Snaps and Snippets

from 2013: the things you hear and the things you see.
By the way, the film The Gunman that was being filmed on Tower Bridge?
It was all a lie! When the 50th anniversary episode of Doctor Who aired I saw the helicopter flying around the bridge, carrying a superimposed Tardis. “I was there!” this Whovian exclaimed. All cloak and dagger stuff.

City Jackdaw

Well I had an idea about a post I was going to do on here about my recent trip to London. But everything has gone pear shaped due to me losing most of the photographs that I had taken on my phone.

Damn Gremlins.

Deep breaths.

Nostalgic thoughts of Polaroids.

So, instead, from what I have salvaged, I will just post the shots that I do have along with snippets of conversation heard along the way.

2013-09-07 09.04.02 (1)

Boudica hopping on.

2013-09-07 11.38.42

Buckingham Palace

Hi Millie, it’s Dad. I got that photograph of the Queen’s house for you.Was she there?No, she was putting her wheelie bins out around the back”. 

King Charles had a crane with a wooden leg“.

If you don’t like your personal space being invaded, do not go on the tube“.

2013-09-07 15.10.41

From St.Paul’s Cathedral

If you don’t like heights…

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Trying Not To Shout About The Sprouts

City Jackdaw followers may have seen my recent post about how, even in the midst of a national pandemic, the sprouts that we’d had for tea turned out to be the most disappointing thing, so far, of 2020.

Well today was the day of redemption. Or, to put it more accurately, today should have been the day of redemption.

For what day is it today?

Sunday.

And what do we eat on Sunday?

Why, Sunday lunch, of course.

It just so happened that this afternoon my wife’s mother was being discharged after a couple of days in hospital, and Jen was going with her father to pick her up.

“Keep an eye on those pans,” was her departing instruction to me, “when they start to boil turn them down.”

I think you know where this is going, don’t you? But there were mitigating circumstances.

Nine days ago Peter Sutcliffe, the man better known as The Yorkshire Ripper, died, having caught Covid-19 whilst still incarcerated for his crimes and refusing treatment. People of a certain age and geography will remember how his reign of terror paralysed the North of England as he struck in Leeds, Bradford, Manchester, Halifax, Huddersfield, Keighley and Silsden, before being finally caught in Sheffield.

And, coincidentally, as the news of his death broke (and was mostly celebrated), this book was already on its way to me:

And I was reading it while I was also on pan duty.

When they start to boil, turn them down

Well I remembered that much, and after putting my book down a couple of times to venture into the kitchen, found that both pans (one containing sprouts and the other mixed veg), were indeed starting to boil and so did as instructed.

Because the kitchen windows were steaming up, I opened the back door to let the air in, and then, to keep the cold draught out, closed the joining door behind me when I returned to the lounge.

It also kept out the smell of burning. Though Jen detected it as soon as she came home. Fancy that.

“What’s burning?”

“How do you mean?”

“Did you turn the pans down?”

“Yes,” I replied, thinking myself on safe ground.

We both went into the kitchen. Then it became a question of semantics.

“There’s no water in them!”

“They look okay.”

“They’re burnt.”

I peered in at the sprouts, picking up a fork to stir them around a little. “They’re not. Not all of them. Just the ones touching the bottom.”

“I gave you one job to do.”

“You told me to turn them down when they were boiling, which I did do.”

“And keep an eye on them.”

“You said to keep an eye on them before turning them down. I thought you’d be back sooner.”

“I thought you’d top them up with water when you checked them.”

She hadn’t mentioned anything about checking them after I’d turned them down, though I guess that sounded reasonable.

“You did check them again?”

I decided it best not to go down the verbatim route.

“Well . . . “

“Well what?”

“Every time I got to the end of a chapter the Ripper struck again.”

She looked like she was going to strike again, too.

“I should have known. You were reading . . . ”

Anyway, I didn’t think they were too bad. The sprouts were smaller than the ones of my last post, and so were softer, just how I like them. They just tasted a little . . . smoked.

Could barbecued sprouts be a thing? I’m not sure, but I think when Jen asks me what I want for Christmas this year I’d better say “Pans.”

Now the pots are all stacked up by the sink, and to get back into her good books I should make a start on them. But, speaking of books, you see, the Ripper is about to get caught . . .

The Schism Of Oz

This is going on in every house during lockdown 😂😂

There’s a woman on Etsy who does hand lettering and has turned this argument into a work of art. Visit her on the link below.

https://www.etsy.com/uk/shop/catherinelashley

(Oh For) Peace In Our Time

My daughter, Millie, jumped out of the car, excitedly waving a piece of paper in the air without even closing the door.

“Dad, guess what?” She looked like Chamberlain brandishing his treaty.

“We have peace in our time?” I replied, shouting equally as loud across the leaf-covered garden.

“What? No-I’ve got to isolate! School have given me a letter saying I’ve been in contact with someone who has Coronavirus!” She was beaming.

I looked to my wife, playing Millie’s personal home-time chauffeur, who nodded in confirmation.

“Who?”

“They can’t say, but I DON’T HAVE TO GO BACK TO SCHOOL UNTIL THE 3RD OF NOVEMBER!!!” She was almost maniacal in her glee.

“The third . . . of . . . November?”

NOVEMBER!”

It turned out that there was indeed a confirmed case in Millie’s year, someone who she’d been in close contact with, and, taking in account the half term holiday, that’s another twenty one days off school. It has only been five minutes since the kids had had six months off.

Three of Millie’s close friends also received copies of this letter. Tonight, by phone, they’d form a quartet of sleuths wrapped up in their very own whodunnit.

It had only been a matter of time, with different years in different schools being forced into similar action over the last month. James’ school was surely overdue, too.

Later, for our Drama Queen, would come the expectant angst, but for now it was only holiday fever that Millie had.

It doesn’t affect the rest of us, yet. She has to isolate for fourteen days, the rest of us can continue as before unless Millie starts with symptoms and it’s at that point we would be impacted, having to also isolate and be tested.

A difficult winter has been predicted by the experts. Now, I’m no member of SAGE, but I’m predicting a difficult three weeks ahead for the Murray household. What with a housebound, paranoid, over-dramatic adolescent with a tendency to hit hyper-speed in 0.5 seconds, I may need to hold my own COBRA meeting.

In the meantime, little Miss Millie is on lockdown. For the rest of us – I’ll let you know.

Mr Chamberlain, where’s your face mask?

Not So Same Old, Same Old.

Blackpool 2020. I’ve been to this northern seaside town countless times since I was a child, but in 2020 even the familiar is different.

I was there with my son, James, last Saturday to watch a football match, staying overnight on the Friday. It was busy, but not pre-Covid busy.

As James was walking out on the beach, I walked along this promenade, keeping apace so I could keep an eye on him.

There was a car to my left, stopped at a red light, and a guy was shouting through a rolled down window “Hey mate, improve your social distancing!”

I looked around. Was he addressing me? It appeared he was.

“Improve your social distancing!”

Really?

There wasn’t anybody within at least fifty metres of me. James was about a mile out to sea. The lights turned to green and he drove off, shouting the same message to other pedestrians that he passed. He wasn’t anyone official, and he didn’t look like, you know, a loon. It seemed that he had made it his own personal mission to prevent the town having more Government measures imposed upon it.

Blackpool seafront is breezy at the best of times, if bearing rain a destroyer of plans, and this day was really windy, as is evidenced by these bending tulips. Or, as they are better known- ‘giant spoons’.

I was feeling my age.

While my son walked freely across the beach, I found numerous windbreak-walls to sit against while watching him.

Then, hood on, hat on, mood on, I joined him to walk beneath one of the old Victorian piers, the sea being out, spying the tower between the supports.

This caught my eye and so my camera. Emerged from the depths to breathe once again in light, like barnacle-encrusted cootie trees, shaped like a St.Andrew’s cross.

Halt-who goes there? A shoed adult, a barefoot child, and a gull. It wasn’t volcanic ash in the Cretaceous period forever preserving a passing sauropod, but I liked it.

If you squint, or maybe do that thing with your thumb and index finger to enlarge this photograph, you’ll see my lad out there-far enough away to give my wife a heart attack if she’d been there with us. I assured her by text that he remained in sight at all times. I didn’t tell her that I had binoculars.

The day wore on, the light grew dimmer, the wind grew colder. This gull was gliding effortlessly in,similar to how we freewheel on a bike, coasting in to find a place to settle for the night.

There were starlings, too, around the pier. If it was a murmuration, then they were murmuring above us, turning and wheeling perfectly in unison like a shoal of fish.

Twilight – a liminal time, and James was on the edge, as the tide rolled back in and my thoughts began to turn to that warm room back at the B&B.

Before the sea had started to return to shore, there’d been the odd person out there on the beach, hundreds and hundreds of yards out, walking alone and wearing face masks. Unless it was a way of keeping their face warm I just didn’t understand the thinking behind it. The guy in that car would have been proud of them. And still tell them to improve their social distancing, by megaphone.

Evening was coming on, autumn was coming on, exhaustion was coming on.

The sun sank into the sea, a final flash of fire engulfed in its repetitive end, and still the wheel on the pier turned, around and around, everywhere we looked – the same old cycles.

This gull seemed reluctant to leave, allowing me to come closer to observe it. One final photograph and then we sought the sanctuary of our room.

It’s a nostalgic place for many of us, Blackpool, with long memories of family and old friendships. Away from this attractive seafront though, I think it is quite a deprived town.

Whenever my wife has been here with us, a common question of hers is uttered with an expected regularity while observing the members of numerous Stag Nights and Hen Dos staggering out of the promenade pubs:

I wonder how many marriages are being wrecked tonight? How many babies being conceived?

All out of the hearing of the children, of course, for they see nothing but magic.

That’s her astute understanding of human behaviour, but that kind of stuff can’t go on this year, can it? Not in 2020, when we’re all social distancing.