Month: November 2012

100 and not out.

~ beetleypete ~ Leave a comment

Forgive the cricket metaphor, as it won’t mean a lot to anyone who isn’t English, Australian, West Indian, New Zealander, South African, Sri Lankan, Indian, or Pakistani.

100 posts reached at some time yesterday, or earlier today, so this should be number 101.

When I started this blog in late summer, I thought that I might write a post a day. Then I decided that was too much, and thought I might manage 50 or 60 in a year. Now I am at 100, and it is time to have a few days off, I think. The brain needs refreshing, ideas could do with a rinse and spin, and too much of a good thing is never to be recommended.

Over the past couple of days, I have returned to the original format, of unconnected, random posts, thoughts and ideas; something a bit controversial, and other things reflective. It has been well-received, and given me food for thought. I have also realised that I have been neglecting other things, things very easy to neglect, like housework, ironing, and clearing leaves. I have films recorded, unwatched, and I need to make some notes about ideas for this blog.

So, a few days off. Back soon.

Reasons to feel perky

~ beetleypete ~ 3 Comments

I have decided to try to liven myself up, and to find some reasons to be more positive. So, here goes.

It has stopped raining, and the forecast is for cold and dry weather.

I don’t have to get up and go to work tomorrow. Or ever again.

I enjoyed a delicious dinner tonight, Spatchcock Poussin, with roasted vegetables. Yum.

My dog thinks I am great, and can do no wrong.

Despite having very little hair left, it has stopped falling out.

I have 33 followers on my blog, and lots of others by e mail, so I must be writing something remotely interesting.

We are debt free, and have no mortgage to worry about, so we are better off than many people.

That’s it, I am officially perky!

Now I just have to get past the Mayan Apocalypse…

Age and emotions

~ beetleypete ~ 33 Comments

What is it about age and emotion? It seems to be on a sliding scale; as you get older, you become emotionally labile. Some days, I feel consumed by nostalgia, reverie, and reflection. Old films make me feel blue, and I can experience waves of sadness washing over me, for no apparent reason. I constantly look back over my life, re-evaluating past deeds, and regretting not doing others.

This is all a very new thing. Ten years ago, I got through the day, had a bottle of wine, and considered myself lucky to still be here.  There was no time in my life for regrets, and self-criticism; I would have considered it a luxury that I could not afford to indulge in. Analysing things in the past can be very self-destructive, and is generally not to be recommended. Wallowing in  nostalgia is usually unproductive, at the best of times.

So, I confess that I have time on my hands, since retiring, and moving to Norfolk. Time to think, time to remember, and to consider a short future ahead of me. But I have had free time before, and lots of it. I did not spend it in contemplation. I watched films, went out, got on with everyday life, and accepted my lot. Not anymore, so it would seem. I think often of my mother, who died this year. Things that she told me, about the disappointments in her life, and her unfulfilled aspirations. I wish that I could travel back, and grant all her wishes for her, tell her how I really felt about her, and make life better for her. Too late now, I should have tried harder, when I still had a chance to make a difference.

My thought processes are altering too. I have a young dog, only nine months old. Yet, all I can think about him, is how long he will live, and how old I might be when he is gone, and how much that will sadden me, in some time to come. That is not normal, surely? I see things differently, overwhelmed by experiences in the past, referring them to present events. It doesn’t help. The blog keeps me going, and at the same time forces thoughts into my mind, not always wanted, or welcome. It becomes increasingly difficult to turn off, to rest, to stop thinking, and not to get over-emotional about those thoughts.

I have concluded that this is part of the ageing process, the mind preparing for the inevitable decay, in both function and mobility. I could be wrong of course, but I have evidence to support this theory. Emotions fluctuating with every extra year, things once disregarded becoming important, and every detail suddenly relevant. I am unsure whether to like this or not. I will let you know.

‘Subject’, not Citizen

~ beetleypete ~ 42 Comments

It has long fascinated me that people in other countries are so taken with the British Royal Family. They seem to dwell on the death of Lady Diana Spencer, and fawn embarrassingly, should any of them bother to visit their lands. I exclude Quebec, and some of the Antipodean peoples in this generalisation of course, but I think you know what I mean? It would also appear that the Royals are much-loved in their homeland, from news reports, and public attendance at festivities concerning them, or where they are due to appear.

Recent celebrations for both the Jubilee, and Olympics, have shown them, especially the Queen, to be at a height of popularity, not seen since the War. She even appeared in a promotional film, with the current James Bond, which was shown to open the games. I have to admit, that most people I talk to, believe having a Royal Family to be a good thing generally, as they feel that it promotes tourism, and stops us having a ‘Presidential’ government.

However, there are over 62,000,000 people in the British Isles, and many of them, myself included, do not agree.

The current residents of the Royal Households are essentially Germans, of the House of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha. The name was changed to Windsor, to make it more palatable to the public during the First World War, when Germany was the enemy.  Before this, the Royal Family was also German, from the House of Hanover. Preceding the Germans were the Stuarts, who were Scottish. Save for a short gap, after The English Civil War, those Scots ruled this country for 111 years. Prior to Scottish rule, there was Welsh rule, by the Tudors, and during the period between 1066, and the Welsh arrival in 1485, The French, specifically Norman French.

So, we can see that there has not been a ‘British’ ruler since at least 1066. Even before this date, in darker times less documented, we can be sure that many of those claiming to be the Kings of Britain, were in fact, Danish, German, or Norwegian. How many excited youngsters, waving Union Jacks along The Mall, would be aware of this, I wonder? And how many would care anyway? I know that I do. I do not agree with the concept of rule by birth, or by right, let alone what is, to my eyes at least, a foreign occupation, unchecked and unopposed, for over a thousand years.

What are Kings and Queens anyway? Go back far enough, and you will find that they are from families that had bigger gangs, better weapons, and were not afraid to kill anyone to gain power. Living in those days must have been a bit like living in Chicago in the 1920’s, or in modern countries like Rwanda, or Somalia. Large, well-armed gangs took your land, your animals, and in some cases, your families too.

They then told you that they would be your King (or Queen) and look after you, as long as you played along with them, fought in their army, and worked on their lands. They gave away bits of land and money to their friends, and called them Dukes, or Earls, and told the people that they had to do what they told them to, as well as follow the King’s orders. It was a protection racket, on a national scale. The only losers were the ordinary people.

Here I am, a millennium later. A woman calling herself Queen Elizabeth ll is on the throne; a German married to a Greek, and I am her subject, whether I like it or not. Well Mrs Windsor, ( or should that be Mrs Edinburgh? I’m never sure.) I do not like it, and I do not recognise your right to rule me, or anyone else in the UK, just because your dusty old ancestors married into money, and had a big, well-armed group of followers.

I have no respect for your in-bred family, or their dress-hanger wives, your cousins, and aunts and uncles, all leeching off society, like so many useless parasites. If we need you for tourism, then why do so many people visit Paris, Rome, or Florida? If we need you to justify pomp and circumstance, then you have never seen the annual parades along the Champs-Elysees. If we need you for History, then you have never seen The Coliseum. Presidential rule? At least we could vote them out every four years. If I could choose between you, and Obama, I know who gets my vote.

We don’t need you at all do we? It is all a massive bluff. You and your clan have pulled it off, got away with it for countless generations, and we are just mugs, providing you with protection, money, houses, transport, and treasures. The successive Governments, the Civil Service, the institutions, all propping you up to save their own skins, and keep their jobs safe, while millions who know no better, wave flags outside empty palaces. It breaks my heart.

I will not be a Subject, with all that the title suggests. I will be a citizen though, and a Republican one at that.

Blog day afternoon

~ beetleypete ~ 2 Comments

I have just had a quiet time on the blog. Thanksgiving in America, and UK friends probably getting tired of gruesome Ambulance stories, who knows? It isn’t really important, just interesting, to see the fluctuations in views. One of the fascinations about blogging, is to look at the statistics, and see how the viewings of your blog change. Weekends are usually much quieter that weekdays, for example. No doubt there are lots of people with more to do at weekends, places to go, people to see, less time for blogging activities. It is easy to appreciate that, and to make sense of the trends.

I then changed the tone of my blog. Over the last two days. I wrote posts about letters, and doing things now, and suddenly, it has all taken off again. Lots of likes, four new followers, and many comments too.  In one afternoon, I have had more blog traffic than in the previous two weeks. Not in terms of views, but in contacts, comments, and general interest. Perhaps it is time for me to re-evaluate (yet again) and try to decide if I should diversify more often.  Once more, most of the interest comes from North America, from Canada, and the USA.  This has always intrigued and amused me, as many of my posts have taken a blatantly anti-American stance, and others have been mildly sarcastic about undue American influence in English culture.

So, I take my hat off (metaphorically, as I never wear one) to those North Americans. They have seen further than some of their fellows, and embraced criticism, something that they are not acknowledged for, ever. They are also looking beyond their shores, and showing interest in other lives, something else not normally associated with them. I am having to re-think old prejudices, which doesn’t come easy, at my age. I don’t include those trying to sell books, or services of course. I wish that they would stop using the ‘shield’ of blogging to do this. If your stuff is so good, advertise it on Google, or sell it on Amazon Marketplace. I don’t need it, and I will never buy it. Please, just stop.

For the rest of you, much thanks, and more power to your blogging elbows.

Do it now

~ beetleypete ~ 46 Comments

When I was young, I anticipated that later life, and old age, would bring with it peace, financial security, and well-being. My car insurance premiums would be ridiculously low, and I would have enough money to travel anywhere I wanted to go. Worries would be behind me, work a distant memory, and free time would stretch out ahead of me, just waiting to be enjoyed.

Next birthday, I will be 61 years old. That means that if I live for nineteen more years after that, I will be eighty. There may have been a time when nineteen years seemed like a lifetime. Perhaps when I was still a teenager, and could not imagine life as a 38-year old, I don’t specifically recall. What I do know for sure now, is that nineteen years seems like a very short time indeed. Although we are ‘comfortable’ financially (whatever that really means), I certainly cannot afford to travel. My insurance premiums did go down, though only because I left London. Otherwise, they are still pretty hefty. I live a more peaceful life, but cannot say for sure that I am ‘at peace’.

As for well-being, who knows? Physically, I can see deterioration, in strength, eyesight, and energy. Mentally, I feel the need to push myself to feel better, hence this blog. Work is a memory, though far from distant, and the cumulative affects of 33 years of shift-work are beginning to surface. As for free time, it no longer seems to be stretching far ahead, rather rushing by, like a fast train viewed from a platform.

I find it hard to believe that I actually prepared for this. I saved money, paid into pension funds, and both myself and Julie invested in property, so that we could sell it later, and live free of debt. This all worked of course, and provided the life we live today. A life that I am not complaining about, as others live much harder lives than we do.

It is all far too late though. History and fate will not be outdone; prices always go up, never down, and old age never retreats. I should have done it all back then, whenever ‘then’ was. When I could have just ‘gone’, and it would have had no consequences. There was absolutely no point in preparing to live the nineteen years, until I reach 80, a prospect which is highly unlikely anyway.

Sure, I did some stuff. I went to China, cruised the Nile, visited most of the former Soviet Union, and a fair part of Eastern Europe. I watched a lot of films, collected cameras, and saw lots of castles, and museums. But did I live enough? I never will now, that’s for sure.

So, this is my best advice, aged 60, and in a very contemplative frame of mind.

Do it now. You really won’t regret it.

Writing letters

~ beetleypete ~ 21 Comments

When did you last write a letter? You know, get some paper, a spare envelope and a nice pen, and sit undisturbed, to write something to a friend , or relative. I appreciate that stamps are expensive these days, at least in the UK, though still a small price to pay for the value of personal contact, with some effort behind it. If you have ever received a letter, was it a good feeling? A nice change from circulars, bills, and charity requests, I bet. To imagine that someone actually bothered to think enough of you, to take the time out from a busy life, to contact you personally.

We live life electronically these days. Internet shopping, .com groceries, texts, e mails, and tweets. Facebook is the new and preferred method of keeping in touch, for an entire generation. An e mail or text can be sent to numerous recipients at once, saving you time, and trouble of course; but is it remotely personal, and does it really have value? I manage to write quite a lot of letters. I have certain friends that I only correspond with, and never communicate with using anything remotely impersonal, like e mail, or text. There are others that I have frankly given up on, as they never reply, unless by e mail, and they are just not ‘into’ the written word on paper anymore. Despite writing thousands of words on this blog, and sending numerous e mails in the course of a week, I believe that I never write better, or more from the heart, than I do when committing things to paper.

I don’t have good handwriting, and never managed to improve it, or to learn italics, or adopt a written ‘font’, as some do. However, it is usually legible, and hopefully more meaningful, than anything sent electronically, or by telephone. When I have it, I like to use decent paper stock, and where possible, write on one side only. I no longer have a working fountain pen, though I have decided to get a new one next year. The filling from the ink bottle, the smell of the fresh paper, and the checking of the address in a book, all rituals that indicate I am about to do something special.

In this age of computerised communication, we still send birthday cards, Christmas cards, and cards for special occasions, like passing exams, or an anniversary. So, why have we stopped writing letters? It cannot be just because of the sky-high price of stamps, the less than perfect postal service, or the effort to buy paper and envelopes. Ironically, it has never been easier to get these items, as they are easily purchased in all supermarkets, and most convenience shops. Pens, at least the ballpoint variety, have never been cheaper, or more readily available. In most ‘pound shops’, they can be had in bulk, for that very sum. No, it is just too much effort, like so many things discarded for that reason, in this modern life.

I have corresponded with a friend, on a weekly basis, since 1985. I have not actually seen her for almost ten years, and we rarely speak on the telephone. She lives about 200 miles away, not far by some standards, but for various reasons, we never seem to get around to meeting. Yet still, we know about every event in each others lives, significant or trivial, thanks to our exchange of letters. Before the widespread use of computers gained popularity, I also wrote to another old friend on a regular basis. When he left England to work in Canada, and was living there for some years, we kept in touch by letter, so never lost a single element of our friendship. Since he returned, to live near London, we are probably in contact more than ever before, though by e mail, not so much by letter. I miss this, and may well revive our old tradition, despite his legendary, appalling handwriting!

Since beginning this blog, I cannot fail to notice the immense volume of communication that goes on in the world today. I have even e mailed people, suggesting that they read my efforts, as a means of keeping in touch with my life in Norfolk, and what I am thinking and doing. I should not have done that. I should have written to them, even if they didn’t reply. I have let myself down. I am using the blog to stay in touch, and that is just more impersonal, trouble-free communication, of the kind that I criticise in others.

So, I am asking you all to put away your keyboards for one day. Get a pen, some paper, and envelopes, and write a letter to someone important to you. I guarantee that it will make you feel better about yourself. There will be no spell-check, or auto-correct; no suggested alternative words, or online thesaurus. You will have to think about it, and cross out anything you have done wrong, or didn’t like. The recipient will value it, even if they don’t think that now, and they might even keep it, and if you are very lucky, compose a reply.

Ambulance stories (18)

~ beetleypete ~ 78 Comments

Living with the dead

This is not an anecdote about a specific job, like the other posts in this series. It is rather a reflection on death, and on dealing with it in the role of an ambulanceman. It is not meant to be depressing, though it may read that way. It is part of my reflection on those years, as I get older.

Before I joined the London Ambulance Service, I had seen one dead body. When I was young, my maternal grandfather died. He was only 65, and died suddenly. I was taken to see him in his coffin, which was in my grandparents’ front room, for a vigil before the funeral. My enduring memory of that night, was not of my first dead body, but of my uncle crying. My grand-dad just looked as if he was asleep, and I did not find it distressing.

Decades later, and I have seen many hundreds of dead people. I have watched them die, unable to do more for them. I have been having a conversation with someone, only to look up from my equipment, and realise that they were dead. I have seen people who had been found dead after lying undiscovered for weeks in a hot summer, and had to remove bodies found floating in the Thames. I have seen dead children, and helped to deliver a baby that was dead as it arrived into the world. There have been bodies of people who had died from violent acts; shootings, stabbings, and beatings, and others blasted by terrorist bombings, or consumed by fire.

I have tried, without success, to resuscitate a teenager, drowned in a swimming pool, and tiny children who had fallen victim to cot death, as their distraught mothers screamed uncontrollably. I have had to tell an old lady, that her husband of 50 years has gone, and seen the loss in the expression on her face. I have picked up the bodies of suicides, having found them still hanging, smashed into pavements after jumping from buildings, or cut to pieces under moving trains. I have watched people struggle to cling to their last few moments of life; the desperation, and fear of the unknown, discernible in their wide-eyed stares.

There have been the tragi-comic deaths. The man dressed in his wife’s clothes, dying as he masturbated, found by his confused and disgusted family. The overweight man who died as he made love to a prostitute, so heavy on top of the woman, she was still struggling underneath him, as we arrived to help. An elderly lonely man, dead on his bed next to a partially deflated, garish blow-up doll, as well as the auto-erotic asphyxiations, once a common find. A dead alcoholic, his cat sitting on his head, looking for all the world like a fur hat. The one constant with these deaths, the victims always died alone. To some extent, everyone does.

Then there are the places of death. Emaciated junkies, crammed into toilet cubicles, the needle still in their arms. Toilets are surprisingly popular places for people to die. It seems strange, until you realise that urgent bodily functions often precede a demise. Vagrants are often found dead in large refuse containers, having crawled in there to escape the weather. Stairwells are also a common place to die. Murder victims lie in them, drug users hide in them, and victims of crime are pursued into them. Roads and traffic provide their allotted share of bodies. Mangled in the wreckage, or struck at speed, catapulted along the tarmac. Cyclists’ bodies wedged under trucks, youngsters under buses, all dead the same. Stranger’s bedrooms, canal banks, inside supermarkets, in a crowded tube train carriage, or in the middle of a busy building site. There is nowhere that someone will not die.

There are good and bad weeks. I recall one early shift where the first three jobs all dealt with a dead body of some sort. Our colleagues joked that we should swap the ambulance for a hearse and carry a scythe, like the Grim Reaper. There could be a period of as long as a few days when you did not deal with a death, though that was rare. This was balanced by other incidents, where one job would provide multiple deaths. Mainly because of where I worked, I had some contact with many of these. The Hyde Park bombing, 11 soldiers killed, and many horses too. Harrods bombing, 6 killed. Ladbroke Grove train crash, 31 killed, as well as hundreds terribly injured. To a lesser, or in one case, greater degree, I was at the scene of these incidents, and dealt with all this death, as best as I could.

There are many deaths that fade from memory, and others that can be recalled with ease. The sight of a man sprawled in a chair, with a large knife protruding from his chest, or what was left of a man’s face after he had shot himself with a large-calibre pistol; things like that are easily remembered. If you stay in the job long enough, you start to identify with some deaths. They begin to get closer to your age, and you discover, perhaps for the first time, a real sense of your own mortality. If you are 27 years old, and a man in front of you is dying, and he is 60, you think he is getting on a bit, and has had a fair run at life. As you approach 50, you start to see yourself lying there, like looking in a mirror. One third of my life spent looking at death.

It was time to go.

Is it any wonder that people say I am grumpy, and easily depressed? 🙂

Two domestic days

~ beetleypete ~ 2 Comments

This post is by way of a diary entry for me, something to look back on. With this in mind, I fear that it will have little interest to readers. So, you are warned.

The last two days have centred around the house. Yesterday, we had a multi-fuel burner installed. A steel cabinet with a glass door, resting on a black glass base. From the top, a large metal chimney passes through the ceiling, continues into the loft, and finally exits out of the roof. This may not seem to be a very big deal. However, we have a featureless bungalow, built in 1979, devoid of any interesting architectural quirks, or points of interest. Basically, a large, oblong box, divided into some rooms. The living room is more than adequate in size, with windows to the front and side, and it is a comfortable space, more than big enough for two of us, and a dog. Except for a large LED TV in the corner, it has no focal point, nothing to divide the room, or to draw the eye. We have an almost new central heating system, fuelled by oil, and it works well enough to heat the whole house; so why go to the considerable expense of installing this incongruous stove?

Fire, that’s why. It is a primaeval urge to have fire, to watch it, be near it, feel the heat on your cheeks. The flames can mesmerise like nothing else,  the feeling of contentment and well-being it imbues is priceless. The whole house benefits from this comparatively small burner, and the heat from it is not drying, or static-inducing, as more modern systems can be. Despite the sealed door, there is the smell of burnt wood, and the reverie induced by warmth and flame cannot be replicated. Tonight, I managed to get it burning well quite early, and by 9pm, both Julie and the dog had succumbed to deep sleep. Money well spent, I reckon.

The other necessary job tackled today involved getting the ladder out, and working outside. As it was not raining this morning, and despite high winds, was a pleasant, bright day, this was a welcome prospect. The proximity of two large oak trees to our house, results in a great deal of fallen leaves every autumn. Many of these clog the gutters, along with the moss that forms on the modern roof tiles. So, a few times during this season, they must be cleared. A trowel in hand, I climb the ladder, and do this with relative ease. As it is a bungalow, height is not really an issue, and it is just a question of doing the three sides with guttering, as well as the large shed, and garage. As I was out there anyway, I also cleared a lot of leaves from the front, much to Ollie’s enjoyment, as he thought it was all a great game.

Two days spent with things domestic. Not too bad at all.

 

 

Thanksgiving

~ beetleypete ~ Leave a comment

I would like to say ‘Happy Thanksgiving’ to all my American ‘Blog friends’. As you probably know, we do not celebrate this tradition in England. At least not yet, though I am confident it will be imported one day soon; to sit alongside baseball caps, Mac Donald’s, Starbucks, and all those other must-haves from across the Atlantic.

Enough of carping. Enjoy your turkeys, and whatever else you eat. Visit your relatives, across huge distances unfathomable in this small country, and I hope you like your presents.

That’s it, a nice short post to give you my regards from a rainy and windy Norfolk. (England that is, not the one in Virginia, that was named after this one).