerged about a dozen, rather ragged and very incomplete, verses on different aspects of an imaginary village. Over a period of two to three weeks I began to write this down and to refine it, discarding some verses which didn’t gel and complete, and ending with eight complete verses.

At this point, I showed Noreen who professed to like it and thought it should see the light of day. So over the next few weeks The Village – A Story in Eight Pieces will appear here, one verse at a time.

Piece Publication
I. Introduction and Allegro 30 March
II. Village People 6 April
III. The Church of St George 13 April
IV. The Village Stores 19 April
V. The Sun Inn 26 April
VI. The Duck Pond 4 May
VII. More Village People 11 May
VIII. King George’s Oak 18 May

The project may not be complete. I have some ideas for a few further verses should inspiration strike, and there is also very draft sketch map of the village. We shall see if they ever emerge fully formed.

And to think, it all started with a sleepless night and an imaginary tree.

Piece I will appear on Tuesday 30 March.

current affairs, medical, personal, ramblings

Horrible Times 20: One Year!

Midday today marked exactly 365 days of, partly self-imposed, isolation. What a strange year it’s been! Who could have guessed it would be thus. In the last 365 days:

  • I’ve been off the premises just four times. Twice to go to the dentist. Once for a flu jab and blood test. And most recently for my first Covid vaccination.
  • Noreen has done a little better in that she’s been making forays to the postbox and occasionally the post office.
  • I’ve generally been well. That’s apart from the depression which is, if anything, worse – but then who’s surprised about that?! But it does make motivating oneself to do anything a struggle. It hasn’t been helped by my back and a lot of tension across my neck and shoulders; unrelieved as I’ve not been able to get any massage.
  • However Noreen has had a nasty cellulitis infection and shingles. The former required many trips to the hospital.
  • We’ve been totally dependent on online shopping, and luckily have had no problems with supermarket delivery slots (except in the very early days when things were being sorted out). Everyone in the food supply chain has been doing heroic work through all this.
  • And we’ve been using our supermarket deliveries to also get provisions for our friend across the road, who is also isolating.
  • We’ve both managed to get our first Covid vaccination – something which wasn’t even a possibility this time last year. And we’ve been mightily impressed with the way the NHS has coped with all this. We await jab number two.
  • We’ve lost my aunt (to Covid, although aged 90 and with dementia), and three or four friends (apparently not to Covid). How odd are “Zoom funerals”?!
  • Needless to say face-to-face meetings and events have not happened. We’ve managed to continue some over Zoom, which is not a problem for me as I’ve been used to teleconference meetings since before the millennium.
  • We’ve added some extra, informal, meetings for our doctor’s patient group (of which I’m Chairman) just to enable people to keep in touch and have some additional social contact.
  • Meanwhile the house is a disgusting rat’s nest – which really doesn’t help the depression. When Covid struck we were trying to dredge the accumulated silt of 40 years, three parents, two jobs, and voluntary work. That has stalled, mainly because we cannot shift stuff out of the house: charity shops are closed and not taking donations, and without transport we can’t get anything to the tip.
  • The garden is pretty much a wreck. Although we managed to keep it roughly in order last summer, without our regular gardener the winter maintenance and pruning has gone by the board. The lawn is a meadow which comes half way up our fox. Besides it is so wet out there (yet more rain as I write this) the ground is like jelly, which makes working on it impossible.
  • On the good side, we’re both still plugged into life supply.
  • And we’ve been able to have some good food and wine – something we’ve made sure we do more of to add a little joy to the misery.

So what happens next?

The government is clearly keeping its fingers crossed and hoping for the best. Meanwhile everyone is expecting the worst with the medical experts warning:

All in all I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re still in this same position a year hence. It will be immensely depressing and disheartening, but I wouldn’t find it surprising. This, of course, assumes we’re still receiving supplies of life force!

Jolly times!