Hooptedoodle #505 - Riches Beyond the Dreams of Aberystwyth

This is not going to be another whinge, but it's been a strange year. I have reached the point where reaction to new developments consists of taking careful notes and shaking my head from time to time.

The basic story is that my mother died at the end of last year, it took 5 months for the Sheriff Court to approve and "Confirm" her (unusually straightforward) will, and at present it has taken NS&I a further 6 months (and counting) to actually pay anything out. There is no point getting worked up about any of this - no doubt everyone is very busy, and it will be settled as soon as they can manage [my head is shaking slowly]. I live in a state of Considered Limbo - I am not going to fret on any given day, but if a letter from NS&I were to arrive I should be interested.

In July I received a letter I wasn't expecting. NS&I had unearthed another Savings Account that I had never heard of, so I had to complete a new form, and they would start work on this new complication. Righto - I was confident the extra account would be worthless, but I was interested - what on earth was it?

Well, I worked out what it was. My sister was mentally handicapped, and received Incapacity Benefit (or whatever it was called) - long ago my mother used to take her to the local Post Office on a Monday, and cash was paid out. At some point  this arrangement stopped. Benefits would now be paid by transfer into a bank account. Legally, my sister did not have capacity to own anything, so my mum set up a National Savings Ordinary Account in her own name, and from then on the visits to the Post Office stopped and it was all done by internet banking. These savings accounts were closed in 2004 and, whatever the replacement arrangements were, my sister passed away in 2013. Since I never heard of this extra account previously, I have assumed that my mother would have cleared it years ago.

Anyway, I've been waiting for a letter about it - I mean, you never know...

Well, yesterday I received two new envelopes from NS&I. You might describe my state as "calm but interested". One envelope was a letter giving details of this closed account, the other was a cheque payable to me for the princely sum of £4.34.

Fine - this is actually better than I expected, but I now have to come up with a scheme for paying in the cheque - preferably a scheme which does not cost me more than £4.34. Since the received wisdom is that such news comes in 3s, perhaps there may be another letter soon about the rest of the estate.

Probably not, I hear you say, so I shall shrug and return to my background vigil, head shaking a little. We are lucky to be so well looked after. Nothing to see here.

Hooptedoodle 504 - They're Definitely Trying to KIll Me

This is a photo of my current car. It may be the ugliest car I've ever owned, it is most certainly the cleverest. It is also probable that I may be the most stupid individual ever to drive one of these. At dinner, following the recent game at Stryker's, conversation briefly turned to the pressure inflicted on motorists by the latest technological solutions to problems we never even realised we had. This was all jocular and well-intentioned. I hadn't realised that my own car would have a louder laugh at my expense on the way home.

To put this in context, Stryker's home is in a small village in a very quiet area - the absence of light pollution is such that as I type this there may well be scientists in another galaxy, studying the place. I can tell you that after some initial uncertainty as to how the lights were working, I arrived at a road junction, close to the Front of Beyond, to find it was completely black - couldn't see a thing.

[1] What I did not say to myself, as I came to a stop somewhere close to where I thought the Give Way line might be, was, "oh gosh - of course, my car just had its first service a couple of days ago, and they must have switched off all the automatic driver aids - especially the lights. How silly of me not to have thought of this earlier; I shall switch the lights to AUTO at once - fortunately, I know where this control is..."

 [2] What I did say to myself was a loud and rather repetitive incantation concerning Holy Mary and her relationship to Our Saviour.

 However, the lights did go on, and - to maintain the religious theme - you could see for bloody miles. 

All right then - no marks for roadmanship, but the terror levels decreased abruptly. A focused learning experience, as we used to say at work, years ago.

Incident closed, then. Yes, except that this morning I went for a haircut, and the hairdresser told me that she has recently had the same adventure. In her case too it was the vehicle's first service, and - like me - she had never driven it without all the aids switched on. In her case the service was carried out by her local Volkswagen dealer, who also ran a routine software upgrade which seems to have failed. It occurs to me that this must be a situation which is less rare than I might have expected, and suggests that anyone who gets a modern car serviced should be left with a printed notice which says, "Servicing your vehicle required some changes to, or resetting of, driver aids which you may have come to rely on; recommend you check you can still drive the thing before you set off. Have a nice day." 

Describe the accident in your own words.

Never saw a bloody thing. 

Hooptedoodle #503 - Not a Sausage

I was up before 04:00 this morning. I must say I like this quiet time of the day, though I don't see it very often. Today's special occasion was a lunar eclipse, so I got myself wrapped up in sweater, dressing gown, warm socks and baseball cap, put on my fancy LED head-lamp and ventured out into the garden and the lane outside.

It was, and still is, as dark as - well, as night. It is raining fairly heavily, must be overcast (as evidenced by lack of stars) and is (I can confirm) foggy. Not even a glimpse of street lights from Dunbar, 7 miles away by seagull.

It's OK; I am not disappointed. This is another in a long line of events which I never saw - snapshots from a personal history which is notable mostly for its length. I did see the spectacular eclipse of the moon on 9th January 2001, and very fine it was. I had only recently moved out here from the city to the Front of Beyond, and the concept of zero light pollution was still new to me - I've never forgotten that occasion. Apart from that I have recent experience of invisible meteor swarms, and any number of failures to see the Aurora, though we have a north-facing beach within 300 yards of the house which is famous for sightings. 

I once waited up for most of a night, on a clifftop near that same beach, to see the new British (Anglo-French?) aircraft carrier sail past, and I think I saw something large and dark passing in front of the lights of Pittenweem, so I have that down as a possible. Otherwise many years of no-shows. I walked across several farms to see the Red Arrows flying overhead on their way from Norfolk to Edinburgh, and they were cancelled. A long list of expected events - some of them very prestigious and historic - which ultimately served only as an excuse for a cup of coffee in the middle of the night. Like the inauguration of Pope Hilarius I, these things all passed me by.

I don't take it personally, I sort of expect it now - it has become almost reassuring, something I can rely upon, so that's all fine. When I think about it, I went out tonight to see the natural wonder which is non-appearance of the moon, and that is what I got. To celebrate, I was going to include a music video of Dominic Miller's Eclipse, of which I am very fond. However, I decided on this one, the title being probably a more accurate statement of what I actually saw tonight; this is Julie London singing No Moon at All, in 1955, accompanied by Barney Kessel, with Ray Leatherwood on bass and that's it. The song was composed by David Mann, with lyrics by Redd Evans, though the chord progression may well have been influenced by Chopin:

I've had my coffee - may as well get dressed now. I have things to do. Can't hang around here, blethering.

Hooptedoodle #502 - The Bigliest Attack Since WW2

I've gradually developed an alternative lifestyle in which I avoid listening to the news, and subjecting myself to Official Lies about the world in which we have to live. There are still a few handy escape hatches - I've always been a big football fan, for example.

Well, not so fast. Having just about survived the dodgiest World Cup in history, I find the escape hatches are getting a little blurred. That nice Mr Infantino's Great New Idea to open up control of football competitions to the highest-bidding influencer seems to have hit the buffers for the moment, thank goodness, but there was a spectacular windfall lined up for the Kushner family (who must know at least as much about football as they do about international diplomacy and crypto), so I expect the US Supreme Court to be involved in an appeal any minute now.

On balance, I think I should play it safe and avoid sports news too. My life is getting quieter, that's for sure - I found I suddenly had a lot of spare time after the World Cup ended. I have a couple of bottles of Schloss Schadenfreude stored away, waiting for some exciting new changes - I even put a bottle of decent Prosecco in the fridge recently, in hopes that the Orange Lard Barrel may self-destruct in the near future, but I guess I won't hear about it now. Not to worry - it seems likely that the OLB will insist on taking us all down with him. Keep me posted, if you will - if I don't hear anything in 6 months I'll just drink it anyway.

In moments when I forget to concentrate on nothingness, I wonder what can possibly be wrong with these people? Ignorant nihilists who worry about who has the biggest wedge - I obviously missed something along the way.

Never mind. All the best, chaps.

Hooptedoodle #501 - pipistrellus pipistrellus

Here in South East Scotland we have not had such extreme heat problems as elsewhere in the UK, the drought conditions have been helped by the occasional downpour, and the fact that in a sparsely-populated county like ours there is little chance at present of the imposition of a hosepipe ban. The World Cup required me to watch (or listen to) live matches at strange times like 1am, usually in pretty warm conditions up in the attic, so I beebled about in a state of constant jet-lag for a while.

Nature took the opportunity to muscle in as well; Brian the Roof Man was here about 2 weeks ago to fix some broken slates, and repair some cracks in the harling (that's probably pebbledash to you?), and he was chased off the premises by clouds of wasps. Stephen the Wasp Man arrived a day later and exterminated 5 separate nests from our roof. Sadly, he had to come back because he'd missed one, so chalk up 6. Five had been a record, but it didn't last long.

 

We assured Brian the Roof Man that we weren't much bothered by wasps - he reported back fairly quickly that we were mistaken. This is a library photo - the idea comes across well, I think

Never experienced wasps in such numbers. Stephen tells some good tales of his work, complete with the necessary tingle of Gothic awfulness. Apparently wasp behaviour has changed a bit in Scotland in recent years; changes in the climate mean that we now get some species which used to be unknown here. One of the significant incomers is a small (but persistent) German strain, which is quite happy to build a nest right next to an existing live nest, a practice which was generally verboten previously.

Since the heat has diminished a bit, waking and eating times have settled down and we are disposing of relatively few walking wounded in the wasp department, so the evenings are much more acceptable now. I've even got back to trying to do some reading, and a little music practice.

Anyway, I was reading in bed last night (Richard Feynman - laugh if you will); at about midnight the Miles Davis album I was listening to (Milestones) ended and I was puzzled to hear a rustling noise. Maybe it was from the curtains - I wasn't sure - maybe I had imagined it, or it was just the timber roof cooling down. I carried on reading for about another 10 minutes and then a bat flew across the room and settled on the wall above the door. I wasn't terrified (of course), but past instances of this sort of thing have usually banished sleep until further notice. You have to try to avoid thinking in terms of having a room that you can't use any more...

What to do? I reasoned that if I turned out the room light and opened the Velux roof light then a sensible bat would just fly out without thinking twice. So that's what I did. It worked, but there were a couple of panic breaks when the thing started to fly round and round in the limited space - they are very fast, extremely ugly, totally silent. They will not bump into you (or they shouldn't), but these circuits of the room bring on moments of mindless terror. Oh yes, and they bump repeatedly into mirrors, glazed pictures, the TV screen - just saying.  

 

pipistrellus pipistrellus - again, this is not my photo - I didn't have the resources or the detachment to get a photo of my own; this shows a specimen flying about in a more suitable environment, apparently in daylight, and a long way from me

I got the window open (in near-darkness) and Batty sat on the frame for a moment - I nudged him with my wasp-basher and he flew outside - window was closed without further incident. Pulse returned to normal levels some time afterwards. I have no idea how it got in - maybe it flew in somewhere else and made its way to the top of the house; maybe it came in when the window was open on a hot day and has been sleeping there ever since. I don't like this last idea much, especially since that means there will be messy evidence somewhere. 

As far as I can see this morning everything seems clean and tidy, and satisfactorily bat-proof, so I have to assume it visited only briefly. I'm sure it was more scared than I was, in which case it was pretty scared. Thinking about it, we have had a number of bat episodes over the years, but I think the last time we had one in that particular attic room must have been around 2001. I was a lot braver and faster in those days, but I do remember it surprisingly clearly. 

 

 

Hooptedoodle #500 - Oddie Man Out?

 I am sorry to note that Bill Oddie, entertainer and birdwatcher, has died. I confess I did not know a great deal about him, I found his TV persona in his later years a bit cute for my taste, but he was a major contributor to the popularity of birdwatching in the UK, and the author of two very good books on the subject which we have handy on our kitchen dresser, so overall he was a good guy, and I certainly offer my respects and regret at his passing.

That's really all I wanted to say about Mr Oddie - I am sure that there will be many tributes elsewhere.

Mention of him and his birding interests reminds me of a very silly old story about my Dad, from years ago. My father could become unreasonably obsessed over things which he personally found interesting, but he treated other people's interests (and abilities) in a dismissive sort of way. For him, birdwatching was somewhere in the middle; he found the birds themselves quite diverting, but disliked what he regarded as the "sort of people" who typically spent their time in the field studying the things. Especially, of course, if their expertise dwarfed his own.

The story, then. Because of some of his other personal characteristics, he, my mother and my handicapped sister, every year for maybe 10 years, used to take a holiday in a very isolated cottage on the Isle of Gigha, which is somewhere near Kintyre (if you care). I saw many of his photos, and heard at huge length how the place was idyllic, being almost completely deserted; strangely, you might think, my exposure to this has resulted in my never having had any wish at all to visit there, though I'm sure it's lovely.

The particular incident in the story must have taken place some Autumn in the 1990's. My dad went out for a walk on his own, to the next bay, while my mother and sister prepared the evening meal. While he was walking along, in his big boots and ancient waterproof jacket, armed with his enormous ex-Russian army Zeiss-rip-off binoculars, he suddenly found that there were thousands of very large brown birds sitting all over the sand hills on the next bay. It is likely that they might have been Pink-Footed Geese on an Autumn migration - I wouldn't know.

He was very impressed by the sight - it was getting too dusky for a photo, so he watched them for a minute or two, and then clapped his hands, loudly, twice to watch them fly away. Then he discovered that many dozens of people in strange outdoor clothing were rising to their feet from behind gorse bushes, sand dunes, clumps of coarse grass; some of them were shouting, some waving their fists, all  of them were very displeased, and a few were heading his way. It seems that many enthusiasts come to this isolated spot at this time of year, in the hope of seeing this life-affirming event.

He must have been having an unusually sensible day; he scarpered, round a headland, and eventually got back to the cottage, a bit late for supper. To be fair about it, he used to tell this tale at his own expense ever after, while my mum rolled her eyes and shook her head.

Oops.

A further digression follows. In those days Gigha was privately owned. The owner of the island was reputed to be a bit eccentric, and he used to manage the letting of the cottages himself. One year, in his desperation to ensure he managed to book a cottage in August or September, Dad contacted the owner (by letter, of course) around February time. The owner wrote back, very politely, and thanked him for his repeat business, but explained that he was not intending to open the holiday cottage books until the beginning of April, so he would get back in contact when that happened. He also assured my dad that he would be allocated a cottage in August.

Dad couldn't cope with not having the deal finalised, and fretted about it (driving my mum bananas, of course), and then started sending weekly letters to the owner, demanding that a formal booking be completed NOW. This went on for a number of weeks (the number varied, depending whom you asked), until the owner sent another letter - still very polite - saying that enough was enough and that my Dad and his family were now permanently off his customer lists.

Oops.

The geese and the birdwatchers were probably quietly pleased. The Isle of Gigha was later the subject of a Community Buy-Out financed by National Lottery and the Highlands & Islands Enterprise. I have no idea where the former owner now spends his own holidays.

Hooptedoodle #499 - Yet More Family Archives

My mother died in November last year. I've had in my possession some boxes of her private papers for a few years; I've been looking after them for her. Now that she definitely does not want them back, it's time to take a deep breath and sort out what's there.

I have done some preliminary tidying up a little while ago. I threw out masses of wedding photos of complete strangers (usually the children of my mother's work colleagues), greetings cards to and from people I never heard of. There still remains a stack of assorted birth certificates and so on, which I shall have a look through.

Also in there is a parcel of unfinished family research which was carried out by my late cousin, Dave. Sadly - as is often the case - Dave started on this project after he found out he was terminally ill, once he was no longer working; he achieved a lot, and I shall be interested to have a nose through what is there, and reduce some of it to short notes for my own information. The thing to remember is that nobody actually cares any more; I've tried to pass on some family history to my own sons in the past, and they were polite about it, but very obviously weren't interested!

I hope to have a fascinating few weeks trawling through Dave's final efforts. One thing I found quickly was some information about yet another unknown soldier in the archives, Lt Col Ralph Hindle (originally from Chorley in Lancashire), who commanded the 4th Bn of the Loyal North Lancs Regt and was killed at Cambrai on 30th Nov 1917. I reckon he was my maternal grandmother's uncle (or maybe second-cousin) - my maternal grandmother being the infamously eccentric Preston Grannie who is quoted here now and then. I never heard of him before, anyway.

The Loyal North Lancs had rather a convoluted history - I think the 4th Bn may formerly have been a Territorial formation - no doubt I'll find out more as I get into the paperwork. The family were mostly Lancashire people - Dave learned quite quickly from his research that a great many of the Hindle males were named John or Ralph, and the females were usually named Mary or Alice (or both), so some care and attention to dates of birth is required to sort out who was who. Again - quite apart from war casualties - when you look at family details it is astonishing how high a proportion of the children died in infancy in the late 19th and early 20th Centuries in Northern industrial towns. Hmmm.

I have tidied everything back into a single box for the moment - there are hundreds of old photos in there, so I'll need to get very organised. 

 

 

Hooptedoodle #498 - It Was Only a Matter of Time

It seems that the Almighty Festering Lard Barrel has decided to interfere in the World Cup. Well of course he has; what took him so long? 

He truly is an inspiration to us all. I'm writing to the US Supreme Court this afternoon, to see if they would like to review a few VAR offside decisions from Scotland's brief involvement in the competition. It must be worth a shot, you would think?

Hooptedoodle #497 - In the Garden Again

 Just a quick postscript to my last post - things are sprouting and flowering and all that. Here are just a few additional photos.

 

An old friend, always welcome; our white lilac, Madame Lemoine, is a lovely thing, but you have to be quick to catch it at its best - not quite in full flower yet, but the first heavy shower will wreck it!

 

Vigorous signs of being ready to go again - our Cotinus is a bit of a monster (in a very nice way)

 

The little red apple tree (with red blossom, and red fruit with bright red flesh) is looking good. The dry summer last year gave us quite a lot of apples, but they were small and as tough as conkers - I hope the wasps enjoyed them...

 

Appropriate alpines have been planted in the pockets in the old herb garden - I have a little spreadsheet which tells me what they all are...

 

 

...to keep the Professor happy, they are (from the far end round to the left): dianthus (Inchriach Dazzler); arenaria (montana); armeria (maritima Deep Rose); sedum (Cape Blanco); campanula (Blue Clips); oxalis (adenophylla); phlox (McDaniel's Cushion); Delosperma (Table Mountain); erodium (Bishops Form) 

 

Hooptedoodle #496 - Got to Get Ourselves back to the Garden

 It's a year since we planted our brave new shrubbery on the site of the legendary Roland's Hedge (which was wrecked in a storm so long ago that I now can't remember which one). The flowering shrubs have come on well, so now we have reached the time for Phase 2 of the Roland's Hedge Memorial Project - the planting of the perennials.

I've been looking forward to this, with just a faint buzz of apprehension. Planning has been thorough - Matty the Heroic Gardener put together a monster plan - words and pictures - of what we should get, and where it should go. All colour-coded and touched in with felt-tips - how big, what colours, when do the flowers appear - all of that. Nothing could possibly go wrong.

Planning is all well and good, but actually doing it is still a little scary. Well, it's been done - the days are accomplished.

 

I brought in a couple of loads of hardy perennials - for a week I kept them safely out of the wind, and watered them devoutly every morning

 

Then, last Tuesday, the great planting went ahead. At present, you have to look for the new wee fellows in among the shrubs, but it should all be a riot of colour when it gets established

 

We are still on a gentle watering every morning

 

We are keeping the gates closed at the moment - we have a history of passing deer coming in for a munch...

 

 

This is a further sub-project - we had some helleborus in pots at the top of the steps, and they took a beating during the recent monsoons and gales, so they have been moved to the old herb-garden. The flowers should be white, but are currently brown - let's see how this goes. Our herb-growing days are in the past, so some nice, tight little alpines will go in the pockets. The patio paving needs to be re-pointed - I regret this may have to be a forthcoming project too

 

We have a pieris (mountain fire) which was planted last year - they have a reputation for being easily discouraged by the cold, but it has done well. An interesting plant - the new leaf growth is red, which fades to green, so you get a good idea of how things are going

And, in tribute to my borrowed title for this post, here's a version you may not have heard before - Symphonic Joni:

I confess that I am more than a little shaken to realise that this late retrospective album of Joni's work (arranged and conducted by Vince Mendoza) was almost a quarter of a century ago. Next time, I promise myself, I'm going to try to pay more attention. 

 

Hooptedoodle #495 - Joseph Spence Revisited

I still own a lot of CDs, which I am told is very 1990s. I don't care - they are mine, and I love them (most of them), and I can play them whenever I like, in super quality, without asking anyone, without leaving my personal details all over the web and without watching someone's bleeping adverts.

Recently I've been making an effort to tidy things up a bit, get rid of stuff I don't want any more, spot old discs which are starting to degrade (and rescue them if possible, if it's worth it), and do some serious-quality rips that I can play in the car. I've had some interesting reunions with a number of voices from my past.

 

Joseph Spence

(1910-1984)

During this latest period of avoiding the news I spend a lot of time listening to Finzi, Ravel, Fauré and odd-bods like George Butterworth and John Jeffreys, so it was a bit of a culture shock to meet up again with Joseph Spence.

Joseph was a pipe-smoking stonemason in the Bahamas, who had a fearsome local reputation as a guitarist and entertainer. Word sneaked out in the late 1950s, when he was visited by collectors and the Folkways people and was recorded in his home. He became something of a celebrity, was recorded again, more professionally, and was booked for a tour in New York and Boston in 1964. This didn't go wonderfully well. His family were very religious, and did not approve of drinking or songs about inappropriate behaviour. Thus he was allowed to travel to the US only on the understanding that he was accompanied by two women members of his family, who monitored his behaviour very carefully, and appeared on stage with him, singing hymns. 

This is why you have probably never heard of Joseph, in the same context as you have probably heard of Blind Gary Davis, Mississippi John Hurt, Rosetta Tharp and others from those days. However, the fact remains that Joseph was a self-taught phenomenon - wildly gifted and completely unfiltered. His guitar playing is remarkable (he was a noted inspiration to Ry Cooder, Tommy Emmanuel and all sorts of people), and he sort-of sings along (deedle deedle), coughs and mutters his way through performances. Most importantly, his music is happy - it is very difficult not to smile at his work.

After the failure of the Newport Foundation tour, Joseph returned to live in peace in the Bahamas, and disappeared almost completely, though I am sure that he was still the life and soul of the spontaneous building-site parties, and that his sisters still disapproved of the rum. 

And I'm sure he wasn't a bit bothered.

 

 

Hooptedoodle #494 - Google AI Gives Us the Lowdown...

 A friend of mine - who must be remarkably short of things to think about - asked Google AI about my blog (this very one you are reading), and he sent me an extract from the reply, since he thought it would amuse me. At least I hope that is why he sent it.

Here it is:

Can't really protest too much about any of that, though I am maybe a little saddened by the perceived balance. It makes no direct reference to bullshit, for which I guess I should be grateful. You probably expect me to set about checking out all sorts of AI reports now, but no. 

Not going to.

Out of perversity, I asked Google AI to describe Google AI (yes, I used to watch Star Trek many years ago - I know how to upset robots). Disappointingly, the description read much more like a marketing push than an analysis - I shall not reproduce any of it. There is enough bullshit around already... 

Hooptedoodle #493 - Cherry Cake - They'll Never Believe It

As I get older and less receptive, I am saddened to note the increasing importance of Schadenfreude as part of my life mission.

Despite my better judgement, I spent some time yesterday watching highlights of US Attorney General Bondi's Congressional Reality Show on TV. American politics is really none of my business, but decency and the future of the planet are certainly worthy of focus.

If the facts are against you, argue the law. 

If the law is against you, argue the facts.

If the law and the facts are against you, pound the table and yell like hell

― Carl Sandburg

 

It seems to me that, years from today, people all over the world may remember that there was once a very strange woman who postured and smirked and overacted her way through a very serious, very noble and very visible forum, and committed the most public career suicide in history.

 

I can only assume that she is getting paid an awful lot of money and has the promise of a very big piece of cherry cake. I doubt whether anyone will remember her name.

 

Speaking of names, I have a little list of them, and I have a special bottle of wine put aside for Prizegiving Day. 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

Hooptedoodle #492 - The Business Model of the Souq - a little Xmas karma for me

 I hope anyone who reads this has had an enjoyable, relaxing Christmas period. We've had a very quiet spell - my mother passed away at the end of November, so things have been a bit distracted, but I'm very pleased that she had such a peaceful end, and I do not have much to discuss about that.

It would be wretched to come up with a miserable, Scrooge-like theme for a Xmas post, but I thought I'd share with you a small, recent personal triumph from among the extended tangle of my coping with the way business works these days.

Here are a couple of parables - the first one is obviously fiction, and silly fiction at that.

Parable A: An elderly man takes a sliced loaf to the checkout at his regular food supermarket. The checkout girl tells him the cost of this loaf is £3; the old chap protests that this is very expensive, and that he can get the same loaf for £1.58 at the local ASDA store. The girl says, "Well, we can't match that, but since you are a regular customer, you can have the loaf for £2".

The customer is not happy, but he can't be bothered going somewhere else for his loaf, so reluctantly pays the £2, and leaves, muttering. He feels that this doesn't seem very fair.

Parable B: The setting for this one is about a year ago. I received a renewal reminder and quotation for my car insurance, from a firm I have dealt with for many years, and was disappointed by how high it was. I contacted them, and pointed out that I could get the same cover for about half the cost from another provider. The customer service rep on the phone never missed a breath, and immediately reduced the quoted premium to a figure which was rather more than half of the original figure. No problem at all - they obviously expected people to phone up and haggle. I was pleased that I had reduced the cost, but the system seemed unfair - especially in a world where the possibility to shop around online has apparently removed any slight concern that not everyone has the opportunity to do such comparison, and may in any case not be inclined to waste so much effort on a routine transaction. This unfairness was emphasised to me last year since the same pantomime had been acted out the year before.

My insurance renews on 16th January, and, sure enough, the quotation for my insurance for 2026 arrived a week ago. The insurer (let us say, for the sake of the story, that they may be called Direct Line) requires me to pay £697 for the year; I realise that this is just them chancing their arm with an opening bid, in case I am daft enough to fail to notice, but I am well tired of this game. I have no wish to waste time and blood pressure phoning to negotiate.

Without contacting them, this year I have arranged identical cover, online, simply and quickly, from the mighty Automobile Association, no less, for the cost of £395. When the documents arrive, next week, I shall ask Direct Line to place their esteemed policy where the sun does not shine. I have, in fact, merely shuffled out into the modern world and shopped around, but it still stinks. 

A small matter, but gratifying. The world does not muck around with Scrooge McFoy, I can tell you. 

Hooptedoodle #491 - Fowl Play Suspected

 Invaded again. A couple of chickens from the other side of the farm steading were here today checking out our new squirrel-proof bird feeder, which may feature in a post soon. I went outside to discuss it with them, and they ran away. They are quick - not graceful, but quick.

 As long as they stay away from the power cables... 

Hooptedoodle #490 - Power Supply Management in the Post-Truth Age?

 

Last night I received a text message from our electricity supply company, apologising for frequent short outages over the last few months, and especially during 27th-30th Sept (?). This remarkable note explains that these are due to environmental situations such as trees touching overhead lines and cattle rubbing against electricity poles - yes - you did read that last bit correctly. They go on to state that they are going to build some fences and do some tree-trimming to address these problems.

 

Of course we have to be grateful, and one is keen not to say the wrong thing, but it seems there may be evidence of bulls making a bit of a mess as well. I would be more convinced if the lady on the supply company's helpdesk in Birkenhead hadn't told me a month ago that the problem seemed to be the supply being (automatically?) switched between areas at times of peak load. [We the customers have already done some investigation to check whether the outages coincided with time-switches turning on the big grain dryers on the local farms, which was interesting, though inconclusive.]

 

It also surprises me that cattle should rub against the poles at exactly 6:30am or 7pm each day - creatures of habit, obviously. I consider it unlikely that there are any livestock (apart from horses, which are fenced away from poles, and pigs, which are kept indoors) within 30 miles of here. Generally, I'd be more convinced if the note didn't read as if it were written by AI, or maybe Ms McOswald's class at the primary school.

Hooptedoodle #489 - It's a Living

 My compliments to Count Goya, who has outed me. He sent this evidence of my current gig in the real world. Well, in Fife, actually.

It isn't easy keeping things together when you are a a 250-year old retired general without a Skilled Worker visa. If you live near Kinghorn and you want a little plastering or light joinery work done, I might know someone. Cash only, please.  

Hooptedoodle #488 - Berries on the Whitebeam - Autumn May Be a Little Early This Year

 A bit earlier than usual, the Whitebeam trees at the bottom of our garden are coming into berry, which is always a cheering sight. This year, understandably, they look a bit parched to me. Usually these things are at their peak in mid September, when sometimes we get raided by flocks of Redwings, who just hoover the berries and move on; this is mysterious when it happens - we never see Redwings at any other time, in fact we hardly see them when they come, since they huddle into the trees and get busy, very early in the morning. If we are up early enough we will certainly hear them, but they are hard to spot; you just have a vague feeling that you have been robbed.

 

Whitebeam gets its name, I am told, from the fact that the leaves are very pale on the underside, so the tree seems to shimmer in a breeze. Weißbaum

 

Elsewhere the new hedge plants at the front are starting to look worryingly autumnal. I have put in many hours in the early mornings, trying to keep them watered (no hosepipe bans here), but they do not look happy at all. Perhaps they will be all right.

Tomorrow will be a very heavy day putting fresh gravel down on the driveway. It was delivered last Wednesday, and once again I am astounded by the skill of the driver, manoeuvring an 8-wheeler in through our gate, which is tricky enough in a car. I am pleased to note that the spray that I put down on the gravel area about 5 weeks ago has removed all the weeds in preparation for the big day. It takes a while (much longer than the old stuff, now illegal), but quietly we get there in the end.

 

Border Aggregates of Kelso - good lads. I had ideas about doing the job in instalments this year, but it's £50 delivery whether you get one bag or a load, so here it is!

 

 

 

***** Late Edit *****

 

 

And here we are, one day later - job done!

 

********************* 

 

  

Hooptedoodle #487 - A Taste for Alternative History

 This last week I took the opportunity to read the starter volume for the Very British Civil War. It has taken me a very long time to get round to this, and my interest is not because I have any particular wish to play the game; I just have a great fondness for what-ifs, how history might have been if the wind had blown the other way. What prompted my renewed interest was some other reading about the 1930s in Europe and (all right, I'll admit it) my watching, also after a very long delay, the movie The King's Speech.

 

The VBCW booklet is absorbing - a thorough, thought-provoking job - I do like my fantasy with detailed embroidery.

Right on cue, in the last few days, one Mr Huckabee, a man described without apparent irony as a diplomat, former Fox News host and current US ambassador to Israel, voiced his opinion that if Sir Keir Starmer had been the British leader during WW2, the United Kingdom would be German-speaking now. 

Maybe that's true, I have no idea; interesting. More alternative history. If we're playing this game, it also seems to me that if the present US Administration had been in charge in Washington in 1939, they would have been solidly aligned with the Axis, so WW2, if it had happened, would have been a walkover. Which means that Huckabee's current gig in Israel wouldn't have existed either; interesting.

 

Major rally of the German American Bund in Madison Square in Feb 1939 - maybe they didn't get a fair chance?

Möge sein Arsch eitern, as Anton Drexler used to say. 

Hooptedoodle #486 - Village Idiot? Land grab?

 One of our neighbours, on the far side of the farm hamlet (maybe 200 metres away) keeps chickens. We don't see much of them, unless we go for a walk down there, but we can hear the rooster crowing in the morning, which is very pleasant and just as it should be. Nature's alarm clock.

For the last couple of weeks we have a rooster in our garden too. He spends most of the day here. There's not much to eat, though there have been a lot of windfall plums this summer, and he has no friends here. He does no damage, as far as I can see; he likes to sit inside our front hedge - I imagine the shade has been welcome in the hot weather; he stalks about the place looking vaguely belligerent, and he seems to drift away home in the evenings. It is noticeable that he gets here early enough to welcome the dawn each day, which certainly wakes you up if you are not used to it.

I also noticed that I can still hear a rooster crowing on the other side of the village when our new friend is here, so there must be two roosters. Hmmm.

 I thought that roosters couldn't share a yard. A little inherited country lore and a lot of cartoon films have reinforced this belief over the years. Maybe that's what's happening? - perhaps he has been bested, humbled, chucked out (see what I did there?). Maybe he is sulking up here, or feels he has taken possession of a new yard (without wives). Perhaps, like me, he is here because he is a hermit. Maybe he is just happy here. 

 Any suggestions on the psychology of poultry would be welcome. He isn't a problem at the moment (though sometimes he does get sworn at in the mornings), and I am sort of assuming he will go away later in the year, but I have no valid reason to think this. He is quite a big, impressive looking chap, to my unpractised eye anyway. I would rather have him as a friend than otherwise.

There is drinking water for him; I'm reluctant to start putting food out for him, in case all his relations arrive. Should we be doing anything for him?