Don’t know why I like this song, but it seems to be today’s theme. Of course it led to an energetic discussion with HBTW and crash helmets.
Do you remember the days long ago when we had a problem with our computers, wi-fi or technological internet kit? We used to phone helplines, spend ages on line, then follow the instructions of seeming gurus, who knew how to fix things. Basically, they told you to check all the plugs and connections, then to take them out one by one, sometimes switching to an alternative port or usb.
This morning, we were having trouble with the wi-fi connection on the ipad. We unplugged the modem from the electricity, plugged it back in again. Sorted! All is well at Dalamory again.
This week we are studying DNA via various body fluids with special attention to Blood Pattern Analysis. I thought fingerprint analysis was difficult enough; let’s just say that DNA background and analysis may be fascinating but it ain’t half hard!
I guess there must be something worthwhile about studying though. . . . . . . it is absolutely fascinating.
When you get to be a certain age and you forget something, the tendency is not to think it’s amnesia but rather Alzheimer’s or something equally horrible. Many of my friends and acquaintances make an excuse or preface a story with the words – “it must be early Alzheimer’s” – then we all shiver and laugh nervously. Any kind of dementia is a terrible life sentence, the more so because there seems to be so little that can be done about it.
I got myself into bed last night, all comfy and cosy . . . . . . . . . . remember the long night-time list a couple of days ago? Anyway, it suddenly dawned on me that I had totally forgotten to write a blog post. In actual fact, I have missed two days not just one. Way back in October I set myself the challenge to write the blog every day for three weeks. The reasoning went that doing something as simple as that would show me whether or not I was destined to be a continuing blogger or not. At the time I decided that I wouldn’t worry about content, that what really mattered was making the “entry of the day” – and to do it as openly and honestly as possible. However, as time goes on, there is a little spirit of competitiveness that pops its head up wanting to be noticed. It starts to become important to be funny, or insightful or philosophical. . . . . . in fact any of those worthy types of comment or post that makes people think.
Then what happens ?. . . . . . . . . instead of being a pleasure it becomes a task, and after a couple of days it can become a chore, because after all, what have I got to say that is of interest to anyone? And who is going to read it after all? My hope is that in generations to come some of my descendants will want to connect with who they are and where they come from, then it becomes a short leap to researching one retired relative left lying in cyberspace. In addition to that I hope that sometimes a reader will stumble upon the blog and recognise a kindred spirit, or see a cause for hope, or even just enjoy a sense of belonging.
So – day be day I shall try to share my thought or thoughts for the day. The what is really happening in Dalamory. Then, gradually, we all of us – writer and readers – become a part of social history.
Whenever I am finding it difficult to concentrate on fiction, particularly when I want to get myself lost in a book, I will often turn back to Jodi Picoult. As fans will know, her books tend to the formulaic, but there is always a twist that makes the reader truly gasp at the end.
Change of Heart, is no different, except that it has echoes of The Green Mile, by Stephen King. Looking at some of the reviews I was not surprised to find that some readers have been cross with Picoult – she is usually so original. Nonetheless, this is a book I found gripping for the most part. Some of the meanderings down the Gnostic Gospels felt a bit heavy, but I did have the advantage of having read some of them at university. The legal conundrum here is that for the first time in 69 years there is to be a state execution and the criminal decides he wants to make restitution by donating his heart to a relative of the family he decimated. This produces all sorts of ethical and practical problems which the author explores with her usual thoroughness.
The style of writing adopted by Jodi Picoult works for her, but at times I found myself getting cross at the constant switching between one character-led chapter and another. However, as I stated at the beginning of the review I was deliberately turning to a tried and tested author to help get over Christmas fiction block.
This book, then, gets a 7 out of 10. Still a good read. What do you think?
Getting ready for bed at night gets ever longer and more complicated.
Is it any wonder it takes at least 20 minutes?
What is your routine like?
It’s nearly Pre-Birthday-Month time so it seems a good time to dive into The Art of Ageing again. It is one of those little gems that has a great deal of common sense. More than anything, the author, John Lane, doesn’t expect miracles though he knows how to turn the realities of life in older age into hope and fun.
Sadly, Lane died in 2012 and that fact alone prompts me to look out for some more of his writings.
My usual habit is to read several books at the same time according to mood or the time of day. Books on ageing and/or self-help fit in with diaries and journals, so they occupy the bed-time spot. I have a stable of writers and books that I read through over and over, occasionally adding the odd new one. I found the following gem last night and think it is well worth sharing.
Lane is keen to point out that old age is neither all bad nor all good and that we cannot fix this with either positive thought or modern medicine. Being a realist I would far rather accept the not so good as part and parcel of life. What matters is how we cope. We are reminded of this section of William Blake’s, Auguries of Innocence: –
Man was made for Joy and Woe;
And when this we rightly know
Thro’ the World we safely go.
Joy and Woe are woven fine,
A Clothing for the Soul divine;
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.
The joys of insurance don’t refer to the days when I started work in the insurance profession in Glasgow in the 1960s. That was the time of Chief Clerks, signing in, creaky lifts in enormous buildings, hushed tones in hushed offices and night classes at the end of long days. There was no such thing as overtime, but if we were required to work late we were rewarded with half a crown, “for your tea.” I won’t tell you the story of me trying to stick up for others by refusing this derisory amount – there was enough bullying going on at that time. And female clerks were paid at a lower scale than males, because of the getting married and having a baby issue. Things did get better as opportunities and training were made more proficient; I don’t want you to think it was all gloom and doom.
Hmmmm. . . . . . . . . . . as you may have guessed, I received a Home Insurance renewal today. The premium is very good but the endorsements have got stricter.
Think I shall be busy for the next day or two, comparing the market.com. Maybe I’ll even get a cuddly meerkat toy.
We nearly had a bit of a hiccup with the Forensic Science Course this week. There is a lot of additional information available and at one point we found ourselves going down the highways and byways of fingerprints and how they were formed at different periods of gestation in the womb.
It all seemed to be getting a bit too remote from the original case that was the basis of the investigation. Fortunately, we kept going a bit longer and this resulted in finding out that Fingerprints are not necessarily definitive in science, approach or even in uniqueness between individuals. Quite a bit of the information is already out there in the web; indeed in the UK the media were full of the possible miscarriage of justice involved in the McKie case. The Enquiry stated (by Sir Anthony Campbell) that fingerprint evidence should be “recognised as opinion evidence and not fact.”
It makes quite a difference to all the writers of crime fiction, never mind the headaches in real life. The next step is how a world science mindset is changed and how comparisons are made amongst fingermarks that are no longer able to be considered as unique.
Fascinating stuff!
I’m just back from walking round the village with Misty. It seems that it is one of those days for counting blessings – the right time of the year too. When we do the inner village route, Misty has to stay on the expanding lead. She likes to do her regular round of sniffing and scenting, so there is plenty of time for me to look round about.
When I was a child, walking to and from school, the route was through an estate of houses with front gardens. I amused myself by giving them marks our of ten. Tidiness didn’t count for as much as colour, but during mid-winter it was interesting shapes that caught the eye. I never wrote anything down, so I had no record of scores year by year, but it certainly made the walk to school seem less onerous. Come to think of it, I must have been on my own a good bit of the time. Oh yes – I kind of remember that it was boys from my class at school who lived in the same street, and it would not have been the done thing to tag along with them. I sped off as soon as the closing bell was rung, anxious to get home though I’m not sure why.
Playing out time was a favourite with me. In those long ago days it was considered safe for children as young as five or six to play out with friends. We used to play tig, skipping, dodge-ball (that hurt a bit too much. . . . . ) or tip-it-and-run. This last game was one I really enjoyed. The wicket was a lampost, the bowler had to make the ball bounce once before the batter had a swipe. Even a tiny hit meant you had to run to the end of the wicket. Everyone else was against the batter, and it was amazing how quickly the next turn came along. We rarely damaged windows and there seemed to be plenty of room on the street for there were few cars in those days.
In the school holidays, we played out for hours. Those were the days when the milkman, the coalman, the rag&bone man. . . . . . . . Yes – they were all men… all had a horse and cart each. When the horse deposited a pile in the road there was a race to see who could be the first to collect a bucket and spade. I never really minded the earthy pong of the dung, especially as I knew my father would be pleased to have the manure for his roses or rhubarb.
If someone came to visit in a car it was a huge event. It would be either the doctor or a well-off relative. We children, all used to hang around the car, polishing it with our jumper-sleeves, some of the tougher boys used to kick the tyres and talk knowledgeably about “Tyre pressures” and “punctures.” I didn’t know what either meant, but it was good to be involved in the excitement.
Blessings then, meant a good slice of bread and jam and a cup of Ovaltine at bed-time. Nowadays we tend to look for the more sophisticated. I wonder who or what it is that has changed? Today in our village the sun shines through the bare and tangled twigs, there is a damp smell from the fungi in the verges and someone, somewhere is burning wood whilst another has a peat fire. Misty and I turn for home and I muse about what I might write on my blog. Today, then, it is Blessings from Dalamory for you and yours.
