Observation

All posts in the Observation category

Senior Moments

Published 15/11/2016 by davidgward

Life has a habit of reminding us of our own frailty at times when we least expect it.
Feeling fit, strong and healthy at the moment I am still able, in my mind’s eye, to envisage myself as that twenty-five year old that stood on the edge of maturity full of confidence, bravado and hope.

This week has served to pull me back and remind me that I am not immune to the ageing process and can fall foul of the senior moment or three, just like anyone else.

The first ‘episode’ occurred when I was being driven into town. We pulled up at a parking spot and I reached down to my left hand side to release my seatbelt. Fumbling further down the left side I bemoaned the fact that I couldn’t find the button and was starting to feel like the hero of a Chuck Berry song with no particular place to go, when my wife pointed out that the seatbelt was actually secured on the right hand side.
“Oh yes,” I replied, “I thought I was driving.”
Scary!
Things got worse. I purchased myself a new hair and beard trimmer on the basis that the price equates to two haircuts from a standard barber. Now I’ve been using this sort of trimmer for a number of years but this was ‘state of the art’ with a choice of safety guards to suit varying lengths of hair and beard along with a dial to further increase the choice of lengths.
I read the instructions. Let me repeat this phrase so that it beds in: I read the instructions. They were confusing and impenetrable. Now I have very little hair but I cherish what I have left and was anxious not to make matters worse and for several days I was reluctant to trial my new toy. Eventually I resolved to test my shaver on the least obvious area of hirsuteness – my chest hair. I chose the longest guard specifically for long hair and turned the dial to what I assumed to be the longest setting and set to work on my lustrous chest hair. I looked at the results of my efforts in the mirror. It was like a channel that had been dredged through the Amazon undergrowth. I was horrified at the sight but the feeling of naked flesh where naked flesh had not been for some fifty years was traumatising. A week later and I am now at the itchy stubble stage. I have cancelled my appointment for a Brazilian – no way could I cope with that level of intimate scratching after five days.

Let me tell you of my final senior moment of the week. I was invited for an interview and was given the address along with an assurance that there would be parking available at the rear of the building. As I drove down the main road I spotted my destination on the right with a very large arrow on the side of the property with a sign ‘Parking at the Rear’ in bold print. I followed the arrow and turned right. To my horror two sets of car headlights were heading towards me – I had turned down a one way street the wrong way! I managed to manoeuvre into the parking area before the oncoming cars were on top of me. This faux pas was doubly embarrassing as I was to be interviewed for a driving job!

I decided that three senior episodes in one week was more than enough but sadly I now have to recount one more.

We are away this weekend and I have just realised that I did not have my razor with me – two cans of shaving foam but no razor. ‘No problem’ Libby reassured me, ‘use my lady razor. It’s not very good but it will do.’
I lathered up and started to shaving, observing how smooth these lady razors are. No dragging or pulling, painless!
Shaving completed I jumped into the shower and, as my first ablution, I washed my face to remove any residual shaving foam. My beard was coarse and gravelly! I couldn’t put up with this for too long so I jumped out of the shower to have another shave when I made a brilliant discovery – lady razors cut a lot closer if you remove the cover!

I am now sitting in a darkened room considering my past and more importantly my future. It’s a worry.

Meet Betty

Published 19/10/2016 by davidgward

Elizabeth, usually known as Betty or Bet, leaned towards me in conspiratorial fashion and tapped me on the arm to gain my full attention. Scanning from side to side to ensure her words were not being ignored by those around us, she began in a bold ‘stage whisper’
“I made rabbit pie yesterday” she announced with a beam that spread across her face as a symbol of ‘I’ve still got it!’
“I picked up a whole rabbit from the sweetie shop and slow cooked for three hours.”
The first part of this sentence requires some explanation for the uninitiated. When Bet talks of a whole rabbit she is not talking of the fluffy bunny we all know and love. No, this is a rabbit that has been skinned, gutted and hung pending the arrival of the more carnivorous members of the population to add to their high-protein diet. The ‘sweetie shop’ is the nickname given to the butchers we introduced Bet to in recent times. As she walked into this old-style emporium, with sawdust on the floor and blood on the aprons, Betty gazed about her with the awestruck expression of a child finding, for the first time, the Pick-N-Mix counter in Woolworths.
This meeting was a win-win for both parties: for Bet it was an opportunity to test the resources (and knowledge) of these redoubtable slaughtermen:-
“Do you have any oxtails? Calves liver? Haggis? Do you know what skirt is? Biltong? I haven’t had brains for years!” We can fill in our own next line at this point.
“Do you have any honeycomb tripe? No, don’t try to palm me off with the brown tripe and you can add some cow’s tongue and lambs hearts too.”
For this business it was like finding a new restaurant on their doorstep. The regular shipping orders are so bulky that the assembled artisans could not believe that this would be for two people only to consume.
But for Bet food and, more importantly, food preparation are a crucial element of who she is.
Bet continued to explain in meticulous detail how the rabbit pie had been manufactured as if I were the James Boswell to her Dr Samuel Johnson, transcribing her ‘bon mots’ for future generations to enjoy and wonder at.
This episode gives an excellent insight into Bet and her personality. Her culinary prowess is legendary and her reach is tremendous, from the traditional roast through authentic Indian curries to her own original fusion menus. But if her mains are a thing of legend then her desserts are epic: wedding, Christmas and birthday cakes made with flair, ingenuity and a healthy slug of brandy to create memories that last a lifetime and become a thing of family folklore – and for many a family along the way. The originality of design set these cakes in the realms of gastronomic masterpieces.
Bet has forgotten more about cooking than most people learn in a lifetime and she has no hesitation in imparting her knowledge to anyone within earshot. However, you would be very mistaken if you imagine that this lady is a ‘one-trick pony’, indeed she is very much the ‘Renaissance Woman’ who can turn her hand to dressmaking or shoemaking or designing and fitting out an authentic Edwardian dolls house. She is a collector of an array of objets d’art of indeterminate value. From Victorian christening gowns, through a collection of limited edition paintings to a complete set of catering equipment sufficient to start her own culinary school.
Then there is her unrivalled knowledge of British birdcall – and believe me I have tried on more than one occasion to challenge her and every time she has been proved to be correct.
Architecture, art and history are all subjects about which that she can more than hold her own, revealing information that she has assimilated in the most extraordinary of ways. For example, the time in the Tate Gallery, amongst the great and the good of the high art circuit, when she persuaded many of them to furl up their catalogues into a cylinder to look through it, like a telescope, at the specific piece of artwork in order to focus, without distraction, at the detail, the true detail, of the picture. It is like stargazing with all of the streetlights and household lights turned off. They call this ‘light pollution’; in the Tate Gallery Bet introduced the aficionados to ‘distraction pollution’.
Bet is also a many-times winner of the Shoeburyness World Scrabble Championship. Not heard of this competition? Well, it takes place most mornings after breakfast and, like the annual Boat Race, it seems to have the same finalists for each tournament. In the case of the rowing it is always Oxford and Cambridge; for the SWSC it is always fought out by Ted and Bet. There are those who say that Bet is a bit of a hustler, claiming that she has invented even more than the 1700 words made up by William Shakespeare, and most of them are merely two letters long and contain ‘X’ and ‘Z’ quite often. She has even been known to win at Handicap Scrabble, outpointing a pairing of A* grade students at one sitting.

In spite of all of these attributes, Bet would probably take most pride in her six spectacular and singular children, each one a credit to her and her husband of sixty years, Ted.
Bringing up six children with an age span of eight short years must have been like herding earthworms and her methodology might be open to scrutiny amongst the liberal parenting thinkers of the twenty-first century. The difference is that they cannot prove their theories whereas Bet and Ted have the evidence of the end product in six individual cases. Bet’s pride in her children often led her to exaggerate the status of each and every one of them but in her defence Bet would point out that she was merely predicting the final success that each achieved in their chosen field.
A couple of years back Bet was seriously ill. The prognosis was bleak. Bet ‘died’ but survived. She questions why we brought her back. The fact is that it was her own strength of character that forced her back to enjoy the weddings of two of her granddaughters, the thirtieth wedding anniversary of one daughter and a string of stunning exam performances from many of her grandchildren. Her great-grandchildren are following in the family tradition.
Reason enough to be ‘brought back’. Reason enough to be proud. Reason enough to celebrate the successful dynasty.
Respect!

Self Indulgence

Published 05/09/2016 by davidgward

“So, mate, have you done this before?” he asks me in a broad Essex accent, tinged with a touch of the Mediterranean.
I settle into the black leather chair and allow my mind to fly back some fifty years to an identical black leather chair situated near the station in Brixton. The accent on this occasion was more Caribbean than Mediterranean and the atmosphere was more exotic than in sunny Southend in spite of the efforts of the vapes being enjoyed by one or two of the other clients.
Back then, my new Rasta friend, Leroy, looked searchingly at me.
“How old you, man?” he demanded.
I felt that if I gave the wrong answer I would be ejected from the chair and the premises and denied this moment of self indulgence that I had promised myself for some weeks.
I weighed up my response very carefully before admitting that I was only eighteen years old. In those days the voting age was twenty-one, remember.
“Then why you gotta grey patch in your hair, man?”
“Where, where!” I exclaimed leaning forward in a blind panic. He pointed to an area around my left temple and I stared into the enormous mirror that was in front of the chair, seeking out this stain on my crowning glory. Twisting and turning my head, I finally spotted the offending patch, reflecting the spotlights that were all around me in this Brixton emporium.
“Oh, that,” I said, dismissively, “I’ve had a hard life, man!”
My dark and leather-skinned Rasta-man searched my (near) flawless pale skin for signs of lining, or scars or even weathering but found none. With a dismissive shrug of his large shoulders he bent forward and picked up a blade, testing the sharpness menacingly on a piece of paper.
Blade poised he leant into my personal space (although back in the sixties I’m not entirely sure that we actually had ‘personal space’). I could smell the sweet aroma of ganga on his breath as Leroy asked me in his deep and strangely threatening voice,
“So, son, what’s it to be? A wet shave and a trim?”

Back in the present my Turkish barber is unlikely to comment on the greyness, as, by now, I am entirely grey. His challenge is more likely finding enough hair to warrant his charge.
“Yes,” I tell him, “I have had the works before but not for many years – in fact back to when I had hair!”
“So what we are going to do is cut the hair tighter, trim the goatee, give you a wet shave with the hot towels then tidy up your bits and pieces. OK?”
Sounds good to me although I’m not entirely sure what ‘bits and pieces’ I will be having tidied up. Maybe I shouldn’t have worn these particular shorts and T-shirt?
“So, what’s the occasion, mate, looking for a new wife?”
“Trying to keep the one I’ve got, more like!” I respond, “no, it’s more of a dry run for the daughter’s wedding in a couple of weeks.”
My Turkish friend assures me that the ladies would be delighted with the final effect and I settle down to let him do his stuff.
In a whirl of scissors and razors, this skilled technician sets to work to reduce my sparse head of hair to a neat nap across the areas of my head that still sports hairs. It is clearly a labour of love as my hairdresser appears to address each strand individually, making a last minute decision as to whether it will be the razor or the scissor for every follicle.
Let me be honest, I prefer to see a little more hair and a little less forehead but the criticism is pointless as, in the nature of these things, I will have my wish within a week – a close haircut is only a close haircut for seven days.
The barber is interested to know why the goatee goes so far down my neck and I explain that it is a failed attempt to camouflage my wobbly jowls. He has a better plan and sets to work with a look of deep concentration, shaping and trimming in precise strokes of his instruments.
I am very impressed with the final outcome but I am assured that it will look better after the shave. Ahead of this he is anxious to deal with my ‘bits and pieces’. I ask if I need to remove any clothing for this part and he laughs loudly and takes an implement to my nostrils and eyebrows. He then turns his attention to my ears, which are, and have been for some time, the most efficient producer of hair over any other part of my body. He snips and snaps away at the tree trunks that emerge from my ear canal.
I’m satisfied with the outcome but my friend is not. He searches around for what appears to be a giant cotton bud and dips it into a blue fluid. I’ve seen this liquid before but my brain will not register what it is until he puts a lighter to it. It’s paraffin – PARAFFIN for Gods Sake!
Now, me and fire have a healthy, even paranoid, respect for each other so I’m squirming away from this flaming torch. I think that my barber has noticed my discomfort as he starts to wave the lighted taper as if to put it out. In an instant he has run the flame around my ear and I can smell burning – the burning of the small hairs around my ears. For once I am speechless, giving my assailant time to attack the other ear before I can prevent it.
I sit rigidly in shock at having been turned into a human torch and before I can pass any comment he throws a boiling towel around my cheeks, wrapping it in a top-knot at the crown of my head. As I start to gyrate in a dance of panic my Turkish Delight spots the problem.
“Sorry, mate, I should leave you a gap for your nose so you can breathe!”
“And let this broiled scarf cool down before you start to blister the skin.”
I intone, but the towels act as a gag and my words are lost on my torturer.
After what feels like forty minutes, Gas Mark 4 in the centre of the oven, my face is released from its baster and my florid chops are lathered up – including the newly sculptured goatee. Discretion dictates that I do not mention the damage that he has already inflicted on my skin as he is now holding a cut-throat razor close to my neck. He had said that he had a plan for my wobbly jowls – maybe this is what he has in mind.
In a flurry of blade and lather, my face slowly re-emerges and, I must admit, I look pretty damned good!
“Nearly there, mate.” he tells me before applying a new hot towel. Now this one feels lovely. Comforting, soothing, like slipping into a flannelette onesie on a snowy evening.
This time I am disappointed when I am released, like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis. Pleased to look so good but sorry to lose my sanctuary.
I start to rise from the Mastermind Chair, only to be pushed back for the final flourish – stinging après rasage followed by soothing moisturiser, applied to my cheeks and on the sides of my nose.
Seizing this opportunity to escape, I jump from the chair, pay my dues and rush out of the barbers shop. Two doors along is a coffee shop. I rush in and order a double espresso, down it at one gulp, my shaky hands barely able to manage the tiny cup and demand another.
As I sit there slowly regaining my equilibrium I review the experience that I have just endured. Actually, I really enjoyed most of it. You will never sell me on the flaming ears but, that aside, it was nice to have a bit of pampering for a change. I glanced around the coffee shop demanding that the other customers look at me and admire my new look. Naturally, I failed dismally – only I knew of the full transformation that had taken place. Well, me and the guy sitting over in the corner of the room looking from side to side. He looks like a man who recognises good grooming when he sees it. He looks pretty well-turned out himself.
Hang on a second – is that a mirror??
Indeed it is and over my shoulder I’m sure I can see Leroy, my barber of fifty years ago.
“Warned you man ’bout the grey hair!” He announced smugly.
“I know, Leroy, but you could have warned me about the hair loss! I might have got some treatment for it!”
As I replied to my Mum many years ago when she said, “You don’t mind losing your hair, do you?”
“Well, I would have liked to have been given the choice!”

An Essex Excursion

Published 15/08/2016 by davidgward

It was a bright summer’s day and so we decided to take ourselves off to the County Town for a ‘meandering mooch’. For those of you who do not know this concept (and I suspect that it will mainly be the men) let me explain it to you. There are two kinds of shoppers, and it has to be said that it generally splits on gender. There are those who have a list of items to purchase and they move directly and without distraction through the list and those who have only a vague idea of what they might want to be buying, if anything, but insist in visiting every nook and cranny for fear of missing a bargain. We will call the former shopper ‘The Exocet’ whilst the latter is ‘The Meandering Moocher’.
My personal instinct is that of ‘The Exocet’ – home in on my target, go in for the kill and get out with the minimum of collateral damage in the shape of unwanted purchases and mythical bargains.
On the other hand, my wife is definitely a moocher and today was one where I had agreed to cede to her approach rather than impose mine. On such occasions I set myself two personal objectives. The first is to maintain a broad smile on my face at all times. The second is to enjoy one of my main hobbies, that of people watching.
The smile is a valuable weapon in the locker of the reluctant meanderer. It has the benefit of tricking your brain into thinking that you are having a good time, thereby avoiding a descent into a well of despond. There can be a range of reactions from passers-by to my smiling face. With some, I can see their minds ticking over as they try to fathom out what I can possibly know that they don’t. With others, my friendly smiling face has a familiar look and they assume that I am smiling at them and so they will acknowledge it with a smile of their own or a cheery word in passing.
“You ‘at it’ too?” one offered to me darkly.
“Afraid so!” I respond, as if I fully understand what he is talking about, “it has to be done.” I share conspiratorially.
We nod knowingly to each other and move on our way.
Of course, the smile does have its risks attached to it, as happened today. Libby decided that she would try on a dress – an interesting design, being shorter at the front than the back. We disagreed over which colour would suit her best which was quite arrogant on my part as I am notorious for my lack of colour co-ordination. Anyway, having raised a doubt in her mind, I was now committed to watching and waiting while she tried on both versions of the same dress. Experience told me not to wander too far from the changing room as I would be required, at short notice, to agree with her decision about the two items.
To describe the facility as a changing ‘room’ is giving it more status than it deserved. In fact it was an alcove with two curtains stretched across it. Libby disappeared behind one curtain and I took a short meander of my own around the adjacent lingerie department as I continued my search for knowledge about the difference between the balcony bra, the under-wired, the push-up bra and the shelf bra. And what is the difference between a T-Shirt bra and, presumably, a Shirt bra?
None-the-wiser, I returned to my station outside of the changing cupboard, ensuring that my grin was fully deployed just in time to see a curtain being thrown open and a partially dressed lady, who I did not recognise, strode out looking from side to side for her consort. A man mountain, arms inked in aggressive patterns of flick knives interwoven with knuckle-dusters, came into view and looked from one to the other of us – his wife with her blouse unbuttoned and me with a smile that was morphing through a smirk and into a leer. The disgruntled spouse stepped threateningly towards me but fortunately at that moment Libby emerged from her lair in her new dress and the hiatus was broken as I rushed towards her enthusing about her look. I decided that I would pass on my true opinion on the way to the cash desk, or, indeed anywhere away from the Neanderthal whose wife, I’m pretty sure was wearing a balcony bra under her blouse.
Escaping back into the High Street, we headed towards our ‘favourite’ restaurant, McDonalds for a refreshing milk shake when my second recreational activity – people watching – came into play. Outside the golden arches eatery squatted a duffle-coated, hairy ‘free spirit’ with a rough cardboard sign which read “ex-service and homeless”. As we walked towards the entrance a customer emerged from the restaurant and handed over a basic burger and with a brief “there you go mate” he was off.
We agreed that it was heart-warming to see such an act of altruism as we passed through into the heaving counter area. We even considered adding an extra drink to our order so that we could continue this act of generosity, but decided not to. This proved to be the right decision because, on exiting Maccie D’s we noticed that our homeless ex-serviceman had departed, replacing the original sign with a card which read “gone to lunch”. What was even more baffling was that he had left behind the burger that had been given to him plus his cap which contained the ten, twenty and fifty pence pieces that had been donated by passing strangers throughout the morning. A strange couple of decisions to make for a homeless person.
We continued our perambulations around the shopping precinct and some hours later (seriously –hours later!) we returned to outside McDonalds just in time to see our old soldier pulling yet another placard from his pack, this time reading “Back in 10 Minutes” and, leaving behind his uneaten burger and his cap full of booty, he shuffled off away from the High Street.
My curiosity now had the better of me and so, sending my wife off into yet another shoe shop, I decided to follow my vagrant friend. Even with my slow walking pace, he was easy to follow, given his slouched shoulders and scuffling gait. However, after a hundred yards strange things started to happen. Firstly, my quarry appeared to be getting taller and secondly, with this transformation his shuffle was turned into a stride and the pace quickened into something like a military yomp. I was now struggling to keep pace with him but determination had fired my curiosity and I would not be left behind.
As I strode out my mind was whirring into gear trying to second guess what was going on.
Was this man a drug dealer, rushing to his next deal?
Or, maybe, an undercover drugs cop who had just received a tip off that he was chasing down?
Or perhaps he just needed the loo – and fast!
Rounding a corner the truth finally dawned on me. The ‘squaddie’ had walked up to a machine, inserted a credit card and, having punched in his information, he waited whilst the machine churned and spewed out a ticket which he withdrew from the opening and, walking over to his Bentley Continental Convertible, he popped the lock and slipped the parking ticket onto the dashboard of his sumptuous car.
I followed, open mouthed, as this imposter returned to his pitch. The closer he came to the High Street, so the chameleon changed his deportment, shoulders stooping and legs stiffening into his trademark shuffle. His head, a moment ago held high and proud, was now bowed in subservience and submission as he went back to work – conning the public out of their hard earned cash out of misplaced sympathy and gratitude for service to his country.
Affronted by this man’s deceit (but not so affronted that I wanted to challenge him face-to-face) I sidled past the conman and muttered,
“Don’t forget your burger, mate! Wouldn’t want to put crumbs in the Bentley, would you?”
My point made, I moved back into the High Street and found myself following a young lad, suited and booted and ready for work. I assessed him to be some kind of civil servant, or maybe an aspiring local government official.
A lad of similar age, wearing a tatty and grubby grey tracksuit, recognised my ‘office worker’ and rushed over to him.
“Alright, John, haven’t seen you for a while!”
The lads greeted each other with the trendy flying arm-wrestling grip and topped that off with a gentle chest bump.
“Alright, Che? What you doing?”
“Just wasting time before I go to the dole office for another review. F-ing waste of time. Still working for the Council?”
I patted myself on the back for my perception as I strode past the pair but continued to listen to their Estuary accents with Rasta lilts which merged into one voice.
“Haven’t seen you down the club lately.”
“No, had a bit of aggro so I haven’t been out much.”
“What aggro?”
“Beat up this tosser from London, didn’t I? He was getting handy with my mate’s bitch but when the bill came both him and his bird had it on their toes, didn’t they? I think she was 14 or something.”
“Wanker! So what happened?”
“Got an ASBO, or whatever they call it now. Still I’ve never had a tag before so I can tick that one off.”
“An ankle tag – you got it on now?”
“’Course”
“Let’s have a butchers, then”
If he hadn’t asked, I would have because I haven’t seen an ankle tag either. Turning around I watched as John lifted the trouser leg of his suit and proudly showed off his new jewellery.
Not for the first time in my life I had a ‘books and covers’ moment

Friends Reunited

Published 03/07/2016 by davidgward

Life and family seem to conspire against our being able to catch up as often as we would like with our long-term friends from Reading but after months of skirting around each other we had finally agreed on a weekend when we could get together at last. Unlike the usual arrangement of meeting for Sunday lunch at a restaurant equidistant for us both we had decided to get more adventurous. Here is a transcript of the text traffic between the movers-and-shakers as the plans developed:
Maur: We are free all that weekend; Phil fancies going to the RHA garden down in Sussex. Do you fancy that?
Lib: Sounds good. Shall I book a couple of rooms at a Premier Inn somewhere on the way?
Maur: Great!
Lib: What is the name of the garden?
Maur: There are two, one near Rye and one nearer to Maidstone.
Lib: We could do one on Saturday and the other one on the way home on Suday?
Maur: Good idea!
Lib: I will text you when we have left and or ETA.
Maur: We are always early risers, so we will wait for you in the car park, OK?
Lib: No problem but we will aim to get there about the same time as you.
Maur: OK, well we should be there about 9.30 for breakfast.
Lib: Now you are talking my language! Looking forward to catching up.
Maur: Hi you guys we are on our way and reckon we will get there about 9.15 but don’t worry, we will save a sausage for you!
Lib: Make that two sausages, I’m starving! The Satnav has us down to be there around 9.25 but the way Dave is driving we will either be there at the same time as you or not at all!
Maur: Tell him to calm down! I’ve just told Phil that we may be going past Brands Hatch but that still doesn’t make him Lewis Hamilton.
Lib: Not with that ginger hair, it doesn’t! And at 6’ 4” isn’t he a bit over-height? See you soon.
Maur: Just seen a sign post saying five miles to go so not long now.
Lib: We’ve just pulled into the Car Park. We are parked near the toilets, naturally, as Dave needs to pay a visit.
Maur: Phil is driving with his legs crossed, so I think that’s a great idea for us too. See you soon.
Maur: Can’t spot the toilets?!?
Lib: They are off to the left as you come in just in front of the Farm Shop.
Maur: What Farm Shop?
Lib: The big black double-fronted wooden building!
Maur: Where are you parked?
Lib: In front of the Farm Shop.
Maur: No, I mean WHERE are you parked?
Lib: About 10 metres from the entrance to the Farm Shop on the right. We are in the black car.
Maur: I don’t do metric. What I mean is where are you? We are in the car park and there is only one other car here and no Farm Shop?
Lib: You must be in a different car park! What is the postcode where you are? What can you see?
Maur: We didn’t use a postcode, we just turned in at the brown sign that said Sissinghurst Castle.
Lib: Sissinghurst!! We are at Great Dixter! Sissinghurst is Sunday!!
Maur: No matter, it’s really nice here but we are about 30 minutes away from you.
Lib: Got it! Yes, about 30 minutes according to our Satnav. See you soon.
Maur: Just pulling into the car park.
Lib: What do you mean “Just pulling in”? You’re already there. We are about five minutes away from Sissinghurst.
Maur: Oh bugger! We’ve just got to Great Dixter. Phil is in the toilet and I’m in the Farm Shop. You’re right, it is big.

Make your today as great a yesterday as it can be!

Published 14/03/2016 by davidgward

It is the Dalai Lama who tells us “There are only two days that nothing can be done. One is called Yesterday and the other is called Tomorrow. Today is the right day to Love, Believe, Do and mostly Live.”

The Tibetan Buddhist monk beseeches us not to dwell on what happened in the past and to stop worrying about the future. Instead we should learn the lessons from yesterday and utilise this experience today to work towards our life plan for tomorrow.

There is a temptation to believe that he wants us to make today perfect, and to strain every sinew to make it so. This can create two diametrically opposite responses.

The first response is to feel pressure to achieve perfection in everything that we do. The result is that we spend our day with our heads down, checking and rechecking everything we do. Not only do we fail to ‘smell the coffee’ we don’t even know what ‘an Austrian goat milk double, half caf – half decaf, soy milk cappuccino extra hot with a dash of Madagascar cinnamon and half tablespoon of caramel latte frappe mocha’ costs in Starbucks. We are so big on building for our spectacular tomorrow that we do not allow ourselves to enjoy today. And yet it is the memories of our today that become our warm recollections of all our yesterdays.

The second response is to feel that perfection is not achievable and therefore there is no point in making any effort. Sometimes we become so overwhelmed by the need to be ‘the best you can be’ that we resolve that if we do nothing no-one can question the quality of what we have produced. A contagion of procrastination creates an attitude that ‘no grade’ is preferable to ‘low grade’.

It is my belief that what the Dalai Lama was aiming at with his comment is that, as today is the only day that you can influence you should make the most of it; do the best you can in all aspects of your life. Your best is enough; perfection is a bonus.

During the London Olympics in 2012 I had the privilege of being a Gamesmaker at Lords Cricket Ground, the site of the Olympic Archery Tournament. Now, I have no claim to be a toxophilite, an expert in archery, but let me explain how the competition was organised on the hallowed outfield of Lords. Temporary stands were built on either side of the 70 metre track with the targets set facing the Pavilion with its historic Long Room being the best seat in the house. This setup created something of a wind tunnel for the competitors and so two flagpoles behind the targets were vital for the competitors to understand wind speed and direction when taking their six arrows, which they have to shoot off in four minutes. Two large clocks, a couple of yards in front of the shooters, count down this vital four minute limit.

The ‘David Beckham’ (or, in this case, the ‘Stevie Wonder’) of world archery is Im Dong-Hyun of South Korea who is registered as blind. Standard vision is 20/20 but for Im Dong-Hyun it is 20/100 and 20/200 – meaning he needs to be 10 to 20 times closer to the target than normally-sighted individuals. Im is an idol in Asia and archery royalty throughout the world.

The 2012 London Olympic Games was expected to be further evidence of his supremacy and on 27 July, in the team event, Im was at his imperious best and smashed the world record, notching up a score of 699 out of a possible 720. His efforts won his country the Bronze Medal.

Im confirms that all he can do is to try to distinguish between the different colours on the target. Indeed he has told us “For, me seeing the target and not seeing the target does not make a difference.”

Three days later, the world of archery was watching the expected progression of Im Dong-Hyun into the final of the Individual event. He eased his way effortlessly through the first two elimination rounds without ever quite reaching the levels of perfection he had achieved in the team event.

The personal pressure mounted as his opponent, Rick Van Der Ven of the Netherlands, raced into an early lead. Im took his place 70 metres away from the target, seeking out the yellow inner ring, through opaque vision. The clock started to tick down the four minutes as Im watched the fluttering of flags and as they fell limp he loosed first one arrow, then another and then a third. The shots were in the inner ring. He was on a roll. The fourth arrow was all-important and, again, he watched the flags to assess the winds direction and strength. He waited for all of the elements to be in his favour. The tension in the crowd mounted as they appreciated the import of this fourth arrow. They were willing Im to achieve his brilliant best, to prove the power of the human spirit to overcome any disadvantage and be perfect.

The flags continued to flutter forcefully east to west, dipped slightly before, again, standing erect from the flagpoles that held them.

Im continued to wait, continued to hold his fire, calmly determined to find that yellow bullseye yet again. The massive, knowledgeable audience took a deep breath and waited with him. A bird screeched in the distance, sending a minor tremor through the tense scene.

They waited still.

The strident claxon screech of the timer shook the attendant masses to their core. This claxon sound was, in the world of archery, the shattering peal of the seismometer predicting an earthquake registering a magnitude 7 on the Richter scale.

Im had defaulted and was out of the competition. The damage was irreparable. Im, imperious days before, would not be the Gold Medal winner and his today would not be creating a memorable yesterday for Im Dong-Hyun.

The Dalai Lama is right when he tells us that today is the only day that we can influence but we must remember that to do our best today is preferable to seeking perfection and achieving nothing.

Short and curly grey hair? It’s all in the genes, apparently!

Published 04/03/2016 by davidgward

So, scientists have now identified the gene that defines whether we are going to have grey hair, curly hair or, indeed, no hair at all.

As a follicly challenged male, I could really have done with this information much earlier in my life so that I could make plans.

I remember a conversation I had with my mother at a time when, to quote Harry Hill, I realised that every day it was taking longer to wash my face as my hairline receded.

“You don’t mind losing your hair, do you love?” Mum asked.

“Well mother, I would have preferred to have had a choice!” I observed.

My family, who are generally a fair haired, hirsute group, were not particularly sympathetic. My sister described my situation as a case of ‘over production, but poor distribution’ whilst my big brother, who, even in his seventies, sports a full head of curly, blond(ish) hair, questioned whether my hair loss was the result of a hefty blow to the head from a monkey wrench when I was around four years old. This explanation is probably more acceptable than the proposition that I am actually adopted given the fact that I am also shorter and stockier than any of my siblings.

The warning signs came relatively early in my life. Initially, at the age of around eighteen, my hairdresser (let me be frank, this guy was a barber in Brixton market) announced that he had spotted a grey streak at my temple.

“Makes you look distinguished, man!” he encouraged.

As was normal in the mid-sixties, I compensated for my thinning hair by growing it to shoulder length, adopting a windswept and mysterious image, the sort of image that evoked such questions as “Have you combed your hair today?” and “Why do you look so scruffy?”

With the inevitability of Canute trying to resist the tide I stood helpless in front of my bathroom mirror as I watched my hair recede and turn grey at around the same pace. Life prepares one for the loss of hair but the first sight of a greying pubic hair is traumatic to say the least. It brings into question whether I am simultaneously losing my vigour as a man at the same time. The impact can be quite sobering for a time. Is hair linked to strength as in the fable of Samson? Is there an, as yet undefined, correlation between grey hair and lack of libido?

As these questions and many others roll through my consciousness, nature plays its final ace, to further deplete my waning self-confidence. Suddenly I appear to have a spurt of hair growth. At first base, this might seem grounds for relief and celebration but this cannot be further from the actual reaction because this hair seems to be like fuse wire and growing in all the wrong places.

Initially I noticed my eyebrows forming a wire wool configuration on my now-naked forehead, sending out antennae in all directions as if seeking communication from some extra-terrestrial lifeform.

Very soon my nostrils were following suit, as were my ears. Eventually hair was sprouting from the top of my nose which, when caught in the summer sun would serve as a major distraction when driving as well as creating a minor tic as I crossed my eyes and twitched my nose in order to locate specifically the offending follicle.

Finally, as if to pour Just for Men onto my already vulnerable state, I detected the odd jet black hair standing out like a raven in the most inappropriate orifice. A dark hair amongst the grey in an ear seems to be saying “This is what you could have been if only you had not had a genetic malfunction!”

So, although it may be too late for me, I am delighted that, in the future, men will be prepared for the transformation that may befall them in later life. And, as I sit in my Home for The Bewildered plaiting my eyebrows, I trust that someone more fortunate than I will have enough respect for me to remove the raven developing on the bridge of my nose.

The trEUth about Brexit

Published 23/02/2016 by davidgward

In four months the people of the United Kingdom will be asked to make the highly significant decision about whether we should stay as a central player in the EU or leave and take a step into the unknown.

To put it another way, in four months we will be asked to decide whether to have the bureaucrats from Brussels tell us what to do or to stand on our own feet.

See the subtle difference in tonality, based upon the way in which these terms are phrased?

As a simple-minded person, what I need to know is exactly how these alternative courses of action will affect my country and me, both now and in the future. My issue is where do I get the facts in an unbiased and comprehensive manner, and by ‘comprehensive’ I mean both ‘complete’ – nothing left out to skew the argument – and ‘understandable’ to me and my fellow voters. There is little point in me being fully conversant with the facts and basing my decision on this research if I am to be in a minority where the majority are making such an enormous decision based on sound bites and personality politics, so this information should be easily available.

It was Xenophanes, the Greek philosopher, who is first credited with distinguishing between truth and opinion, between belief and knowledge around 500BC and yet current politicians will not allow us (or, indeed, themselves) to distinguish between what they actually know and what is simply an opinion! But in this current debate the lack of understanding of the difference between fact and opinion is not the exclusive territory of the politician. Academics, business moguls and celebrities from all walks of life are espousing opinions for and against Exit as if they were undeniable truths.

I am listening to the arguments (‘Look at what happened to Norway’ ‘It took Canada seven long years to get a treaty’) but I am forced to challenge every piece of information; to play ‘Devil’s Advocate’ to find out what is the commentator’s fact and what is merely opinion. In this role I find myself arguing for both sides, depending upon who I am talking with, testing their knowledge against my perceived view.

This fence-sitting, this looking both ways at once has led me to a greater truth – or is this just another opinion?

I now believe that the outcome of the referendum on 23 June 2016 is totally irrelevant! At the end of the day it will not make the slightest difference. Vested interest across the globe will ensure that the U.K. will contribute, in exactly the same way that it is doing right now, to the world picture politically, economically and militarily.

When David C suggested that he knew many people who had served divorce papers but none with the ultimate aim of renewing their marriage vows, I know what he meant. However, I know of quite a few who would have served the divorce papers if they had the courage to but, lacking that spark, had stayed in the relationship and over time things had improved and a contented and satisfied life had ensued. By the same token, there are a number of people I know who have taken the route to divorce and, after a few turbulent years, had emerged stronger and happier.

At the end of the day, as an individual and as a country we can only work with the hand we are dealt and we will make the best out of this hand for us and our companions.

And that is the TRUTH!