I have resisted the urge to write for a while because I cannot master this Blog Business properly and I forget how to do the simplest routines with regrettable speed and no compunction. Well, there is some of the latter if I am truthful, but my desire to lose compunction (can you do such a thing or is it just a ‘saying’ ) gets weaker as I get older. Anyhow, I am writing this on WORD and my guardian angel will ‘sort it ‘into a Blog because he loves me and he knows how to do things, and I will make him potato salad and home cook his ham in return.
It is June 9th, and the celebrations attached to our memories of WW2 are now over. I had intended to write at length about the many goings on that coloured our village for several days and were a reassurance that the UK still recognises courage and shows gratitude for those who fought to the death in order for us to live as we choose, but I could not find the words with which I wanted to say what I felt; could not do it justice!
The village, like many others in the UK and beyond , came together literally and otherwise to show in its special way its lasting gratitude ……for instance a group capable of knitting and crochet magicked a khaki clad, knitted and crocheted khaki warrior who sat with his crotched canvas knapsacks on a bench beneath a village tree , an ancient set of wooden skittles from a long abandoned pub saw the light of day once more, a football competition complete with small and not so small, boys and girls caused some friendly chaos and the tugs of war became favourites with everyone. Young and old came together and reminded us that this is how a village should be. It was fun and unforgettable and celebrated the good in the world.
So why can life not always be like that summer afternoon in the village? Who or what is chipping away at the good?
And how do you measure goodness and evil anyway?
I am going to cheat and because I cannot answer any of the questions I have asked. I am, for the moment, going to concentrate on some of the small things that irritate me personally! Why mumble and complain alone?
So, if you are still reading me, have you by chance noticed that certain firms, having decided that their product needed a fresh appearance, have abandoned the former ‘easy to use’ spray bottles for a more robust model which boasts a spraying action which needs hand strength many older hands will not have , but all is not lost my friend, you can cut off the bottom of the new container and scrape out the contents with a spoon. However, if the foodstuff you fancy is in a glass bottle it has probably had the bottle lid ‘welded on’ or so it seems. Oh dear. AND THEN there is the telephone?? That instrument has changed its appearance and character often in my lifetime and watching old black and white films makes me jealous of the ease with which people communicated years ago when telephones apparently served their intended purpose efficiently. How then has the use of any of the instruments now called phones become such an issue for those like me who are of an earlier time of life ?
However, although I am not of the Zoomer generation nor of the Gen Alphas, I am trying to conquer the mysteries of the Smart Phone with, I like to think , some small success , but it will always be, for me, a situation worthy of “Alice in Wonderland” . In fact, I shall continue to grumble about the telephone and its importunate nature and am not alone in that, but oddly it is preferable for trying to ‘keep in touch ‘ than are many other methods of communication including the expensive and now uncertain delivery of written letters which was such a joy and is fast becoming a tradition of the past.
There is however one thing I do not ever intend to grumble about.: my home (almost) in a wood.
Living in a village has exciting possibilities for the imaginative mind specially when it is a village with a touch of history even though that history is not of great national importance. We are very close to where once upon a time the road marching feet of Roman conquerors would have resounded throughout meadows and woods. The area is one of those often known colloquially as a Devil’s Highway because its ancient origin was a road to elsewhere and radiated mysterious and dramatic possibilities. This particular highway once led directly to what we now know as Silchester and eventually thence to the Fosse Way and the Midlands, or Westward to the Portway.
The woods are less luscious than they used to be but enough tall trees remain to make us wonder (if you allow your imagination freedom) about what and who these ancient onlookers may have seen in the past. Our garden is small but in it are a couple of apple trees one of which carries many signs of age and of years of apple bearing and all that that process involves. Birds, large and miniscule delight in its cover and the protection of generous branches and its seasonal, exuberant and tasty offering of a short, delicious and sustaining banquet. The great tits feast nonstop upon it and we have the regular company of a lesser spotted woodpecker. The squirrels and magpies continue to attempt robbing the smaller birds but have yet to work out the skill of unscrewing. Pigeons blunder around looking for anything and everything and in delightful contrast the occasional pair of doves come to visit the tree and to delight us with their dainty elegance. However, there is a feeling afoot that one day the incorrigible magpies will conquer and then chaos will reign while we think of a new deterrent.
Mumble on a while. You are not alone.
Sixpenceworth 