Missing link

'The link to Who is watching you?' vanished! 

In brief, photos taken with a mobile (cell) phone can be used in much the same way as GPS to track the person or persons portrayed. This is particularly worrying where children are concerned as they may be traced to their homes, schools, favourite haunts without their or their parents' knowledge and you may be sure that anyone stalking children in this way is up to no good. 

There are settings on mobile phones that will deactivate the tracking capability but, as with most technology, mischievous people can and will hack into them.

It is frightening to realise how truly vulnerable we are. We guard our keys, wallets and other personal possessions so carefully but unwittingly expose those we love to danger simply by recording them and making those photographs public.

Photos taken with ordinary cameras are not traceable.

Who is watching you?

Beware the perils of mobile phone cameras/photos. Be careful what you post for you don't know who is watching. http://kyeos.wordpress.com/2013/05/10/warning-if-you-take-photos-with-your-cell-phone/ …

Priceless!

I just came across this and wanted to share it.


Life is settling down again and I hope to be back to  more regular blogging although next week I am babysitting my youngest grandchild :-)

Bureaucracy or The Right Hand Doesn't Know What The Left Hand's Doing

My husband had occasion to seek advice from HM Revenue and Customs this morning.  He phoned the help desk and explained the problem, viz, his late mother’s estate (she died in March this year) was being handled by his brother who died suddenly on Saturday. Probate had been granted but administration of the estate had not been completed. Barry’s sister-in-law told Barry she had been informed she would have to take over probate.

The help desk told Barry that was nonsense and he, as next of kin, would be responsible and he should apply for a second grant of probate. Barry then checked with Winchester, the office that granted probate, and was told that his sister-in-law would definitely be responsible for probate, along with her deceased husband’s estate.

Barry checked with the help desk again and the man he spoke to consulted three of his senior colleagues who insisted that their advice was right. A further phone call to Winchester resulted in three managers confirming that the advice they were giving was accurate. Back to the help desk who maintained their position but advised him to get legal advice (!!) but also said that as Winchester was responsible for granting probate he’d better accept their advice as they would be dealing with it.

Everyone Barry spoke to was helpful and polite but why was there so much disagreement between them? Finally, Barry phoned the principal Registry in London and The Winchester office’s advice was confirmed as correct.    

Fortunately, Barry and his sister-in-law get on well together and there is no conflict of interest or argument about the disposal of his late mother’s estate.

Help desks should help, not confuse. There needs to be clarification in training so that all parties are giving the same advice.

                                                                                               

Slow Down!

Slow Down!

Festival of Britain, 1951

I have always spoken quickly, words tumbling out of my mouth in their rush to get away from me. Even in the classroom I was aware that I was speaking too fast and tried to moderate the speed, without success. Add to that my clipped delivery and fairly quiet voice and you may understand that most people have difficulty hearing what I’m saying. (Naturally, when I was teaching, I ensured that my voice was loud enough to be heard – sometimes very loud. I can project very well when required to do so.)

As an example, this is what my writing looks like these days before I correct it . . . I hace alwysa spoeken qycjkty, words tumblins our of my nmuth in th r rush to gwe awat form me.

Lincolnshire, 1964

Of course, it may just be my poor touch-typing but it is a fact that it is getting progressively worse. It would appear that the less I speak the more my fingers tangle in the keys and produce gobbledegook. When I stopped going out to work (I refused to say I had retired, such vanity! I was not of retirement age and did not wish to be considered OLD) I relished the prospect of not having to talk all day and now I am almost monosyllabic. (You must allow for exaggeration here!)

Now, when required to conduct some sort of social interaction I often fumble for words, desperate to respond intelligibly and not in an ELDERLY fashion and then I see myself as youngsters see me – past it, bless her. It happened the other day when I went to the hospital to have my eyes dealt with (Visual Fields, don’t you know – all those flashing lights, a patch over one eye and then the other and the buzzer in my hand. I’m sure you know the form:  ’Press the buzzer when you see the white light, keep your eye on the orange light in the centre, don’t search for the white light,’ with the result that I frantically press the buzzer, afraid I might miss one of the spots or think back and realise I have missed one. I listen to the buzzers all around me and hear the ophthalmologist explaining patiently to others what they must do and tell myself to concentrate.)

Both eyes having been tested the pleasant young woman (very young . . . how old could she be? Surely not old enough to be doing this job?) asked me, as she had asked every other person, ‘Have you any other appointments today?’ (What did she think? Was I going to have my mental acuity tested or a prosthetic limb fixed?) and that’s when my quick-wittedness came to my aid as I mumbled, ‘No,’ and she said lightly, ‘Oh, another one with no other appointments so you’re free to go now,’ which is when I compounded my elderliness by saying, ‘I’ve got another appointment on July 22^nd,’ thus proving that my memory is not quite shot yet. I wanted to stride out of the room in a parody of youthful energy but my bag strap was stuck under the chair and as I fumbled to free it she came to my aid and picked it up for me. I think she was quite surprised at the weight of it. She didn’t exactly grunt as she lifted it, but I had the impression of renewed respect.

As for stepping out smartly, that was never going to happen. For two months I had sciatica which dissipated to be replaced by pain in my hips (one or other, sometimes both), the result of walking badly because of the sciatica *sigh*. After I’ve been sitting for a while I stiffen and it takes a while to unbend and so I hobbled out, pride not quite intact, thus completing the image of a poor old dear.

Who was it said, ‘Would that we could see ourselves as others see us’?* I’d rather not, thank you. It’s enough of a shock to encounter myself in the mirror and too off-putting to realise that a young slip of a lad or lass is looking at me unable, or unwilling, to understand that one day they too will be old(er).

*I cannot let pass a quotation without checking it to make sure I have it correct. (Is this another instance of impending – or ongoing – decrepitude? Or OCD?) In this case, I didn’t . . .  have it correct, that is. I paraphrased the immortal words of Robert Burns, Rabbie to his familiars:-

O, wad some Power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as others see us!
It wad frae monie a blunder free us,
An' foolish notion. 

 Robert Burns, The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Burns

Blandford, 2013

Words for Wednesday

Words for Wednesday

Delores from ‘The Feathered Nest’ offers six words as a writing prompt – recalcitrant, fangs, dithering, glassy, rodeo, wet. Why not visit her and see what other writing has been prompted?

It was summer and the season of school fayres and community fêtes with every group hoping to raise funds. In a bid to appeal to a wider audience the local church had decided to rename their Flower Festival the Floral Rodeo. People came out of curiosity, hoping for prancing stallions in the aisles but found instead dithering officials apologising for any disappointment they had caused. Recalcitrant children, dragged along by their parents, bared their fangs in a semblance of good humour as a rather wet young curate tried to engage them in conversation. Glassy-eyed visitors, anxious to escape his enthusiastic exhortations to join the congregation, gladly donated substantial amounts of loose change to the church restoration fund and gratefully made their exit to the cool air of an English summer.

The Entropy Gang's July blog (formerly Conservatory Cats' Chats)

The Entropy Gang’s July blog (formerly Conservatory Cats’ Chats)

Isambard, Bertie, Jellicoe and Herschel

Herschel: Since last we wrote some interesting things have occurred.

Isambard: First we all went to spend a day with the Vet servants. I was much happier this time because my brothers came with me.

Jellicoe: The Vet servants’ nurse who greeted us was really excited.

Herschel: She had never seen Ocicats before so we were met with great enthusiasm.

Isambard: We were taken into another room but we don’t really know what happened next.

Jellicoe: Don’t you remember? We were each given an injection and then we fell asleep.

Herschel: When we woke up we felt that something was missing but we didn’t quite know what.

Isambard, Herschel and Jellicoe on the cat tree 

Isambard: We all had something we didn’t have before – transparent collars. We couldn’t get them off even though we tried.

Jellicoe: We were pleased when The Thinker and The Maid came to take us home. They thought we were going to be quiet. I don’t know why.

Herschel: We were so pleased to be out of the little pens we had been kept in at the Vets that we charged all over the house.

Isambard: The collars made a screeching noise as they scraped along the floor and it was difficult to groom ourselves. They got rather a lot of food in them, too.

Jellicoe: We had to go back to the Vets to be checked and then at last The Thinker and The Maid took the collars off and we were free again.

Herschel: Since then I have been into the GARDEN three times. I wasn’t supposed to because the special fence isn’t in place yet.

Isambard: The THINKER and The MAID have had to wait while their next-door neighbours had a new fence put up. It looks very smart.

Jellicoe: The DOGS didn’t like it because the men had to come into our GARDEN and they barked. Then BERTIE realised that next-door’s GARDEN was open and he could go in it. He liked that.

Herschel: We have plenty of room to play in the house. We can climb very high.

Herschel and Jellicoe 

Isambard: We’ve all been on top of the kitchen cupboards . . .

 Jellicoe and Herschel

Jellicoe: . . . and the grandfather clock . . .

 Herschel 

Jellicoe

Herschel: . . . and we like climbing the wire mesh door that allows fresh air into the sitting room but doesn’t let us out.

Isambard

 Herschel (and Bertie)

 Isambard: The THINKER and The MAID say they’re going to move the bird feeder. They think we might catch the birds.

Jellicoe: We can catch flies and spiders but they’re much smaller.

Herschel: Some of the birds are quite small but the black and white birds (editor’s note: Magpies) and the heavy grey ones (editor’s note: wood pigeons) are too big for us.

Isambard: We could work together – we’re good at that.

Jellicoe: For example, we know how to open doors but we can’t quite manage it yet. We keep trying, though.

Herschel: In the mornings, as soon as we hear any movement from the BEDROOM where The THINKER and The MAID and the DOGS sleep we start miaouing and scratching at the door. Isambard is the first to start and he tries to push the door handle down to open the door.

Isambard: I jump down on it from the chest of drawers.

Jellicoe: Eventually we are allowed into the BEDROOM and we purr very loudly for a very long time and then we settle down on the bed and go to sleep.

Herschel: We’ve discovered a new game. One of us hides, one of us stays with The THINKER and The MAID and one of us goes upstairs.

Isambard: I usually stay downstairs with the Servants and Jellicoe goes upstairs while Herschel hides.

Jellicoe: After a while I start to cry and that alarms the Servants. They’re always relieved when they see me so then I go upstairs again and miaou.

Herschel: That’s when the Servants freak out. They know where Jellicoe and Isambard are but they realise they haven’t seen me. They hunt everywhere for me, even in the places I’ve never been. Then one of them sees me in the cat tree. I’m usually asleep by the time they find me. It’s fun to play hide and seek but it can get rather boring.

Isambard: We are still creating entropy. Yesterday we knocked a casserole dish off the top of the cupboard and broke it. The bits went everywhere. The MAID had to use the vacuum cleaner and that made GUS shiver and shake – silly DOG.

Jellicoe, Isambard and Herschel

Jellicoe: Time for a zizz now – I hope next time we can show you some photographs of us in the GARDEN. We’re really looking forward to exploring OUTDOORS.

We are linking to Gattina's Cats on Tuesday 

Come on , baby, light my fire

Image by Stanley Kubrick for Look Magazine, 1949

Mag 174

Thanks to Tess for this prompt. Go here to read others’ offerings.

Sara was bored. She’d only agreed to come to the hop to keep her friend company. Now her friend had got off with a boy she’d been keen on for some time and Sara was left kicking her heels. She would have gone home but her friend was relying on her for a lift. A lad strolled over to her, hands in pockets, very casual. She wasn’t instantly impressed but maybe things were looking up.

He said, ‘Come on, baby, light my fire.’

‘Do you mean you’d like a light for your cigarette?’

‘Yeah.’

Flick, flick, flick, flick.

‘You got fuel in that thing?’

‘Of course I have. Oh, look there you are – it’s working.’

‘Turn the flame down, can’t you? You nearly ‘ad me eyebrows there.’

‘Complaints, complaints.’

‘Keep it steady, gel.’

‘I’m doing my best.’

‘Can’t get me fag near the flame.’

‘You could take your hands out of your pockets.’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah.’

‘It’s alight now.’

‘About time, too. See ya.’

Sara turned away, sighing. He wasn’t a prepossessing lad but he would have helped her pass the time until she was required to drive her friend home. Really, these village hops were a total waste of time.

Years later, fifteen or sixteen maybe, Sara was reminded of this conversation when she heard The Doors sing, ‘Light my fire’, and remembered the uncouth youth with the slovenly manners. Maybe he had become a musician, a songwriter. She’d never seen him after that night, not that she’d wanted to, of course.

The days of village hops were far behind her, thank goodness, and she’d managed to give up smoking, so no-one would ever again ask her for a light.

A Passing Attachment

The Promenade, 1918, Marc Chagall 

It was the end of the war, the Great War, the war to end all wars. The lucky ones, the survivors, were reunited with their loved ones. The others, the unfortunate ones, the bereaved, the deceased, the maimed, were forgotten in the spirit of euphoria that swept through the land. Later would come the harshness of facing up to a splintered future, of trying to re-establish normal life when so much and so many had been destroyed.

I noticed him standing at the edge of the crowd, watching. I moved towards him. Wordlessly, he took my hand and led me through a gate to a meadow. He produced a flask of wine and two glasses and we sat on velvet grass.

I didn’t know him. He didn’t know me. We were lost in the loneliness, the disconnection that follows the ending of a cataclysmic event that absorbed everyone for four long years. We came together for mutual comfort, to find passion and joy, however ephemeral.

You might say he swept me off my feet. 

Thank you, Tess, for this prompt. Click here to see more responses.

Words for Wednesday - Anyone for cricket?

Words for Wednesday

Delores from ‘The Feathered Nest’ offers six words as a writing prompt – virtuous, flannel, donuts, cartoons, inching, frayed. 

 

 Why not visit her and see what other writing has been inspired?

During the season commonly called Summer the sun-starved Englishman is sustained by cricket commentaries on television or radio. Often he will watch the television with the sound turned down and listen to the radio commentary.

Frequently he hears ‘Rain stopped play’. In previous times, a natural break might furnish an opportunity for cartoons to be played. Today’s commentators discuss cricketers of yore, choosing their candidates for a hypothetical all-time greatest team. They talk also of each other’s exploits on the cricket field, when dressed in white flannels, they kept wicket or stood at silly mid-off or backward short leg and tried to prevent the opposing team inching towards victory. They note the comings and goings of aircraft, pigeons and clouds and comment on their colleagues’ predilections for wine or salmon-coloured trousers.

The Faithful Fans send in cakes to the team in the commentary box, which are gratefully received and enjoyed during the long hours of a cricket match. I don’t think any donuts (doughnuts) have ever been offered, but I may be wrong.

Sometimes tempers are frayed, both on the pitch and off it; for example, an Australian batsman may miss the Ashes test series next month after hitting an English player in a bar in the early hours of Sunday morning. The victim, not badly hurt, indeed, not hurt at all, virtuously accepted his attacker’s apology. Undoubtedly they will meet again on the cricket field some time in the future and battle will be joined according to the strict and baffling laws of the game.

Charleston Farmhouse, Sussex, UK

Charleston Farmhouse, Sussex, UK

Charleston Farmhouse door - image from Charleston Farmhouse site

A conversation between Vanessa Bell and Duncan Grant

Vanessa sighed and looked at Duncan’s back, bent over his latest oeuvre.

‘Duncan,’ she said, ‘We have painted so many frescos I declare myself completely devoid of inspiration.’

Duncan’s impatience was barely discernible but she noticed his slight shrug. His voice, however, was calm, well-modulated when he replied. ‘My dear, we have been painting this place for more than fifty years. I am positive you will make a fine choice.’

Vanessa acknowledged the truth of this riposte but sucked the end of her paintbrush before responding. ‘I confess I sometimes feel we made a mistake embarking on post-impressionism. It was perhaps a little ambitious.’

Duncan’s shoulders stiffened but he did not turn round. ‘Dear heart, we have discussed this many times. I am presently involved in the intricacies of a cupboard door and cannot decide whether to have cherubs or flowers and thus I cannot engage in further debate until I have reached a conclusion.’

Vanessa pouted, though of course Duncan could not see her expression. ‘I was only voicing that which was in my mind, Duncan.’

Duncan cocked his head, considering the cupboard door, and said, ‘Our friends appreciate it. Why, Virginia was saying only the other day that sitting in our drawing room is like visiting an art gallery.’

 ‘That may not have been a compliment,’ suggested Vanessa.

Silence fell. Duncan grunted, a sound that indicated he had made a decision. Vanessa stared into space. After a few minutes she spoke again.

‘Duncan, what do you think of this?’

Duncan continued to gild the latest lily. He had decided against further heavenly bodies for the present. 

‘Duncan?’

Duncan rose to his feet, groaning somewhat at the creaking of his knees and turned to Vanessa. His hands flew to his mouth but were powerless to smother his shriek of horror.

‘What have you done?’ he gasped.

‘I grew weary of so much busyness,’ she declared, a note of defiance in her tone. ‘It calms me to rest my eyes on a sea of one colour. It puts me in mind of a magnolia bloom.’

Duncan glared at the wall, his eyes round with shock. ‘It is so . . . outré,’ he declared at last.

‘I believe we may start a new movement,’ said Vanessa. ‘You will see.’

And she was right. Magnolia is the colour of choice in UK for new-build homes and those being offered for sale or rent.

Thanks to Tess for this prompt. Go here to read others’ offerings.

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The Maid's Lament

Words for Wednesday

Delores from ‘The Feathered Nest’ offers six words (actually, she’s gone overboard this week and given us twelve to choose from. Twelve!! J) as a writing prompt – bovine, clandestine, divine, engine, enshrine, incline, leonine, machine, pine, ravine, recline, valentine.  

Why not visit her and see what other writing has been inspired?

The Maid's Lament

He said our love would be enshrined,

He said our love would last –

He said, ‘To wed I am inclined’ –

The fatal die was cast.

His honeyed words seduced me,

We met near the ravine,

A clandestine arrangement -

He feared we might be seen.

I thought he looked so leonine,

He said I was divine,

And on the tallest broadest pine

He carved our valentine.

The engine of his passion

Beat hard within his breast,

At least that’s what he told me –

I know you’ll guess the rest.

Upon the greensward I reclined,

He took my hand in his;

What bliss was this, a simple kiss –

My fate was now defined.

For what came next was no surprise,

Except to this poor maid,

Like tables, eggs and groaning ghosts

I had been truly laid.

Rose-tinted glasses

Rose-tinted glasses

Waking, Walking, Singing in the Next Dimension?by Morris Graves 1979

I peer myopically at the birthday cards. As usual I’ve forgotten my reading glasses  and there’s no time to go home for them if I’m going to catch the post. Must be quick - time and tide and the Royal Mail wait for no man. How old will she be tomorrow? Twelve? Mustn’t get anything too babyish – children grow up so quickly these days.

Ah! This looks promising – quite pink but then she likes pink; it’s always been her favourite colour, ever since she was a tiny girl. Oh look, are those birds perching in leafy bowers? That’s appropriate – she’s interested in bird-watching, even identified some in my garden the other week. I wonder what they are – I’ll have to ask her when I see her.

I don’t care for verses in cards – all that supposed poetry not scanning properly and with strangely convoluted sentences to make the rhymes fit – you know the sort of thing:-

Today’s a special day for you,

Full of joy and love and laughter,

Here’s hoping Happy Birthday to you

Will lead to happy ever after.

A quick glance inside – no verse, just . . . what does it say? I squint to make out the words. ‘Thinking of you’. That’s good – short and sweet and I can scrawl ‘Happy Birthday’ underneath it. I glance at the large clock above the door – only ten minutes before the postman comes to empty the letter box. Come on, hurry up! Luckily, I know her address by heart. I write the card and address the envelope and slip it through the slot just as the mail van pulls up. Phew! Job done!

A couple of days later I’m at her house. I’ve just given her my present and I’m glancing at the birthday cards on the window sill. Hmm, very nice selection – some quite ‘young’, others more adult as befits a – what do they call them these days? A tweeny? They used to be the in-between maids, the young girls who helped the cook and the housemaid in a large household. I gather it’s spelt differently – tweenie - so I suppose that makes it all right. Ho hum – when I was young there weren’t even any teenagers. Funny how language evolves.

She smiles at me. ‘Thank you for my present,’ she says. ‘It’s lovely.’

‘My pleasure,’ I say. ‘Did you like my card? I thought you might tell me what the birds are. I didn’t have my reading glasses with me when I bought it.’

Her mother laughs. ‘We thought that’s what might have happened,’ she says.

I confess I’m a little puzzled and look more closely at the card I sent. Now, my glasses allow me to see that as well as my scribbled greeting, ‘Thinking of you’ is followed by ‘at this sad time.’ I look again at the front. White doves are depicted prettily posed on pink roses.

I gasp but my granddaughter and great-granddaughter laugh again. My son comes into the room. ‘I don’t think you’ll forget your glasses again,’ he says and hugs me.

Thanks to Tess for this prompt. Go here to read other offerings.