Saturday, August 12, 2017

First bath for forty years

Went on holiday recently and the bathroom had no shower so I had my first bath for about forty years.
Had forgotten how relaxing it can be wallowing in a tub full of warm water.  But getting in was not easy I hadn't worked out the logistics of sitting down in the bath when my knees refuse to bend sufficiently, however I managed it without creating a tidal wave.

Getting out again also required a great deal of thinking about before it was achieved.  I managed eventually.  Yes it was nice, but I don't think I will do it again.

Difficult to remember when baths transitioned into showering.

There were no showers when I was young and when we were evacuees during the war there were often no  baths either so it was off to the public baths. Slipper baths they were called then and I have no idea why. The towels supplied at the public baths were called huckaback, I have no idea about that either but I do know that they were linen, a bit like a tea towel with no drying capacity so you often walked home almost as wet as when you had got out of the bath.

We had no bath in our first home when we were married so it was like going back to childhood days and the slipper baths. They were still using huckabacks so we took our own towels.


Monday, July 31, 2017

In Flanders field

July 2017 marks the centenary of the Third battle of Ypres  By most definitions one of the bloodiest and controversial of all the dreadful battles of the First world war  By November the battle had gained very little for the allies but had cost the lives of close to a quarter of a million men, with debatably a similar number of German soldiers.

We shall be visiting the Tyne Cot Cemetery this October which is one of the largest of the Ypres salient. It contains the graves of 11,961 British and Commonwealth soldiers including close to 600 Australians, 450 Canadians and close to 200 from New Zealand. There is an astonishing number 8373 graves of men whose names are not known and whose headstone bears the inscription "A soldier of the great war.  Known unto God"   

There were over thirtyfive thousand men who were  never found or identified, most lost in the mud. Their names, including that of our grandfather Frederick Feston, at least are known and  are inscribed on a memorial wall 150 metres long.


War cemeteries like Tyne Cot are never easy to visit. They are not places of possible quiet contemplation like many a village churchyard in England.  The serried rows of stark white headstones appearing to stretch into the distance defy any attempt to view them without emotion even though they record events which occurred a century ago.





Friday, June 9, 2017

A Soldier's Wife

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My Maltese great grandmother Liberatta Xerri was what is now called an army wife.
In 19th century Malta her policeman husband died leaving her to fend for herself and two young children, one of whom was born after her husband had died.
She later married Thomas Anson a private in the Kings Liverpool regiment and went with him ti India leaving her two young daughters in the care of her mother in Malta.
No married quarters, wives shared the barrack rooms with the soldiers with only a blanket draped around the bed space at night.
When the regiment moved between stations it was mostly on foot and the wives and children walked as well.  
During four years in India the regiment covered a thousand miles on foot. No transport except occasionally pregnant wives could get a lift on a baggage cart, but that was actually against regulations.
If you would like to read the story it is on Amazon http://amzn.eu/fPYRKKS

Friday, May 5, 2017

Kindness is alive and well and can be found on a Virgin train.

Arrived at Euston station last night on our way back from Slovenia just too late to catch the fast train to warringon.  Instead of waiting an hour for the next one we decided to catch a slower train but which was leaving shortly.  It was a bad decision as by the time we were on board we realised that the unreserved seats were all taken and the carriages crowded and over full.
After struggling for a while I was finding it difficult to carry the suitcase any further through the train in the hope of a seat.
A young man, say mid thirties, saw our plight and offered to carry our suitcase back through the train to find a seat in the first class compartments  "I'll sort you something out " says he.  He led the way, pushing against the flow of people still trying to work their way forward in the forelorn hope of a nonexistent seat.
Eventually we got to an almost empty first class compartment and took a couple of seats and it was only then that we realised he was a passenger as well, not railway staff.

After the first stop the train conductor came along and we showed our tickets.  He said that we would have to leave the compartment or pay extra fare.  We were still too tired to argue and asked how much extra he wanted for us to remain where we were.  He said that it would be 80 pounds each which was more than we had paid for the return tickets in the first place.

The young man who had brought us along then intervened.  "That is ridiculous.  With all these empty seats why are you insisting that they go back along the train.  If they have to go, then you carry their bag.  I carried it here so I know how difficult I was for them."  The cunductor replied that their where now plenty of seats. The young man responded, "Well I have a reserved seat in the first carriage, before they move, perhaps you could go through to the front to see if my seat is unoccupied,"
There was just a little bit of edge coming into the conversation when another voice joined in.  A younger man seating with a female companion called out "I will pay for them".  He came forward with his wallet in his hand and " I can't believe that you are even thinking of asking this couple to move knowing how crowded the train is.  I saw haw this chap was helping them and it restores some of my faith in human nature.  So I will pay for all three."

I am normally a sentimental bloke but all this moved me to tears.

We did not hear how this ended.  It appeared that the conductor relented and moved on down the train without taking any money, but the magnificent gesture had been made.

No doubt the ticket collector has his job to do, but Virgin trains collect enough revenue to allow their staff some discretion on overcrowded trains.

We allowed our Samaritans to go without thanking them properly, but they know who they are and I think they know how grateful we were, not just for the assistance but for the generosity of spirit which inspired the gestures.

Friday, April 21, 2017

What we learned doing National Service

National Service - what we learned



Every now and again after some particular outrage by a young person, student, hoodie, longhair  or what have you, then some armchair ex-colonel or even someone more important like a former Lance Corporal,  will come out of the woodwork and suggest that National Service should be re-introduced instead of sending young men to university.

I have been thinking of writing a book about my National Service days sixty odd years ago, and will call it something like "Learned to drive and learned to skive".   Haven't got round to it yet but when I do......

The Chapters will include:


How to pretend to be busy by carrying a clipboard

When in a barracks, walk quickly looking straight ahead so that it would appear that you have some purpose and remember to walk around the parade ground and not across it.

All the verses of  bawdy rugby songs, even if you have never played rugby.

Swearing  in Arabic, 

 How to darn socks

Marching without kicking the heels of the guy in front so that a whole platoon is not brought down like a row of dominoes.( Never really mastered that one)

Spend long hours doing nothing either on your bed or in the Naafi if there was money left.

If it stands still paint it, if it moves salute it.

Play brag and solo whist

Get drunk, if you can afford it on ten Bob a week

Smoke by buying five Woodbines at a time.

Fire a rifle, sten gun and pistol (not a revolver!)

And most importantly....

Bite your tongue when being given orders by jumped up little squirts with upper-class accents and no brains.





Tuesday, April 18, 2017

Fall out for a smoke


We live near a large block of modern flats and we can see some of the mainly younger residents standing outside smoking because it is not allowed inside the building.  Makes you realise how determined a smoker has to be these days.
I didn't start smoking until I was eighteen and only then when I was called up for my National Service in the army.  After almost any training activity, there was an order "Fall out for a smoke|". Well not exactly an order but it seemed like it.  Not that I could really afford to smoke on the thirty bob a week we got in the army, less deductions of course. It was always a toss up as to wether yu bought a packet of cigarettes or a couple of pints in the Naafi.
Fags though were relatively cheap and you could even buy a packet of five Woodbines.  The fags could also last longer because they had no filter tips and more often than not there wasn't time to finish before being told to fall in again.  All part and parcel of the military mind of course.

Still  as I said today's smokers need to be persistent, although at today's prices I cant imagine how anyone on the minimum wage can afford to smoke and as for the young women, why do they do it?
I recall that the late Dave Allen was of the opinion that "kissing a girl who smokes is like licking an ashtray."  Still he was a former chainsmoker who had given up so was probably biased.  Cant say if he was right or not as its a long time since I kissed a smoker.

Monday, October 3, 2016

To the woods

I am not sure why, but if I think of the countryside these days I don't visualise rolling fields and all that, but of woods.
Perhaps I was because woods figured quite a bit as a young evacuee from the east end of London living in Surrey.
There were woods on the way when we made our weekly visit to the school allotment to grow vegetables to be brought back for school dinners. In the autumn we went into the woods to gather up sackfulls of leaves to be dug into the ground in the pre-winter digging.
The same woods skirted the edge of the park where we went to play and roam.  In the summer time there was an old tramp living in a kind of shelter in the woods, cooking over an open fire.  We used to spend time talking to him and he spoke of his travels to places we had never heard of like Birmingham and Manchester.  He was cooking a hedgehog one day wrapped in a layer of clay and offered us a taste insisting that it tasted just like rabbit.  I was not game to try it, but my mate did and said that he like it. One day we asked if he was a swagman as we used to sing "Waltzing Matilda
There were also woods up on the South Downs where we went to gather rose hips on a school expedition.  I assume the school was paid for our endeavours, we weren't but it was an afternoon out and some of the older boys and girls disappeared into the woods whilst the younger ones carried on working.
There was a different kind of wood above the river Wey at St. Catherine's mount. It was actually a small bamboo plantation at the back of a big house.  It was quite a climb up from the river level but it was worth it to be in this jungle where we could cut down canes with our penknives (all boys owned penknives then) to be used as arrows in the incessant war with boys from the neighbouring school.

All highly dangerous stuff which is frowned on today and yet there were not that many accidents. The only one I can clearly recall was when we were on the allotment and throwing garden forks like javelins and I managed to spear a boy through the foot with a misaimed fork.  He was carted off to hospital, not by ambulance but on the teacher's bike.  And don't recall any repercussions on me, perhaps it was all part of life, after all there was a war on and worse things were happening.
If you think about it, in many school sports which are encouraged today like boxing and rugby there is more chance of injury than of being speared through the foot by a garden fork