Village life

In an excellent, recently published book of old photographs and comments on life long ago in our village, there is one description which stands out from all the rest.

The author, a well respected shop owner and friend, mentioned that: -

'There are a number of villages in the vicinity that have no shops at all. Closed shops converted to residential use are frequently required by planning legislation to retain their plate glass display windows.

The reason for this token to a shop-like facade is only known to the authorities, but there is a loss of heat and privacy for the occupants and the practice clearly highlights a village in decline'

Give that man a Knighthood! He understands everything our failed politicians want to disregard.

My three kids

The awful story coming from Portugal, and of course, the continuing sad news from Afghanistan and Iraq, keeps bringing me back to an article and a poem entitled My Three Kids, by Lieut. Robert Stewart Smylie, which I read in the Daily Telegraph recently.

I’ve lost the cutting, but the original can be found on the Imperial War Museum’s site, and the article with it.

Here’s the poem.

I am writing this tonight, My three kids
By a little candle-light, My three kids
And the candlestick’s a tin
With some dry tobacco in
And so that’s how I begin, To three kids

Now I wonder what you’re at, My three kids
Moll and Bids and little Pat, My three kids
Why of course there’s two asleep
But perhaps Moll’s thinking deep
Watching little starts that peep, At my kids

Since I left you long ago, My three kids
There’s a lot you’d like to know, My three kids
That has happened to your dad
In the varied luck he’s had
In adventures good and bad, My three kids

I have soldiered in a trench, My three kids
Serving under Marshall French, My three kids
Once a shell dropped with a thud
Quite close, covered me with mud
And its lucky ‘twas a dud, For my kids

And I’ve crossed the ground outside, My three kids
It’s at night that’s chiefly tried, My three kids
And the bullets sang all round
Overhead, or struck the ground
But your daddy none has found, No my kids

I have mapped our trenches new, My three kids
And some German trenches too, My three kids
I have sprinted past a wood
Counting steps, for so I could
Judge the distance, as I should, My three kids

I have placed our snipers where, My three kids
On the Germans they could stare, My three kids
And they killed their share of men
Quite a lot for snipers ten
From their little hidden den, My three kids

And I’ve slept in bed quite warm, My three kids
But I haven’t taken harm, My three kids
When upon the ground I lay
Without even straw or hay
In the same clothes night and day, My three kids

When they sent us back to rest, My three kids
Then they seemed to think it best, My three kids
To send on your dad ahead
To discover where a bed
Could be found, or some old shed, My three kids

And new officers were trained, My three kids
And the men we’ve lately gained, My three kids
And while that work was in hand
I was second in command
Of B Coy and that was grand, My three kids

But it didn’t last all through, My three kids
There was other work to do, My three kids
When they made me adjutant
I was busy as an ant
And its not much catch, I grant, My three kids

I have ridden on a horse, My three kids
Captured from a German force, My three kids
And I’ve marched and crawled and run
Night and day in rain and sun
And shall do it till we’ve won, My three kids

And I’d rather be with you, My three kids
Yet you know I’m lucky too, My three kids
Lots of men I used to know
Now are killed or wounded, though
I remain, and back I’ll go, To my kids

And I hope you’ll all keep well, My three kids
Just as sound as any bell, My three kids
And when this long war is done
We shall have some glorious fun
Moll and Bids and little son, My three kids

R Stewart Smylie
Lieut 1st R.S.F.
In the field
19/11/15

Ankle

One of the main parts of my job, is finding new development sites. Much of my time is spent propping up bars with other developers and agents, as well as builders and engineers etc. All painful stuff, but I'm getting used to it after several years, and so is my liver.

As I know London pretty well, I spend much of my time up there, and as His Grice The Mayor, Ken Livingstone charges dosh (our profits), just to drive a car there, I often 'do' and area on foot.

Yesterday was no exception, and I spent several very happy hours, wandering about Southwark, poking my nose in alleyways, peering over walls, writing on an envelope, and staring at nothing in particular, hoping for some revelation as well as staying out of the pubs for once...

There are some marvellous buildings there, and scope for several others, and much of the time, my face is upturned, ignoring the road hazards, wandering like a cloud, and enjoying a beaming existence in brilliant sunshine.

So, to all the many folk who were in the vicinity of The Tate Modern around lunchtime yesterday, and who spotted a late middle aged gentleman, dressed in jeans and a blazer, trying to hop onto a kerb, turning his ankle painfully, and shrieking in pain...

Thanks a bunch for ignoring me, and thanks for not noticing me yell "BUGGER"!

Time

For the benefit of all the kind souls who will undoubtedly write in and gently tell me where the timeline was going wrong...

I've solved it!

Now, where's that blasted camera...

Answers..thanks..etc

All explained in the last post but one!

(Thinks...'Why didn't I do this in the last post...')

(Thinks... 'And why is the clock showing yesterday...its today now...')

I'm not the vagrant...

I'm not an estate agent...

I'm not an estate agent...

I'm not an estate agent...

I'm not rich enough!

Confused...

Still working on this blog...

Something seems wrong when I try to sign anything...

Hmmm...