Friday 16th September 2011

And relax.

It’s Friday and we both have a week off from the second the hooter sounds.

Yabba

Dabba

Do

!

It has been a fine week; it began with Britain being battered by a hurricane. Wow, that sounds amazing. But what it was really was an old hurricane that had really let itself go and was now a storm. OK, we did not get the worst of it here in Kent, but the wind did blow and the turbines did produce many wiggly amps. The technicians did not go out to work, and instead messed around in the office.

Sigh.

On TV there were the usual scenes of weather reports standing beside bodies of water, describing the force of the wind and putting into words what we could see happening behind them. When they were at Metrological school, do you think that is a phase they had to pass? Talking to a TV camera whilst trying not to be blown into the ocean. It’s like the weather maps with pictures of clouds; we know what a cloud looks like, do don’t HAVE to patronise us, but still you do. So, ferries got cancelled, bridges got closed. And the world still turned.



The next day we had the tree in our garden lopped. More like a haircut, or leafcut, really. I mean it wasn’t really a problem, but was still growing, and we thought a smaller tree would provide more light, whilst still providing shelter for the birds. I was first home, and whilst washing up, the amount of extra light was amazing, and we can see the houses that used to lurk behind the tree up on the other side of the valley.



The cats were more than spooked we think, and it took several hours for them to calm down and eat again. We have a leafless tree, a pile of logs for the burner and happy neighbours as their satellite works again.

Other than that, it has been a quiet week; Europe edges closer to the financial abyss as the Euro slumps and Greece needs yet more money. Promises are made, with crossed fingers behind the backs of everyone who is not Greek. Banks are worried, Governments are worried, rating agencies cut ratings (its what they do) and the world still turns.

Yesterday was a perfect autumnal day; the sun shone all day from a clear blue sky, and there was just the hint of a breeze. It was so warm I had to open the office window really wide to get a breeze and so cool down. We had dinner sitting outside. I say dinner, it was beer and pizza, and the day was already cooling down, but we were determined to make the most of the sunshine. Later in the evening, we got the camera, tripod, camping light and power tools out and made pretty patterns.



And finally, we sat outside, looking at the rising moon, away in the east. It was blood red, and were I superstitious I would say it was a portent of doom. As it is, I thought it beautiful and toasted the moon with some Isle of Jura.

All that is left to do today, is to take Scully to the vet, and for him to decide on how her tail is healing. I think its fine, as she is carrying it like she used to, raised high in the air as though it was not damaged. That’s my view anyway. We are looking after Nan this week, and so she is coming for dinner tonight and we are having steak and ale pie with fresh veg and roast spuds. A proper dinner methinks. She will not like it, she doesn’t eat pastry, but there is raspberries for dessert, which is more to her liking.

And then it is the weekend, and me free of the MOD from midnight tonight.

15+6 years

Good morning/afternoon/evening*

(*delete as appropriate)

At midnight tomorrow, my commitment to the defence of the realm comes to an end. How I came to accept the Queen’s shilling is quite convoluted, but then, most decisions we take in life are. I ended up joining the RAF in the autumn of 1990 because, mainly, my friend had joined the year before, and he joined because his friend joined some time before that.
I guess I wanted to see more than the refrigerated walls of the chicken factory. I mean, there had to be more to life than that, right? I was earning barely enough to keep myself in records/football tickets/camera film and all the other stuff I felt that I should be doing with my life.

So, when my parents left for their summer holiday in the summer of 1989, I went up to Norwich to meet with the careers people in the RAF and try to join. Seems simple now, but the wait dragged on for months, and the thought of being a driver had to be changed, and in the end I agreed to follow my friend as an armourer.
I say I agreed, the RAF decided for me, I could have said no, but this seemed like the last, only chance I had. The MOD decided they had enough drivers, and I had to choose another trade; I mentioned armourer, and the sergeant made some notes. It came as a surprise to receive a letter from the MOD confirming my joining the RAF on July 4th 1990 as an armourer. Somehow I had skipped the testing, the interviews and all that should have happened.

So, I began to plan in joining, I would hand my notice in with the factory a week before joining up, so they had better not find out. All was well until the wee small hours driving back from a Price concert in London, I manage to crash my car breaking my thumb, two weeks before my joining date. Although I didn’t know it was broken at the time. So I did not tell the RAF. I had a week on the sick, watching the world cup in Italy and sun-bathing, with a cast on my left arm.

A week later, I went to have the cast removed and an x-ray; unfortunately, it was broken, and my plans for my bomb-building future was laying in ruins. I had to call the RAF and explain that I could not join as the break would take six weeks to heal. Don’t panic they said, we’ll do some ringing around.

And in an hour some guy in Norwich was asked, and accepted my place to join in 10 days, and I got his slot in September. Time enough for my thumb to heal. Watch the world cup. Go and see the Rocky Horror Show in London. Madonna live in London at Wembley Stadium. Sunbathe. Watch the start of the football season. Hand in my notice, take all the holiday due to me, and not do a stroke of work until the middle of September. It was one of those win/win/win/win/win situations, really.



The summer passed, and the cast was removed. It was healed but weak. I had to pass the medical, which was me squeezing the doctor’s hand whilst he looked into my eyes for a grimace of pain. I passed that and was clear to enter the RAF.

As September slipped through my fingers the date of when I would sear my allegiance got ever nearer. Panic gripped me as I went round buying the stuff I needed. Mainly arranging for name tags to me made so I could spend the long autumnal evenings sewing them into every item of my kit. There would be little else to do, other than the cleaning, ironing, polishing, mopping, marching and general bulling.

And then the day arrived; Tuesday the 18th of September. I went up to the RAF careers office in Norwich with my Granddad. We went up on the train as I had sold the car, or what was left of it after the crash that had broken my thumb. We got a taxi to the office, and along with the others who were joining that day in there, we swore our oath to HM the Q, received our certificate and our travel warrants for the morning. As we were to travel to deepest Lincolnshire to RAF Swinderby for our 6 weeks of basic training.

We went back to Lowestoft, Granddad went home and I met my then friend, Richard, for beer and pool. We met at his local, The Fighting Cocks, and drank Stella all afternoon and into the evening, until nine o’clock came and I really had to head home. We shook hands and he wished me well and we made promises about keeping in touch.

I walked back home, and climbed into my bedroom walking round my packed bags.

Next morning at five, Mum woke me up. I had the shakes and a stinking hangover. The taxi picked me up, and took me to the station and I collapsed into a seat and watched the Norfolk countryside roll by. On Norwich station I met the others once again who were joining with me, and we travelled up together. The enormity still had not hit me, and I was in good spirits even with the hangover.



Once at Newark, our instructions was to go to the front of the station and make our way to the bus that would be waiting. The only bus waiting was an old thing, which was smoking slightly as the engine ticked over it. As well as the driver, many young men and women with short haircuts sat looking pensive. That must be it.
We put our bags in the hold, and climbed on the bus and did some more military waiting. The first bout of military waiting I had done; but not the last, oh no.

In time all expected passengers had arrived and we left, through the suburbs of Newark, and into the Lincolnshire wolds, and then on the right we saw the low hangars and water towers which marked where our homes for the next six weeks or so would be.

THEN it hit. I had joined the RAF, and there was no escape.

Monday 12th September 2011

There are many things to lament on the modern world, how values we used to hold dear are sacrificed, and how we would all do so much better in living like they did in the past; like sending children up chimneys and the such.

But, the modern world in which we find ourselves is, for the most part, a wonderful place full of things that we, in our childhoods would really image what the future would be like. But without silver suits and food in pill form, of course. Some of these wonders include, carrying all the music I owned, in digital form, in a box the same size as a packet of fags, and another such box with dozen of films and TV shows on it, electronic mail, the internet, and so on.



But even better is that the people we meet online and in the virtual world are real, and that sometimes we actually meet them. And the odd thing is that even though it may be the first time we meet them, we know so much about them, their life, its like meeting an old friend.



On Thursday, one of my Flickr friends and his wife came to stay. We had met them when we visited Germany in May, and we said if they wanted to come and stay, they could. And so they took me up on that offer and arrived just before dinner time. Geunter and Martina spoke very good English, which is just as well as my German is at best, rusty.
Sadly Jools and I could not take the time off to show them round Kent, but they had a car and guidebooks and so they on Friday, as we headed to work, they headed to Sissinghurst in search of gardens and sunshine.

Friday night we took them for a meal down at the Coastguard in St Margaret’s Bay; we all had fish and chips followed by a cheeseboard and then Geunter and I had whiskies. Sadly, the good weather and the anticipated views to France failed to materialise, and so we made do with the sight of the rising near full moon as we sat on the patio of the pub sipping Glenmorangie.



Saturday morning, we were up with the larks, as our guests had to be up to drive to our mutual friend, Bob, and he was going to show them on a whistle stop tour of London. Jools and I had a fine day planned, as it was the annual Heritage Day as organised by English Heritage, and we had a list of places to visit. First up we both got haircuts, and then I walked into Dover snapping some pubs and interesting buildings along London Road. I sat down in the market square, waiting for Jools, and watching England labour to a last minute win over Argentina in the rugby world cup.



We then walked up to the Unitarian Church, which is a wonderful building, and not very often open. The church is an octagonal building, and is a delight. We were greeted by what is the Unitarian version of a churchwarden to show us round and give us a brief history of the church and the organisation. I dutifully snapped it all, and I think it came out well.
Next we walked to short distance to St Edmund’s Chapel. St Edmund’s it a tiny building, and yet has survived since the 12th century. It’s history is astonishing, click on the picture to my Flickr stream for the full story. Once again we were met by a friendly person who told us the history and points of interest. The building is beside one of the main roads into the town, but you can so easily miss it, it being the same size as a garden shed.




It was midday by now, and so we called into the Prince Albert for a drink before heading off to Dover College for more photography. The pub is a popular one, and caters for some of the dodgier people in the town, but friendly enough. We sat at the window and watched to world go by and those in the pub studying the racing pages in the paper and filling in their betting slips. Just like this has been done for decades, really.



And then out into the sunshine again for the short walk to the college. Dover College occupies the site of the old Dover Priory, and parts of it date back to the middle ages, and it has some very fine buildings indeed. The chapel is very fine, lined with memorials to former pupils who died on may foreign battlefields. The chapel pre-dates the college, as does many of the buildings. We heard piano music coming from one ancient looking building, and looking inside we saw it was the refectory, with trestle-tables set ready for lunch; the pianist saw us and stopped playing. I snapped the scene and left.

We headed back home for lunch, and were thinking of maybe going out later, but thanks to a disturbed night’s sleep, I was shattered and the thought was to lie on the bed and listen to the football on the radio; in a while I climbed into bed and slept the afternoon and the football away. Our guests did not arrive back until half ten, and whilst we waited we watched that Great British anachronism, Last Night of the Proms. Even if I do feel the jingoism of Land of Hope and Glory and Rule Britannia uncomfortable, the sheer passion and quaintness of it is wonderful.



Sunday morning, after a better night’s sleep, I was up before seven watching the recorded MOTD and drinking lots of strong coffee. I made bacon butties for us all which smelt really good, good enough to bring our guests down the stairs without having to call them. And then, out in the car for a short blast up the A2 to Canterbury, as they had wanted to have a look round.

We did the usual stuff, walked to the Cathedral, but being a Sunday was closed for a service, before taking them to the Kings School building and then along the city walls to the castle, where there was a display of Viking crafts and fighting skills. We carried on back to the city centre, stopping off in a pub for a pint of Hobgoblin before taking them to the cathedral so they could look round. It is £9 to get in, and Jools and I did not going in with them. Instead we went for a bite to eat and then went to a cookware shop to get some stuff for the kitchen; and then it was time to head home, and for me to start Sunday dinner; we had a huge joint of beef, and it needed nearly three hours to cook. But was worth it, as we sat down in the early evening with a couple of bottles of wine.

And today, our friends are leaving us for the wilds of Wales, and we get the house back. Not that they have been a burden on us, quite the opposite in fact. Although I think the cats will be pleased to have their lives undisturbed again.

Thursday 8th September 2011

Its not that I don't care about the 10th anniversary of the attacks on the World Trade Centre. It was a defining moment without doubt and the world did change.

However both the TV and radio schedules are filled with retrospectives and reviews on what happened. Not that this is a worthless exercise, but for TV this seems to be nothing else than an excuse to replay the shots of the planes flying into the towers or people throwing themselves from the buildings rather than burn.

If there was a reason for this, other than showing endless loops of what can best be described as 'news porn'. But it is sensations for sensations sake, not looking at the effects, the hundred of thousands of lives lost in Iraq and Afghanistan. The billions of dollars spent on hardware and given to warlords; the laws broken, our values broken as we engaged in torture and dendition.

The programming began on Monday and will intensify up to Sunday when the 11th actually falls. I shall avoid the news on both TV and radio, and remember the innocent lives lost that morning in New York, and those lost in the follies that followed.

Wednesday 7th September 2011

On the downward slope towards the weekend.

And we have visitors for the weekend, and they arrive tomorrow afternoon.

we have been busy getting ready for their arrival; watching football, editing pictures, the usual stuff. In fact I baked a vanilla cheesecake this evening, should be perfect for tomorrow evening when they arrive. We will be having chorizo hash for dinner tomorrow, maybe roast beef on Sunday. The rest we'll just wing it. OK, just bboked a table at the Coastguard down in the bay for Friday night; should be great; fresh fish and chips and good beer and whisky. Heck, thats all the major foodgroups covered.

I have baked a vanilla cheesecake this evening; and it is cooling in the now, switched off, oven, smells great as it was made using fresh vanilla pods. And as soon as that was in the oven I cooked rack of lamb along with curried beans and some good rice. Man, what a fine dinner.

And here we are, all work done and just Thursday and Friday to do before the weekend.

Last night England 'played' again; this time against Wales, and it was even worse than Friday's game. I missed at least 15 minutes after falling asleep, but did not miss that much.

And then there was the wine.



I think I mentioned that we strained and decanted the wort. Well, it went straight into what can be best described as 'active fermentation' of what liked to call 'the fountain of wine'! We cleaned up after the splatter had dried, and moved the demijohns into the porch, and it has calmed down. Hopefully it should be really nice come next spring.

And this week has seen the first autumnal 'blow'. Or, a storm if you like. The wind did blow, the sea was rough, and the technicians stayed in the office all day watching you tube and making model airplanes. Not much work done it has to be said. The wind was spectacular, and nearly blew the car off the road on the way home last night. There really is nothing quite like laying tucked up in bed listening to the wind blowing through the leaves on the trees.

Monday 5th September 2011

And Sunday.

And the chance to lay in bed, so, naturally, we are awake with the larks and having breakfast well before half six.

I spend the morning looking through the photographs and listening to stuff off the radio that I missed on Saturday. All outside was sunshine and a fine late summer's day.

The only thing on the 'to do' list was to photograph a steam locomotive come through Dover at just gone two and again at near seven. At the appointed hour I did leave the house with cameras, and indeed the sky was filled with clouds. And as I drove down Whitfield Hill I could see the sheets of rain rolling in over the village of River.



I met my friend Gary on the station, and we sheltered under an overhanging tree. As is usual the train was late, and we did get damp. Along with all the others on the platform, as I thought we would be the only ones at Kearsney, but there must have been a dozen of us.
And suddenly we heard the whistle and she came storming through the station, at the point when the downpour was the heaviest. I pointed the camera and shot. And then she was gone, all in about 20 seconds, round the corner and on to Dover.



To be honest it was raining too hard to stay and see the diesel hauled train come back the other way, and so I went home to look at the shots I did get, and then cook Sunday dinner; fresh roast lamb, roast potatoes, fresh steamed vegetables, Yorkshire Puddings and a fresh raspberry jus. Yum.

And finally, we strained our batch of elderberry wine, and decanted the wort, added cold water, set up the airlocks and waited. Not too long as soon it was bubbling away. And is now, so violently is it bubbling that wine is coming out of the airlocks and pebbledashing the kitchen walls with red juice.

It should calm down in a day or two.

We hope.

Sunday 4th September 2011

A new month, and with an 'r' in it, which means it could be winter. Or says the old wife's tale. In reality, September means it range from a hot summer's day to a wet and windy autumnal storm. And anything in-between.

Before I go on to talk about what we did yesterday, let me recap the working week. Work, sleep, work, sleep, etc. On Thursday, I updated my Facebook status sarcastically, thus: "is trying to head to Essex on Saturday. Weather and cats permitting!" As last month, our plan to visit various bead shops and churches in Essex was thwarted by the very welcome return of Molly. So, what could have gone wrong?

Well, first of all I was laid down with a stomach bug late on Thursday, one minute I was eating raspberries from our garden with some wonderful ice cream, next it was, I need to go to the bathroom. Come out. Go back in. Come out. Go back in.

And so on.

The next morning, I was laying in bed, feeling drained rather than head to work, and from the living room there came this incessant meowing. I head down to investigate, just in case there was some small furry or feathery creature to be saved. Scully was on the sofa. No animals or birds. I pick her up and we both head back up stairs. She curls up beside me and I doze too.

She moved a couple of times, and that is when I notice the blood. Quite a bit of blood. I investigate, and I see her tail is damp, and it is blood. She is not happy with me looking at it. I call Jools up and she books an appointment for the vet.

My father-in-law comes round at half ten, and we head to the vets. After blaming the usual suspect, a fox, it seems she had trapped her tail somewhere, and the skin has been scraped back on both sides down to the bone. I have to leave her to have stitches, 14 in all; Jools picks her up when she comes back from work. So, Scully has a plastic tube on her tail where the stitches are, but is in good spirits, eating well and fighting with her brother.

So, we decided to head off for the day yesterday after all, and so despite getting up early and as inviting as the bed was, and as good a thought of lazing around all day, we got up, had breakfast and hit the road.

Up the A2 to Dartford, under the Thames and into (cue evil music) Essex.



Essex is like any other county; it's like Suffolk and Essex, with which it shares borders, but deep down there is a wide, wide evil streak running through it. It manifests itself through driving; the driving of the locals who see the accelerator as an on/off switch and rules of the road are for every one but them. John Peel, of course, hated driving through the county so much he used to drive round it, every time. And he lived in Bury St Edmunds and worked in London, and that is some detour.

So, driving at the national speed limit for cars and light vans which is 70mph. And whilst driving through the fine country of Essex, we were the slowest vehicle on the M25, M11 and A120. The craziness did not end.

Well, it did end once we turned off and headed into the wild lands around Thaxted. On the way we passed through the village of Great Easton. We saw the church spire from a distance and I could not resist.

The church had an unusual tower, all brick with dark ones mixed in to give a nice criss-cross patterns. And when we tried the door, it was open, at eight in the morning. So, I snapped it and snapped it good.
We walked out and headed towards the main street of the village and I snapped some of the older houses, all with decorated plastering on the outside; griffins and rising suns. Looking wonderful.

In the car and off to Thaxted.



Thaxted was made rich by the woollen and fabric trade, and is full of wonderful timber-framed houses and dominated by the grandest of parish churches high above the High Street.
I snap it inside and out, despite it being renovated and one of the aisles being shrouded under plastic sheeting and scaffolding.

By now we were hungry, and despite being a tourist magnet, the town was surprisingly thin on the ground for tea rooms. We find one place open and go in and order bacon and brie rolls. And a quick browse through the Daily Torygraph of the Daily (Hate) Mail.

And so we afterwards we find the bladeless windmill and then head back to the car and drive off to our next destination; Finchingfield.



Finchingfield is a wonderfully picturesque village, it has graced many chocolate boxes and could be described as typically English. But it knows it is. Yes, the village knows it is beautiful, and looks high maintenance.

Right through the village is a huge green with a large pond at the bottom formed from a small stream. And around the green and up the hill towards the church's ornate tower are many, many wonderful timber-framed houses, with the occasional pub thrown in.

I snap the pond, walk to the post windmill and then up to the church snapping everything as I go. To enter the churchyard you have to pass through an opening through the almshouses, which was very pleasant. And then a short climb through the graves to the church.



And so back down the hill to where Jools had waited, and together we went into the local pub for a drink before heading off on the bead trial. And that is because the main reason for us being in Essex was to visit a couple of fine bead shops that Jools likes to look round in the same way I like to look round record shops.



On the way, however, was a transport museum which I had wanted to visit for some time. And as we were passing right by the museum, we, or I , decided to call in for some snaps.

In truth, the East Anglian Transport Museum was mainly devoted to trains, and mainly trains in Essex. And in truth, there was not much to see, a couple of steam locomotives, a class 101 DMU and a collection of rolling stock. But, it was hot, damned hot, and as Jools was waiting outside, and I had seen most of what they had to offer, and that the beer festival did not begin until Tuesday, I headed out through the gift shop and we made our way via one beadshop and onto another, this time in Colchester.



We drove out of the city again, and back along to Halstead, where in going the other direction I had spotted a huge wooden mill straddling the river and it looked worth snapping.



We found a place to park, and follow the signs to the mill and snap it in the later afternoon sun. We head into a nearby pub and along with beer we order nachos and fajitas to share. Not healthy food, but very tasty, and light enough.

And so we make for the car and the long trip home to Kent. But on the way we took a detour into Brentwood to visit an old online friend of mine, Debs, and her husband, Chris. with a sat-nav and the postcode we find their place and stay long enough for a coffee and a chat before we had to take to the M25 and cross the river again.



The sun had set and darkness was gathering as we sped though Kent; we stopped off for a burger at the Thanet Services and press on into the darkness and home. And waiting for us was one cat, and the others come along before we head to bed at the end of another very fine day.