all about planning...

Life is often better
When it just happens.

Most plans

Fall over anyway.

Just enjoy now.

And listen to

The windchimes.

D-days…

D-day – hard to believe that it happened only 13 years before I was born and by the time I was in my teens it seemed to be almost forgotten. Perhaps we need reminders about these things. Perhaps today, seventy years on, is the time to remember.

The aerial photographs, taken by allied planes flying just 1,000ft above the battlefield, show the chaos of the landings. In some ways they look like pieces of abstract art, paintings of random objects splashed across a distressed canvas. They are so beautiful in many ways that it’d be easy to get lost in the patterns of the images and forget the destruction and sacrifice of the reality going on below.

I’ve sometimes wondered what the D stood for. Was it Destiny, Doom, Deliverance, Debarkation? Truth is, it was none of these things, just a term to show the importance of the date. Of course since then there have been many D-days, it’s still used to plan military operations. There were D-days in Korea, the Falklands, Kosovo, Iraq, Afghanistan, and countless other conflicts. Just ask anyone who has served in the Navy, Army or the RAF, and they will have their personal D-day memories. Although few will be as etched into the consciousness as 6 June 1944, they will be the days that will stay with those who lived through them forever; the days they were lucky to survive, the days when death was riding on their shoulder.

But what about the rest of us, those who have never lived through a conflict close at home or been involved in some other war further afield? What about our D-days? We all have them don’t we? Days we are dreading. Days when our futures hang in the balance - the results of medical  tests, the long awaited announcement that tells you if your job is to go or stay, the birth of a long awaited child.

D-days happen all the time, every day for someone, somewhere.

Of course, one of the reasons we are here to live through our own particular D-days is directly down to the men in the chaotic abstract painting that was that very first D-day, the one that happened just 13 years before I was born.

Unfortunately, the Battle for Normandy didn’t end on the 6^th of June. The Germans counter-attacked and many more terrible battles were fought over the following 80 days. The cost of victory can still be seen today at the 27 war cemeteries which litter the Normandy coastline, they contain the remains of more than 110,000 dead from both sides - and, despite Google’s lack of interest, that is something worth remembering.

Jesus is everywhere...

They say that Jesus is everywhere, but if so I don’t know how I missed him on Coronation Street for so long.

I’ve been watching this gritty tale of Northern folk since Ken was a student and Martha Longhurst took off her hat and drew her last breath in the snug of the Rovers. I remember them all: Minnie Caldwell, Harry Hewitt, Lucille, Annie Walker, Elsie Tanner, Albert Tatlot, and all the rest. Although I don’t remember seeing Jesus on the Street until last night.

It seems that Jesus is alive and well and living at number 1 Coronation Street along with Deirdre and the rest of the Barlows (not Ken at the moment, but several others) and has been ‘in the house’, as they say, since Uncle Albert’s day hanging around on the wall, his hand resting on a Boy Scout’s shoulder.

Yes, a Boy Scout with his hand on his hip… hmmmmmm.

The painting is by Ernest Stafford Carlos and shows a Boy Scout in this slightly unfortunate pose, whilst a classic Jesus hangs around behind him.

Yes, he's behind you!

Carlos painted a lot of pictures of Boy Scouts and was a big hit with the Church, this particular painting being reproduced as a stained glass image in a number of Catholic churches. To be honest I’m not very surprised by that, any more than I’m surprised that Ken has hung onto the painting all these years; he's a sentimental fool is Ken.

Dib, dib, dib, Ken.

In fact I’m more surprised that it isn’t St. George in the picture, after all he’s actually the patron saint of Boy Scouts and it anyone should have a special relationship with a chap and his toggle, it’s him.

I’ll be keeping my eyes open for further TV soap sightings. Jesus really does seem to be everywhere.

A little wine...

Ah, how I love a new project; particularly one that involves alcohol.

I’m at an age when, for some reason, making my own wine seems to be a good idea again. Of course I’ve tried oenology before, but using a kit doesn’t really count if you are a serious enologist. No, the true winemaker makes his wine from ingredients he has foraged from the countryside, although I have to say that I’ve made some passable wine-like liquid in the past - at least I managed to pass it.

I still have some of my old winemaking kit and have been toying with the idea of having a go at a country wine or two for a while now. I guess that it’s all part of the movement that seems to have grabbed so many of us as we grow our own veg, keep chickens for eggs, make jams and chutney, and generally spend fortunes on growing and making foods and drinks that would be far cheaper if bought in the supermarket.

Maybe the refound popularity of gardening and baking programmes on the telly might have something to do with it. Of course it could be that we are sick of the speed of our lives and the invasive technologies that many of us, me included, are addicted to.

Maybe we are all looking for the good life.

Felicity Kendal…

Anyway, about the wine.

When I was in Wales last week I collected a bag of elderflowers. They smelt heady and pungent and when I examined the flower head I saw each one was actually made up of hundreds individual tiny flowers. This was the stuff to make wine with and, instead of the cordial I’d been planning, I decided to make elderflower wine my first country wine experiment.

I found a recipe on the internet, got myself a lidded bucket, some yeast, and away I went. It’s been bubbling for a few days now, during which time I’ve ordered a couple of demijohns, bought a country winemaking book, and am planning what wines to have a go at next. Dandelion, elderberry, parsnip, blackberry, and carrot are all on the list. The elderflower will need racking into a demijohn next week and then it’s the long wait until Christmas.

Bottoms up… I hope,

Two men in their underwear...

I was asked the other day how long I’d been blogging. In all honesty I couldn’t remember and had to check. As it turns out, I stumbled into Bedford Falls way back in December 2008, almost six years ago. Six years, where have they gone. Over 1500 posts, around the same number of illustrative graphics, often originals, over half a million words, 57 registered followers, and more readers through Facebook.

I still find myself asking why I do it. Of course I know all the answers to that question by now, and the truth is I doubt that I could stop even if I wanted to. I’m an addict and, as there seems to be no Bloggers Anonymous, I don’t think that I’ll ever stop being hooked.

It’s disturbing really, the thought that I’ve spent so much time on something so inconsequential when I could have written three novels with all those words. Of course to write a novel you need characters, a plot, a great ending, and an awful lot of perspiration. Even so, I keep telling myself that I will one day.

That’s it really, apart from the picture. It’s the Mael twins, Russell and Ron, Sparks by their other name. I came across it a while ago and found it doubly disturbing. Firstly because of it’s subject matter, and secondly because I can’t decide which of them is more creepy in their undies; Russell in his perfect black briefs or Ron in his dirty vest and pants combo.

They are two sides of the same coin really I guess. Maybe my blog is like that, another side of the same coin. I’m sure that hidden away inside it somewhere is a ripping good book. All the words are there, not necessarily in the right order (thanks Eric), but there nonetheless.

Two men in their underwear… maybe I could use that thought as the starting point for my next book.

Street Partyyyy...

Another day, another street party. This time a celebration of 40 glorious years since Trafford Borough was brought into existence. Oh deep joy, so much more to celebrate than just another royal wedding or a mere jubilee. Yes, forty glorious years of Trafford… Huzzah!

Mind you our road doesn’t really need much of a reason to break out the booze and vol-au-vents, and once the cars were cleared, the gutters emptied of the previous night’s chip papers, burger wrappings, dog ends, and flyers advertising everything from curry to stick on nails, the road scrubbed up pretty well.

The organisers (three cheers) had managed to order up a sunny day, a barrel of beer, a long line of tables, some fun activities, and a glorious karaoke which all helped the party to go with a swing. 

The menfolk of the street were as alpha male as ever, competing in the egg and spoon in shorts and frizzy wigs as if it were an Olympic sport that they’d each been training for all their lives. The women, pretty little butterflies in their gaudiest clothes, tried their best to remain sober and demure and as always failed abysmally, either falling into a haze of drunken oblivion or laughing very loudly at everything until night fell.

Not all was as it seemed though; there was a shadow over the proceedings. Although the day seemed to be going well, on closer inspection it managed to bring out some of the roads less than salubrious characters. Shady drug dealers, less than modest go-go dancer types, aging hippies rolling joints, fat old blokes in caps singing Elvis’ ‘In the Ghetto’, even drunken doctors, teachers, and young business executives, all rubbing shoulders as if they could possibly coexist on the same road. The words ‘hoi polloi’ sprang to my classically educated mind as I observed the tawdry shenanigans, then to top it all a number of these characters sat down in the road as if in protest and proceeded to (well, there’s no other way to put this) got oops outside their heads.

I sometimes wonder what the road is coming to, I really do. It gets harder everyday to keep order and decorum.

Oh well, it’s not over until the fat bloke sings and I’m a sucker for karaoke - three cheers for the king! Bring on the next one and God save Trafford and all who roll in her!

Can you tell what it is yet?

Can I tell what it is yet? Well actually I can’t. I’ve been trying to avoid this Rolf Harris case, and when I say avoid I mean that I’ve been trying not to follow it. But the media is pervasive, it’s everywhere, and it is impossible not to pick up the odd report or two about what Rolf has said about the allegations that have been made against him.

I don’t know why I don’t want to know about this case, my reasons for my wanting to stay away from it all confuse even me. I suppose it could be that Rolf was almost a hero to me when I was a boy, no William Tell or Lone Ranger, but up there with Top Cat, Fred Flintstone, and Yogi. In many ways Rolf seemed a little like a cartoon character rather than a real live person with his painting, and singing, and Jake’s third leg – diddle, diddle, dum.

My Uncle Charlie thought he was great, and somehow I can’t think of Rolf without thinking of Charlie. Charlie could paint and was musical. He spent small fortunes, which he couldn’t afford, on stylophones, passing one of his old ones to me. I don’t remember him having a didgeridoo, but I do seem to remember a wobble board which he wobbled in accompaniment to his rendition of Sun Arise.

Digeridoo, wobble board, stylophone, cartooning – but this isn’t about Charlie. It’s about Rolf. Apparently Rolf has admitted to finding a thirteen year old girl in a swimsuit sexually attractive. He also agrees that he went on to have an affair with her when she was 18 and ‘legal’. He wrote letters to the girl’s father apologising about it. His daughter destroyed some of Rolf’s paintings when she found out her best friend had accused her father.

Rolf is either a very honest man with little to hide or a desperate man trying to slightly alter the truth to make it as plausible as one of his television show paintings.

Can you tell what it is yet?

I can’t.