The holiday – part three

 

Pumpkin Mice Tales (4)

The holiday – part three

The next morning, the Pumpkin Mice ate their breakfast quickly and set off to the harbour to meet the Fishermice. Although the sun was shining brightly in a clear blue sky, there was a brisk breeze and Big Brown Mouse had told them they must wear warm clothes.

‘It can get very cold on the water,’ he said. ‘The sun might be shining now, but the weather can change very quickly.’ The Mousekins grumbled a little, for they felt silly when they saw all the holidaymakers in their shorts and tee shirts, but they knew better than to argue with Big Brown Mouse. They were delighted when Skipper Fishermouse told them he was pleased they were dressed sensibly, and giggled when Big Brown Mouse winked at them.

Once they were on board, they struggled into oilskins and life jackets and had safety lines attached to them. ‘Can’t be too careful on a boat,’ said Skipper Fishermouse.

First Mate Fishermouse started the engine and the Mousekins squealed at the noise and held their noses at the smell of the diesel, but soon forgot such small annoyances as the boat bucketed across the waves. This was an adventure!

After half an hour, First Mate Fishermouse set the engine to idle as Crew Fishermouse One dropped an anchor. There were two other Crew Fishermice, but they had remained at home, for, after all, it was their rest day. Then the engine stopped and the silence was wonderful.

Skipper Fishermouse gave each of the Pumpkin Mice a fishing rod and they were soon watching the floats to see if any fish had taken their bait. Any disappointment they felt at not hauling in nets of silvery fish quickly disappeared as they watched each other’s lines and hoped to be the first to land a catch.

It was Big Brown Mouse who caught the first fish, a fine, shining silver mackerel with green and black tiger stripes on its back. Soon after, there were cries of delight and pride as more wriggling fish were caught. All the fish were returned to the sea, to live another day, to the joy of Little White and White Mouse with the exceedingly long and beautiful green tail, (startling green and quite the longest tail ever seen in Mousedom) for they did not want to see the pretty fish knocked on the head.

Skipper Fishermouse said, ‘We’d better be heading back. There’s a storm brewing.’

Sure enough, the once blue sky was now a dirty grey, with looming dark clouds. The Pumpkin Mice had been so busy fishing that they had not noticed the change in the weather. They shivered in the strengthening wind and for the first time realised how far they were from land. A sharp flash of lightning lit up the sky and an ominous clap of thunder sounded almost overhead and then the rain started. It fell like a heavy sheet, and the Pumpkin Mice were glad of their sou’westers and oilskins.

As the boat turned for home, it passed the lighthouse, red and white and standing tall like a guardian of the rocks. ‘Why isn’t it standing up straight?’ Tiny Grey asked, and Skipper Fishermouse said, ‘Never you fret, little man. ‘Tis the famous Leaning Lighthouse and has always been thus.’  Then he added, ‘Not as famous as the Puerto Leaning Lighthouse, mind, in Mexico.’

He was about to tell them more when First Mate Fishermouse shouted, ‘Look to port!’ The Mousekins weren’t sure what he meant, but Big Brown understood and pointed. Out on the rolling waves was a little yellow duck-shaped raft and in it was a small mouse with big black eyes and pretty pink ears. She looked terrified as her raft headed for the rocks surrounding the Leaning Lighthouse. Skipper Fishermouse got on his radio and called the RNLI.

‘Can’t we save the little mouse?’ said Little White, almost in tears.

Skipper Fishermouse shook his head. ‘No, my little maid,’ he said, ‘The tide and the wind’s too strong and even if I could get near, those rocks would tear my boat apart. Besides, I’ve got all you littluns to think about,’ he added.

Just at that moment, they saw a bright orange lifeboat racing towards them. In it were the rest of the Mousekins’ Fishermice cousins. Their day off had turned into a day of work, for, of course, they were always on call for the lifeboat.

When they reached the safety of the beach once more, the Fishermice helped the Pumpkin Mice out of the boat and they all went home for fish and chips.

Their Fishermice cousins from the RNLI lifeboat arrived just in time to join them. They told everyone how they had rescued the small mouse and taken her home. She was very frightened and rather wet, but she was safe. Her little yellow duck-shaped raft, however, had foundered on the vicious rocks and then sunk beneath the towering waves.

‘Coo,’ said Small Brown. ‘That really was an adventure.’

Reincarnation 2

 

Reincarnation 2

This is another reworked treatise on reincarnation – a post reborn, you might say.

Strictly speaking, reincarnation is rebirth as a different life form, but I’ve often thought I might be reincarnated as something lowly, like a doormat, which, though inanimate, sees many events throughout its existence. On many occasions, I have felt like a doormat, so perhaps that was the Great Universe preparing me for my next iteration.

I was thinking about it more deeply in the wee small hours of the morning, which is when I do the majority of my philosophical contemplation. Obviously, my life is so full that I must think when I should be sleeping.

Having decided that my next life would see me as a doormat, I began thinking about door mats in general. Of course, one has little choice in the form of one’s reincarnation, but should I be allowed to choose, what would be my decision? There are many different types of doormat, the simplest distinction being indoor and outdoor mats. Which would be better? There are pros and cons for each.

Outdoor mats are hardy creatures, exposed to the elements, surrounded by the sights and sounds of Nature, rough, tough, no-nonsense characters. They are not philosophers but practical, straight-talking individuals. I do not mean to imply that philosophers are impractical wafflers, though some may be, simply that outdoor mats lack imagination and see things in black and white. They do not sit on the fence, prevaricating. They are loyal and hard-working and ask and expect little in return other than a good beating now and again, not because they are masochistic, but because they wish to be relieved of the detritus deposited on them – extraneous samples of Nature that have escaped from birds, trees, flowers, people’s footwear.  

Exterior mats may be composed of rubber, which is hard-wearing, but neither absorbent nor particularly attractive. Metal mats are not quite pukka; they’re useful for scraping mud from boots but in the hierarchy of the external mat community, they are the untouchables. They look as if they have escaped from a giant’s grill pan. Coir matting looks smart and is the only natural fibre that is resistant to damage from salt water, which makes sense, considering its provenance.

Yes, a doormat’s life could be quite interesting, even if being ground under the heel is not a pleasant prospect.

Internal door mats are quite distinct from their lowly outdoor relatives. They live in protected environments and are usually constructed of softer, more colourful materials. Sometimes, they have messages printed on them, things like PLEASE WIPE YOUR PAWS (can dogs read?) or THE BIG HOUSE (is that a boast or ironic?)

HELLO on the mat saves the people of the house greeting their guests; LOSE THE SHOES, and GO AWAY are downright rude. Some mats are plain, while others have illustrations of dogs, or cats or cartoon characters. I would prefer not to have words on me, but I wouldn’t have an option.

On balance, I’d rather be an indoor mat than an external one. I wouldn’t choose to be a shop door mat or one that fits in the car well. A bath mat’s life would be cold and damp. A bedside mat would be agreeable, welcoming warm feet from a comfortable bed. My favourite situation would be just inside the front door of a really tidy house with no children or pets, welcoming considerate visitors who would remove their shoes on entering – nothing like my house, then!

Breakfast

 

Breakfast

Breakfast is a moveable feast in our house. It is rarely eaten before nine and often it is early afternoon before we have it.

Looking at my breakfast the other morning, I was struck by the appearance of the strawberries. They reminded me of Fly agaric (Amanita muscaria). It is the toadstool of fairy stories and children’s books. In Alice in Wonderland, Alice is given Fly agaric to eat, which may explain her strange experiences in growing and shrinking. It is hallucinogenic and was used in religious ceremonies in Asia for more than 4,000 years.

Fly agaric (Amanita muscaria) can be seen in woodland and heathland in light soil under beech, pine or spruce from August to November.

Fly agaric is poisonous if eaten, but not usually fatal, unless ingested in great quantities. (It’s suggested that something like 10 mushrooms would have to be eaten to kill . . . ) Historically, it has been used as a basic insecticide; pieces of the red cap were broken off and added to milk, its smell attracting flies, intoxicating and killing them.

Fly agaric has an association with Christmas, from a hangover or crossover from earlier pagan associations. It is believed that Father Christmas’ jolly red and white robes were inspired by the colouring of the mushroom. Fly agaric often features on Christmas cards.

This beautiful illustration is from one of my favourite books, 'Wayside and Woodland Fungi' by W.P.K. Findlay. The illustrations are by Beatrix Potter. 

 Why do reindeer fly? Maybe they ate Fly agaric – in Siberia, reindeer have been observed becoming intoxicated by them, though I’m not sure if they have ever eaten them. Some records suggest that the Siberian herders fed the mushrooms to the reindeer and then drank their urine to experience the hallucinogenic effects. The only other mammals that eat them occasionally are red squirrels. Otherwise, they are consumed by slugs and fungus gnats (sciarid flies)

My breakfast was not toxic, but very filling – porridge, strawberries, dates, grapes, pumpkin seeds and yoghourt.

Grace Darling

 

Grace Darling  (1815-1842)

Grace Darling, painted in 1839 by Thomas Musgrave Joy (1812-1866)

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Grace Darling was born in Northumberland, in 1815, the seventh of her parents’ nine children. Her father, William Darling, like his father before him, was a lighthouse keeper, He first kept the lighthouse on Brownsman Island, in the Outer Farne Islands. That lighthouse was not well located and many ships foundered, so a new lighthouse was built on one of the outermost islands. William Darling moved his family to the recently built Longstone Lighthouse in 1826, when Grace was eleven years old.

Longstone Lighthouse

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

On the night of 6th September, 1838, during a fearsome storm, a steam ship, the Forfarshire, was en route from Hull to Dundee. On board were 62 crew and passengers, when the engines failed. Suddenly, a huge wave lifted the ship and cast it onto the low-lying island known as Big Harcar. Immediately, it broke in two, one half sinking within fifteen minutes, taking with it dozens of passengers and children, who had had no time to escape from their cabins. Nine survivors succeeded in launching the ship’s lifeboat, and were rescued by a passing sloop and taken to safety in South Shields. Another nine, eight men, one of them badly injured, and one woman, managed to scramble onto the rocks.

In the early morning of 7^th September, Grace Darling saw the wrecked ship on Big Harcar and then noticed movement and realised there were survivors on the rocks. She and her father, thinking that conditions were so appalling that the North Sunderland lifeboat, (now Seahouses) would not be able to put out, took to their rowing boat and rowed across to Big Harcar.

On arrival, William Darling clambered onto the rocks, leaving Grace to control the rowing boat in the heavy seas, using the oars to manoeuvre it away from the jagged rocks but keeping it close enough for the survivors to struggle into it. Four of the men and the woman, Mrs Dawson, whose two young children had drowned, were rowed back to the lighthouse. Grace remained there to care for the survivors with her mother while her father and three of the men returned to Big Harcar to rescue the remaining four men.

The lifeboat had set out from Seahouses – Grace’s brother, William Brooks Darling, was one of the crew – but it reached Big Harcar after the rescue had been completed, and picked up the bodies of Mrs Dawson’s children and a clergyman.

Conditions were so grave, and deteriorating, that they thought it unsafe to try and return to Seahouses, and were forced to remain at Longstone Lighthouse for three days, before the storm abated.

The story of the heroic rescue made headlines around the world. Grace Darling was a slightly-built young woman, an unlikely heroine in the eyes of many, and she became a celebrity. She found the constant attention uncomfortable, but her actions were celebrated by painters and poets.

 The Royal Humane Society awarded her and her father Gold Medals, and the Royal National Institution for the Preservation of Life from Shipwreck (now RNLI) gave them Silver Medals for Gallantry. Queen Victoria sent Grace £50 with a personal note, and one of the oldest hotels in Melbourne was named the Grace Darling Hotel, opening in 1854.

In 1842, Grace Darling became ill with tuberculosis, (then known as consumption) and died in Bamburgh, the village of her birth. Hundreds of people attended her funeral at St Aidan’s church, within which is a stained-glass window to her memory. She lies buried in the churchyard, where a monument was raised to her depicting her holding an oar. It is in an elevated position in order to be visible to sailors at sea. The original edifice became badly eroded and is now inside the church. It was replaced with a replica.

Bamburgh dedicated a museum to her life and to the life of the area, in which the sea continues to play such a significant part.  

The holiday – part two

 

Pumpkin Mice Tales (4)

The holiday – part two

Sergeant Cheeseman, First Mousehole Artillery, Mousehole born and bred 

The following morning, the small Pumpkin Mice woke early, eager to explore their new surroundings. They were a little disappointed to find that the Fishermice had left late the night before, but cheered up when they heard that they would be back soon to greet their little cousins.

A lovely surprise awaited them, though, for Sergeant Cheeseman, of the First Mousehole Artillery, had arrived after they had all gone to bed. Big Brown Mouse and White Mouse with the exceedingly long and beautiful green tail (startling green and quite the longest tail ever seen in Mousedom) had welcomed him and given him a late supper of bread and Mousetrap.

Sergeant Cheeseman, of the First Mousehole Artillery, knew the area well, for he had grown up there, and he offered to take them all to the beach and later to the lifeboat station at Newlyn, just two miles along the coast from Mousehole.

He explained that the lifeboat was crewed by volunteers. Tiny Grey piped up, ‘What does that mean?’ and his jaw dropped when he understood that they offered to go out in dreadful storms and were never paid for their bravery. Sergeant Cheeseman, of the First Mousehole Artillery, said, ‘Your cousins, the Fishermice, all volunteer for the Penlee boat at Newlyn.’

Little White - she's very proud of her pretty pink tail and nose

Little White asked, ‘Is it dangerous?’ and her eyes grew round when she learnt that it could be very, very dangerous, and sometimes crew members lost their lives. 

     Penlee Lifeboat, the Solomon Browne, being launched in calmer waters, before she was destroyed in the storm. 

Image source

Sergeant Cheeseman, of the First Mousehole Artillery, said, ‘Let me tell you a story about a boat called the Solomon Browne.  In December, 1981, on a dark stormy night just before Christmas, the Solomon Browne was launched in a Force 12 hurricane – yes, that’s very strong,’ he said quickly, as he saw Small Brown about to ask a question, ‘and the eight lifeboatmen, from Mousehole and Newlyn, set out to help a ship in distress. The Coxswain of the Solomon Browne chose his seven crew from the twelve volunteers who reported for duty that night, and they all knew the dangers they were facing. The coaster they went to help was called the Union Star and its engines had failed – they’d stopped working - and there were eight people on board, the Captain, his wife, two daughters and four crew. The wind was howling, and the waves were 60 feet high – that’s like six houses one on top of the other.’

‘Wow,’ breathed all the Mousekins, ‘That’s big.’

Sergeant Cheeseman, of the First Mousehole Artillery, nodded and continued, ‘Earlier, a helicopter had tried to rescue them, but the winds were too strong, blowing 100 miles an hour, and so they had to call the lifeboat. The Solomon Browne battled through the heavy seas, and came alongside the Union Star, banging and smashing against it in the mountainous waves. It was hard for the men to keep their balance; the wind was shrieking and the sea was crashing thunderously across the boat’s deck. After several attempts they managed to get four people across onto the Solomon Browne and sent a message by radio, “We’ve got four off.” 

That was the last anyone ever heard from anyone on either boat.’

There was silence as the Mousekins absorbed this information. Sergeant Cheeseman, of the First Mousehole Artillery, said quietly, ‘Lifeboats from three other stations tried to help, but they couldn’t do anything in the treacherous weather. Wreckage from the Solomon Browne washed up later along the shore and the Union Star was found capsized on the rocks. Some of the bodies of the sixteen people were found, but the rest were never recovered, though many search parties went out.’

                     The Union Star was discovered capsized on rocks

Image source

‘Oh, that’s so sad,’ said Little White tremulously and the other Mousekins nodded their heads and wiped their eyes with their paws and tails.

‘But, do you know,’ said Sergeant Cheeseman, of the First Mousehole Artillery, ‘Within a day of this dreadful tragedy, enough volunteers from Mousehole had come forward to form a new lifeboat crew, and more than £3 million was raised for the families of those men who were lost. That’s more than £14 million today.’

Solomon Browne memorial

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Seeing how sombre the Mousekins had become, he said, ‘How about an ice-cream?’ and the Mousekins, being young and not yet in the habit of dwelling on catastrophes, brightened up immediately.

When they returned home, they were greeted by their Fishermice cousins.

‘Tomorrow,’ said the Fishermice, ‘Would you like to come out on the fishing smack with us?’

Tiny Grey asked, 'Why is it called a smack and not just a boat?'

'Well, now,' said Skipper Fishermouse, 'Smack comes from an Old Dutch word, smak, which means a sharp slapping sound. That was the sound the sails made when the wind caught them.'

'Has your smack got sails?' Little White asked.

Skipper Fishermouse guffawed and said, 'No, my little maid. We're all modern now, with an engine. Are you looking forward to some fishing  tomorrow?'

The Mousekins nodded their heads vigorously. They were enjoying their holiday so much, but the fresh, salty air had tired them, and they were happy to go early to their beds.

Hairstyles and boys and more

 

Hairstyles and boys and more

                        Frankie in the woods, aged six and a half.

In her post, Chris was talking about hairstyles.

When I used to meet Frankie from school, I noticed changing hairstyles among the boys. Certainly, some of the younger boys had different haircuts, but most of them still had the ‘tidy and presentable’ looks their mothers preferred.

Around the age of 9 or 10, and at some point in the summer holidays, as the boys moved from Year 4 to Year 5, self-expression became more evident. Formerly well-barbered locks were either allowed to grow or were mercilessly lopped into an approximation of the latest footballer/pop star look.

Those who favoured longer growth were governed by the natural condition of their hair. I didn’t see any chemically enhanced colouring or taming. Thus, curly hair grew out and around still cherubic faces, threatening to obliterate their features. Straight hair fell like a yard of pump water, either to be allowed to hang and swing, or tied back into a pony tail or held back off the face with an Alice band, though heaven forfend a boy should be told he was wearing any such item. One boy had beautiful thick hair in neat plaits. (His sister, incidentally, a few years younger than him, had and still has wonderful red hair so long that she can sit on it.)

So, by Year 6, most of the boys were in league with their barbers to adopt a different style. My 11-year-old grandson has had several 'styles', ranging from the Adolf Hitler/convict look to the 'can't see where I'm going' style, to 'I'm not really going bald, these are just fades’.

                                Frankie, in different woods, aged 11

It is quite difficult to be diplomatic (impossible for me, some would say, with some justification) when the little boy you’ve known and loved appears with a short back and sides so brutal that he looks as though he’s been condemned to hard labour in the hardest of hard prisons.

Currently, he is channelling some football hero or other who has tidy back and sides and an exaggerated mane that extends in front of him, and possibly serves the same purpose as a cat’s whiskers! He has gone through the ‘products’ phase, which is expensive, though I suppose it may return.

‘Old people don’t understand,’ Frankie was told when he reported the comments he received, to which the response was, ‘Old people understand more than you realise. There’s nothing new under the sun,’ followed by, ‘Who are you calling old?’ The remark stung, though, as it was intended to.

I wonder when he will start colouring his hair with something more permanent than the spray-on stuff. I remember when my son dyed his hair black, when he was about 16. His hair is naturally dark brown, but black was a step too far. His younger son, at university now, was ‘persuaded’ by a girl-friend to bleach his hair. Actually, it really suited his dark good looks, but I think natural is best.

It’s hypocritical of me to say that, because for many years I fought off the grey with varying shades of what the hairdresser called ‘caramel’. I refused to do what so many women do and go ‘blonde’ to hide the grey.

 Now, I can’t be bothered, and when I do eventually visit the hairdresser again, she will be surprised to see how grey I am. That’s if she remembers me, at all . . .

RNLI

 

RNLI

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

2024 marks two hundred years of the RNLI’s existence. It is a charity dedicated to saving lives at sea and has its headquarters in Poole, Dorset, though it was a philanthropist from the Isle of Man who first mooted the idea of a society to rescue sailors. He was distressed by shipwrecks on the IoM in 1822, but it took two further years before the idea was supported by royalty, politicians and merchants.

At first it was known as the National Institution for the Preservation of Life from Shipwreck, which is quite a mouthful and doesn’t lend itself to a neat acronym. Thanks to the patronage of King George IV, ‘Royal’ replaced ‘National’ a little later. In 1854, it changed its name to the Royal National Lifeboat Institution. In 1824, it saved 124 lives. Five years later that number had risen to over 1,000 and by the turn of the 19^th century, 41,820 people had been rescued. In the next century, that number more than doubled.

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

SS Suevic aground on the Stag Rock of Maenheere Reef. She remained there for three days, her cargo being ferried ashore by small freighters. She was eventually cut in half, the stern section, containing the engines, and passenger accommodation, taken first to Southampton and then to Harland and Wolff in Belfast, where she was originally built, to be fitted with a new bow section.

The biggest single RNLI rescue was conducted in 1907 off Lizard Point in Cornwall. The White Star liner, SS Suevic had sailed from Sydney and was bound for Liverpool. Aboard were more than 400 passengers and crew and 12,000 tons of valuable cargo. Encountering dense fog and battling a strong gale, she struck the rocks of the Maenheere Reef at night. Flares were sent up, though they were difficult to see. Open lifeboats, crewed by six men rowing, from four different stations were launched and conducted the rescue over sixteen hours. All 456 lives were saved, among them 70 babies. The RNLI awarded Silver Medals for Gallantry to six men, including two from SS Suevic. On the same night, another ship, the SS Jebba, also ran aground not far from the Suevic and a second successful rescue was undertaken.

The RNLI is the largest lifeboat service serving the coastal waters of the United Kingdom, the Republic of Ireland, the Channel Islands and the Isle of Man. It also operates on some inland waterways and most of its crews are unpaid volunteers.  The charity is funded by legacies and donations.

The RNLI motto is, ‘with courage, nothing is impossible’ and it goes to the aid of anyone in danger on the sea. During its existence, 600 crew have lost their lives serving the RNLI. Gold, silver and bronze medals are awarded for bravery.

Henry Blogg, coxswain of the Cromer Lifeboat.

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

The most decorated lifeboatman was Henry Blogg (1876-1954) from Cromer, North Norfolk. During a 53-year career, he received three RNLI gold medals and four silver. He was also awarded the Empire Gallantry Medal, which was later converted to the George Cross, and the British Empire Medal.

Henry Blogg with his dog, Monte

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

When he was not called out to cox the Cromer lifeboat, Henry Blogg earned his living as a crab fisherman and also ran a business hiring out deckchairs and beach huts. This lifesize model depicts him with his dog, Monte.

There are two major types of lifeboat. All-weather lifeboats (ALBs) are large, self-righting, substantial craft which can be launched in all weather conditions.

Model of a Shannon Class Lifeboat, introduced in 2013. She carries a crew of 6 and has a maximum speed of 25 knots.

Inshore lifeboats (ILBs) are inflatable craft which are used closer inshore and in shallower waters.

Inshore lifeboat, Dartmouth

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Other craft include hovercraft and small inflatables.

Pumpkin Mice Tales (4)

 

Pumpkin Mice Tales (4)

The holiday – part one

                                                Big Brown Mouse

It was summer and the Pumpkin Mice were going on holiday to the seaside. The youngest mice had just finished their MATs (Mouse Assessment Tests), and Big Brown Mouse, and White Mouse with the exceedingly long and beautiful green tail, (startling green and quite the longest tail ever seen in Mousedom) felt that they deserved a treat after all their hard work.

White Mouse with the exceedingly long and beautiful green tail, (startling green and quite the longest tail ever seen in Mousedom)

The Mousekins were very excited, because they were going to stay with their cousins, the Fishermice. They knew they would be spending a lot of time in the water, swimming and sailing. They hoped they would learn how to water-ski and surfboard, too. Big Brown Mouse told them that if they were very good, they might be invited to go out in the fishing smack with their cousins and help to haul in the nets of silvery fish.

There was much noisy chatter as they journeyed to their holiday destination, with Little Grey, the smallest mouse, asking, ‘Are we nearly there?’ so often that Big Brown Mouse simply answered, ‘Yes’, each time.

White Mouse with the exceedingly long and beautiful green tail (startling green and quite the longest tail ever seen in Mousedom) handed round some snacks to occupy the Mousekins and when they had finished them, she suggested they sing some songs to pass the time. They started with ‘Hickory dickory dock’ which they sang as a round until they got muddled and had to stop because they were giggling so much. Then they sang ‘Three blind mice’, but Tiny Grey and Small Brown started wailing that they didn’t want to be blind or have their tails cut off.

                                                    Small Brown

Before they became completely hysterical, Big Brown Mouse sang out in his beautiful deep bass voice, ‘A mouse lived in a windmill in old Amsterdam’, and everyone stopped to listen. They liked the song so much that they begged him to sing it again and again, and very soon they all knew the words and could sing along with him.

After a few hours, they arrived in Cornwall and soon came to the signpost for Mousehole, for, of course, that is where all good mice go for their holidays, (though sometimes they might go to East Mouse, or Middle Mouse in Anglesey.)

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

They were tired and it was late, so, after a tasty supper of Mousetrap cheese, they tottered off to bed and, despite their excitement, they soon fell fast asleep, to dream of the wonders they might see. What would the morrow bring?

Postbox topper, May 2024

This postbox topper celebrates 200 years of the existence of the RNLI (Royal National Lifeboat Institution)

Dentistry

 

Dentistry

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

There was a time when the title ‘dentist’ covered all practitioners in the treatment of teeth. My one-time best friend’s father insisted on being called a ‘dental surgeon’ – a little more high-class, for his wife was of that ilk, though he was perfectly normal. My friend had beautiful teeth, but her father’s were like tombstones!

There are so many specialities now. My first introduction to orthodontistry was when my youngest daughter wanted her teeth straightened. She had lovely teeth, with a beguiling gap between her two top teeth, which I thought very attractive but she didn’t. So off she went to have a shiny band fitted. Over several months, the procedure worked and she ended up with what I refer to as ‘American teeth’.

That was a far cry from my middle daughter’s experience. She had a removable brace, which she was told not to wear during sport or when eating. As she was always doing one or the other, the brace was hardly ever employed, and, in fact, at one point was found gathering dust in a corner of the porch. Nonetheless, when she went back to the dentist, he pronounced himself pleased with the ‘result’ and that was the end of the treatment.

Nowadays, having braces fitted is a rite of passage and there’s barely a pubescent child in the country who doesn’t sport train tracks. I’m expecting Frankie and Isla, first and second cousins, both eleven, to honour the tradition any day.

On Tuesday, after the palaver with the cars, I visited the Entodontist. It sounds as though I went for tea and cake, but actually I had a consultation with a really nice specialist. My dentist, also a thoroughly pleasant chap, thought I might need root canal work as I had developed an abscess, which cleared up swiftly with antibiotics. It was the day before my birthday when he gave me his opinion and referral, so that was an unexpected gift.

I was given a short course in dentistry, or, at least, that’s what it felt like. I do find it difficult to look as though I’m intelligent, but I managed to appear as though I understood every last word.

Anyway, after a thorough investigation, when, at one point, I thought I was going to be let off the root canal work, a further appointment was made for me to sit and have my gum excavated or something like that. After a while, I no longer hear what people are telling me because I’m wondering where they live and do they have children and what led them to this detective work called endodontistry.

Endodontics is all to do with pain relief, I discovered. I shall know more in a few weeks’ time. One dentist told my daughter that she had patients fall asleep during the procedure. Barry had to go to Harley Street to a very upmarket practice and spent his time in the chair watching videos. I’m just going fifteen minutes away, probably in the dog box, to sit and twiddle my thumbs and wish the two hours gone.

Did you know that, in the States, ‘more than 15 million root canals are performed every year. That means over 41,000 are performed every day.’ ?

Pam Ayres’ poem, ‘I wish I’d looked after me teeth’ is fun to listen to. I love her accent. My first job was in her home village.

 

Reincarnation 1

This is a slight reworking of an old post.

If you consider yourself to be of a delicate disposition you may not wish to read on. However, if you have ever have had intimate dealings with any kind of mammal you will understand the rationale for this post. (I'm sure rationale is far too grand a word for this but I like it . . . )

Through the years of bearing babies and rearing toddlers, followed by decades of teaching young children, while at the same time breeding cats (and mice, gerbils and guinea pigs) and keeping company with a variety of dogs, I have come to realise that ordure has played a significant role in my life. 

It was not something I had ever considered when I was growing up. My sister's babies were neat and clean and cuddly. I realise now that she was very careful to spare me the truth and only encouraged me to change wet nappies. Fifteen years older than me, she was always protective.

The first days of a baby's life open a new mother's eyes – and nose – to a different way of life. Controlling the urge to throw up over her first-born and overcoming the desire to turn away and plead for someone else to take over, she learns the delicate art of cleaning and making comfortable the small helpless being she so rapturously conceived nine months earlier. The rosy glow of imagining a sweet-smelling baby dressed in adorable clothes gurgling happily into the beatifically smiling face of a relaxed and beautiful mother disappears like a hapless, misplaced snowflake in August. 

The mirage is replaced by the reality of a baby that excretes at least twice what he ingests and 'possets' (that's the polite term for 'sicks up') several times a day and night over his hands, his several daily changes of attire, his bed, the furry toy bought on the day of his birth and any unfortunate adult in the vicinity, usually his exhausted, sleep-deprived, tearful mother.

Matters improve of course as the baby grows into toddlerhood. It's always a good idea to greet your child soon after she wakes and not agree with your spouse that it's lovely when she amuses herself while you enjoy a lie-in and consider the possibility of a sibling or two for her. 

Undoubtedly, she is entertaining herself, undressing, removing her nappy, spreading the contents over herself, the bedding and every other thing within reach (no point in hoping the nappy will be just wet). Having finished that task, she has set about deconstructing the cot. It is a little disconcerting when you enter your precious offspring's room to wonder where she can possibly have got to until movement under the mattress beneath the base gives you a clue.

When the little tot plays in the garden, it's quite useful to have a dog about the place which can be blamed for influencing the child to defaecate on the grass. More experienced matrons snort derisively as they explain that all infants do this and follow that information with a knowing and slightly malicious, 'Just you wait . . . '

Sure enough, worse will follow. At least when nappies are still being worn everything that leaves the tiny body is more or less contained. Training pants are the next important stage, but it seems that all your infant is trained to do is to treat them as a portable potty. Potties are wonderful toys, headwear being a favourite deployment – not so good after having been used for their original purpose, though.

Having finally learnt what to do and where, there is a tiresome period when your little person must visit every convenience in every building you pass. Possibly he is searching for the gold standard in lavatories/loos/toilets.

I've been told that the way to teach a boy to aim straight is to put a ping pong ball in the lavatory pan and encourage him to hit it with his golden shower. I have not been told what should happen thereafter. Do they remain in situ for evermore? The mind boggles. Are parents expected to carry a supply of these white spheres?

Cats and dogs present different challenges. House cats that use litter trays are relatively easy. A scoop removes the soiled litter. Fastidious creatures that they are, they help their humans to maintain high standards of hygiene, for, if dissatisfied, they will make their own arrangements and you may be sure it will be somewhere you would not choose. Cats that have the freedom of the world may often choose a spot that pleases them but not the gardening neighbours with whom you once were on friendly terms.

Dogs can be trained to use a particular patch of the garden, but the excrement remains where deposited until removed by someone. In our family this job is known as 'de-lumping the garden' and when we had children living at home they could be persuaded occasionally to undertake this task. At other times I did it. Now they are grown and flown but we still have dogs and their leavings must be cleared away. It has fallen to me to take on this duty full-time because, as Barry says, 'You're so good at it.' Flatterer!

Thus, after so many years of shovelling s*it I know that, if I were to be reincarnated I would return as a Chinese Night Soil Collector. It is said that every third person in the world is Chinese – and I was my parents' third child. Can't wait!

More irreverent thoughts on reincarnation will follow . . .