Three quarters of a century

Yesterday saw me celebrating my birthday. A milestone one at that. I am now officially 75 or in other words three quarters of a century. A 1950 vintage and so far doing OK. People keep telling me I don't look 75 but younger. I'm not sure if they're just being kind or need to go to Specsavers!

I was going to tell you that we caught the train to a Medway town I have never been to and was interested in seeing it, as it has an old castle and a house where Charles Dickens lived. Unfortunately the weather proved far too wet and cold to tramp around outside for a whole day and furthermore I had a flare-up of my on-going stomach problem where I feel as if I have been punched in the chest. Also, because, Kay is stressed and preoccupied with a forthcoming exam in 3 days' time, I decided it was best all round if we aborted the trip and I took to my bed and rested while Kay revised at her house. 

In the late afternoon, I rallied a bit and we met up and ventured out to see the switching-on of the Christmas lights in our "village".  Unfortunately I was still not up to eating a meal out and certainly no alcohol on my acid-burnt tummy, which was a shame as I was looking forward to having a meal out in my favourite Italian restaurant here. They always do the most amazing skate wing with caper sauce, new potatoes and vegetables.

Admittedly I was feeling ghastly, so forced some semblance of a smile, as Kay took this photo yesterday. 

photo now removed

Here's a photo taken 5 years ago on my 70th. I am looking a bit more cheerful there!

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And here's another one taken later last night where I managed a proper smile...

photo now removed

It takes me a good few days if not sometimes weeks to get over these stomach acid flare-ups, but thankfully I am seeing my consultant on Thursday for a review after my recent gastroscopy. Meanwhile a bland diet is my cuisine for the immediate future.

The next big birthday will be my eightieth. Given that I couldn't celebrate my seventieth in grand style with a party because of covid lockdowns, I think I'll start to arrange that now.

A Parliament of Owls

Thanks to a post by Dawn Treader recently, it got me thinking about the owls I own.

When I was a lot younger, I once commented that my husband Greg reminded me of an owl - he wore large metal-rimmed spectacles that were fashionable in the 60s and 70s (the sort John Lennon used to wear) and was very wise. He was a radio journalist who ended up in the BBC World Service Newsroom, so was very knowledgeable about all sorts of things to do with politics and world affairs.

Having made this observation, I then found I was inundated with presents of owls by people who needed some clues for what to give me for birthday or Christmas presents or a souvenir from their holiday. Not real owls of course, but china ones, glass ones, fabric ones, vases, mugs, pictures, doorstops, jewellery and keyrings.

Over the decades I have accumulated so many that I have now had to say 'No more, please', as my shelves and walls are groaning with them. If at some stage in the future, I need to downsize my home, I shall be hard-pushed to know what to do with them all.

The collective name for owls is a Parliament. A Parliament of Owls. So here is my 'Parliament' for you to feast your eyes on.

I have even been given socks with owls on

Rota Manager

Although I have been retired for 15 years now, I still seem to be very busy. As I have been a widow for all that time too, I find it helps to keep busy otherwise I end up talking to the wall or watching too much TV. Apart from the weekly housework and gardening that needs doing,  I have joined choirs, do at least 3 gym classes a week, help out at the local foodbank and foodbank shop and also volunteer at our local park which is run by the Friends of the Park.

As for the latter, the volunteering has involved doing a two-hour shift on a weekend afternoon to open the information centre. We can sign up to do a shift once a week, or even once every two months - the choice is yours and there is no pressure to do it regularly. The public come in to buy food for the squirrels or ducks, or leaflets about the many things to see in the park - such as the different trees, ducks, herons or wildlife. We try to answer their questions too, so there is a lot involved.

Being the organisation freak I am, I had noticed that there was a definite lack of volunteers and the Chairwoman of the Friends committee was also in poor health, so I temporarily took it upon myself to advertise for more volunteers in a local Facebook group and devise a Whatsapp rota where volunteers could sign on to do shifts. I ended up chasing for volunteers where there were gaps in the rota and ended up putting up new rotas for each month about six weeks in advance. Everyone has come to expect me as the rota manager now.

Somehow, I have also got embroiled in noting what information leaflets need updating, by whom and how to get them printed. I held my first meeting this week to get together those who are rewriting those leaflets and the finance director who will inevitably ending up paying for the reprints. It was a very successful meeting and now my role will be to chivvy/nag them into meeting deadlines. There is no point having an information centre, if you haven't got the relevant information to give out.

I may have also stuck my neck out by ordering some merchandise - children's animal bedtime stories, skipping ropes and small toys connected with nature - to sell in the centre too to raise some more income. Without trying too hard, I almost have a full-time job keeping everyone on their toes and making the park information centre a success. I'm currently trying to chase up the people who used to do two bat walks a year, as that seemed to dwindle with the advent of Covid. As for the annual music festival in the park, that may be another task for next year. The Chairwoman has asked me to consider being on the committee. I have so far managed to stay silent on that one. I much prefer to do things in the wings rather than in the spotlight.

Some visiting black swans

Cherry blossom in the spring

A pair of Egyptian Geese and a Canada Goose

Mandarin Duck

Digital Voice

Although I have a smart phone which I carry everywhere with me and find most useful for texting and looking up stuff on the internet, I still have a landline phone in the house. I hear better with it and it comes as an added extra with my broadband. I know a lot of people no longer have landlines, particularly the younger generation, but if their mobiles get stolen or lost then they are rather up the creek without a paddle until they can replace it, so I keep my landline going.

My landline is connected to three handsets on the same circuit. The main handset also has an answer machine which flashes, if I have messages to pick up. That is situated in my lounge. For those of you who don't already know, I live in a house with 6 half levels (SEE HERE), so it is convenient to have handsets dotted about that I can get to in a hurry, so I have another one in the kitchen, one in the study and one in the bedroom. The bedroom one was bought separately so is on a different circuit to the other three. For example, if I change the settings on the main/lounge handset, it will automatically correct the ones in the kitchen and study, but not the one in the bedroom. That one I have to do separately.

The UK, along with other European countries are now changing their phone networks from analogue to digital. British Telecom call it Digital Voice and have been gradually changing the connection to people's landlines over recent months. It was now my turn this week. I first received emails and texts that it would happen and then finally given the date of 5 November for my switchover from analogue to digital.

I woke that morning to find my phones were completely dead, which was the signal to start the switchover. According to the instructions previously sent to me, I was to plug my main phone handset into the router (which unfortunately is situated in my bedroom - not my choice as the main telephone cable comes in through there). The router and telephone would then communicate with one another and the switch would be complete. If, as was the case with me, you did not want your main phone plugged into the router permanently, you could send off for an adapter which you would plug into the router first to communicate with the router and then move the adapter to a room of your choice, where you would then plug in your main phone. I did not want my main handset and answer machine in the bedroom, but in the lounge, so opted to have the adapter sent to me, so I could set the main handset with its answer machine up in the lounge, as it had always been.

Given that I am not the best technology-gifted, I was a little apprehensive about all of this, but set to dismantling and reconnecting all the bits of equipment. To my delight, it seemed to work. The main phone reconnected to the adapter in the lounge and I rang my mobile to make sure I could still make calls. I then rang my best friend to make sure I could connect with other BT numbers. What I didn't know was if someone could still leave a message on the landline answer machine, so my friend promised to ring me back and leave a message. She did also say, that the answer machine might not work if my phone was set to answer with more than three rings (which it does after eight rings) so I had to fiddle about with that until I got the answer machine to work.

When I picked up the handsets in the kitchen and the study, the dialing tone sounded strange - like a throbbing rather than its usual continuous tone. In frustration what to do next, I contacted BT on my mobile and asked for help. A lovely patient man on the other end listened to my concerns and talked me through what to do. It seemed, having the message on the answer machine was affecting the dialing tone, effectively alerting me to the fact I had message. If I deleted the message, the dialing tone would return to its normal sound. Problem sorted. 

Once off the phone to BT, I checked my internet was working by turning on my laptop and TV package. No problems there. Then I went to connect the separate circuit handset in the bedroom. Of course I couldn't plug it back into the phone socket on the wall, as that was the analogue connection, so assumed I had to plug it into the router.  But it did not give off a dialing tone, so it looks like I won't be able to have that in the bedroom after all. No great problem, unless someone decides to ring me when I am in bed, as I shall now have to hare up or down a flight of stairs to get to the lounge or study handsets in time.

BT's promotional leaflets say the transition is simple. They should try living in a 6-storey house with 4 phones. By the time I had heaved furniture about in several rooms to access the various sockets and plug points, I was shattered.  Simple it most certainly wasn't.

To add to my misery, I had the second part of my shingles vaccination (Shingrix) four days ago. The first part was in May and I had no problem with it, apart from a slight ache in my upper arm where the needle went in. I had been warned the second dose to be done six months later was far worse and it did not disappoint a few days ago. On the second day my arm was so painful to touch, I had an area about two inches square around the injection site  that was swollen, bright red and covered in blisters. I felt overwhelmingly tired and cold, when everyone was telling me how mild the weather was (and I'm someone who never feels the cold). Finally my arm is beginning to resort to its usual colour and the pain and blisters are reducing somewhat. Thank goodness there isn't a third dose, but hopefully now I am protected against shingles, which can be very painful indeed.

Cecil Beaton

Earlier this week, I went up with some of my choir friends to the National Portrait Gallery in Trafalgar Square to see the Cecil Beaton exhibition. Somewhere in the back of my brain I knew the name, but I knew very little about the man or his work. It turned out to be a very interesting exhibition and very informative.

Cecil Beaton

Born in 1904, at the age of 12, he was given a camera by his nanny which he proceeded to use most of his life. In the 1920s and 1930s, he used it to photograph black and white portraits of his family and himself. He went on to mingle with debutantes and socialites, taking many pictures of beautiful women. What struck me most was how busy most of the backgrounds of his portraits were. 

He dallied with a career in New York for a while. He designed book jackets and even clothes and eventually took on work with Vogue magazine and Vanity Fair in 1927. He was fired in 1938 for making anti-semitic comments and returned to England.  During the war years, he worked at the Ministry of Information as a War Photographer, best known for his images of the damage done by the German Blitz, such as the little girl below. 

He ingratiated himself into the Royal Family and went on to take photos of Edward and Mrs Simpson, The Queen Mother and the Princesses Elizabeth and Margaret.

Portrait of Princess Elizabeth 1945

Princess Margaret on her 21st birthday

After the war, he took on Broadway, designing, sets for various productions. His many portraits included John Wayne, Gary Cooper, Marlon Brando, Truman Capote, Elizabeth Taylor, Greta Garbo and Katherine Hepburn to name a few. His most memorable work was the design of costumes and sets for My Fair Lady and he was a keen friend of Audrey Hepburn who played Eliza Doolittle.

Audrey Hepburn as Eliza Doolittle

Audrey Hepburn as Eliza Doolittle

From 1930 to 1945, Beaton leased  Ashcombe House in Wiltshire, where he entertained many notable figures. In 1947, he bought Reddish House, set in 2.5 acres of gardens, approximately 5 miles to the east in  Broad Chalke. Here he transformed the interior, adding rooms on the eastern side, extending the parlour southwards, and introducing many new fittings. He loved the house and remained there until his death in 1980. He is buried in the parish church there.

Reddish House, Wiltshire

Dementia mittens

I have always known how to knit, but never really knitted much in life. As a small child, I used to watch my grandmother unravel huge skeins of wool into more manageable balls. My grandmother was a good knitter - I suppose they were in those days as they made a lot of  their own clothes or made do. She taught me to knit basic things.  At school we had to knit squares in our break times to make into blankets for the homeless shelter near our school. In my twenties and thirties I knitted the occasional baby clothes for friends or family, but didn't really consider myself a pro.

A few months before the covid pandemic started in 2020, a Swiss friend of my Brighton friend visited her, while I was also there, and told us of her husband's dementia and his restlessness. The conversation developed into ways of maybe calming him, as he was quite agitated. The topic of dementia mittens came up. They are like knitted mittens in bright colours and decorated with things like ribbons and buttons for the person to fiddle with. I was asked if I might be able to make one for her. I researched what they looked like online and even found a pattern to work to, so I set to and knitted my very first one which I then sent on to the friend in Switzerland in early 2020.

Once the covid pandemic struck, I was housebound during the lockdowns on my own. Life was very boring apart from the occasional walk around the block. Kay had moved out and was was placed at the expense of the NHS in the Holiday Inn at Gatwick (see here) close to the hospital where she worked so as not to pass any hospital covid germs on to me as she was working in Intensive Care with dying Covid patients and I was classed as "vulnerable". So, in my newly acquired loneliness, I started knitting more dementia mittens. I ordered the wool and ribbons and other decorations online and would sit watching TV, knitting away. It helped me feel less guilty about watching too much TV.   It would take about a week to knit one just in the evenings and then decorate it. To start with I would hand them over to local care homes or charity shops and before I knew it I had a production line going!

In recent years I have made them for the foodbank charity shop, where I volunteer, and they have been flying off the shelves with requests from customers for more. To date I must have knitted well over 400 of them. Here are pictures of some of them for you to get an idea of what they look like. You can insert your hands inside the muffs and there are ribbons and buttons inside too to fiddle with.  I have been told that hospitalised dementia patients use them too to avoid fiddling with catheters on their hands or arms and pulling them out. Ouch!

some recent ones

Some of the many accumulating during the covid lockdown

Dementia

Back in the middle of summer, I visited J, my sister-in-law (Greg's sister) in the Midlands. I haven't seen her since August 2024 and do try to visit when I can to catch up on family news, see J's  daughter and now 22-month old granddaughter, as well as J's 79-year-old partner M. M sadly has dementia and for the last year or so has been living in a care home. 

His decline was gradual, first diagnosed about 6 years ago. At first, it was just a case of some forgetfulness, but gradually worsened. It is a horrible disease for both the patient and their family. J is very practical and had realised a few years in advance that living in a bungalow with washable floors would be much easier than their big house with carpets. The bungalow is situated in a small hamlet in the middle of nowhere comprising 11 houses. No shop and no street lights, but does boast a very small postbox inserted into a wall. Their neighbour opposite is a farmer who owns the surrounding fields.

M had run his own business, but gradually that was wound up and all paperwork put into their attic. He gradually became incapable of driving his van and that was given up and his license rescinded. He would forget what he had eaten 5 minutes ago and would watch a whole football match on TV and then an hour later deny he had ever seen the game. He would wander out into the fields with his beloved Border Collie dog and forget how to get home again.  Very often the farmer opposite would find him, particularly when the dog came home without him. When the dog was finally put down because of cancer, M did not really register this and some six months later was asking where the dog was.

J had often considered putting a tracker on M to help her find him if he wandered off, but he was stubborn and refused to wear one and changed his coats so often, it was difficult for J to judge what he would be wearing to secrete it on him. He would spend his day out in the country lane nearby obsessed with picking up leaves or pulling up dandelions, even though it was not his property. He would come even more alive in the middle of the night, wanting to access his business papers and nothing would quieten him until he climbed up into the attic. J was getting next to no sleep yet having to function during the day to the care of feeding him, clothing him and watching over him.

In the winter of 2023/24 he managed to get out of the house at 3am in the middle of the night. It was cold and snowing and, as J had locked the front door and hidden the key,  he had managed to get out at the back through the French doors of the lounge and round the side of the house. With no street lights he had become even more confused and didn't know where he was, so thankfully knocked on the first front door he came to, namely their own front door. J was wakened to someone pounding on the door to find him standing there in pyjamas and slippers in the snow, asking if she knew where he was!! 

It was at that point that J realised it was not safe for him to be at home any more and also she was exhausted from the constant worry and sleepless nights she was getting, as he paced the bungalow day and night. With much deliberation and guilt, and on the advice of the Admiral nurses who are experts on dementia, she put him into a care home last year. It has not been easy and her guilt exists to this day as she feels she has let him down. But, as one professional said, he was no longer a one-person job and she could not have continued without her own health failing. She is, after all, over 70 herself.

His fascination (or is it impatience) with things on the ceiling that blink (like smoke detectors or fire alarms) has seen him have several narrow escapes, as he tries to dismantle them. According to the care home staff, he once moved an armchair from the corridor, put it on his bed and then attempted to climb onto the bed and then the wobbly armchair to dismantle the smoke alarm above his bed. He has climbed onto the toilet seat to do the same in his ensuite bathroom and again in the communal dining room where he stood on a dining chair in front of a ceiling-to-floor window two floors up from the ground. The staff found him just in time as the chair started to topple. Falling through a plate glass window two storeys up doesn't bear thinking about.

When J visits him (four times a week) he barely recognises her now and treats her as if she is one of the residents. He will chat to her for a few minutes and then wander off to sit with someone else. She has even seen him more than once holding hands with a female resident he has become friendly with. He, like the others, wanders into other's rooms and helps himself to their clothes. Once a visitor's coat when missing from where he had left it and uproar was caused as they tried to find it, as it had his car keys in it and the man couldnt leave without it. The staff found M in his room wearing it and retrieved the coat and keys, so the visitor could go on their way. Once hungry, M forced open a locked cupboard in the communal kitchen and helped himself to a dishwasher tablet to eat. Fortunately a nurse came running in time before he had swallowed it. There are so many episodes I could mention that would make a good comedy series if it weren't such a serious topic.

We have no idea how much longer this disease will take to progress to its final stage. It is a strain on J and the immediate family as the money to pay for the care home is astronomical and eating at any savings, not to mention the sheer ignorance of how long this will go on for. He is effectively lost as her partner but still alive inside what resembles a now worn-out body. I have read that dementia is the biggest killer these days and has overtaken cancer or heart disease. It is quite frightening to see the demise of a man who was once a successful businessman and had all his faculties. It is quite frightening to think that it could, on the law of averages, happen to those close to us or even us.

Imagine

Imagine.

Imagine a country in civilised Europe.

Imagine a country in civilised Europe where the usual major political parties are losing votes, as nobody deems them competent any more.

Imagine this country's population targeting a section of the community with cultural differences, blaming them for all its problems and wanting rid of them.

Imagine a far right wing political party stepping into the limelight and overtaking the major political parties in votes.

Imagine this far right party promising change for the better, trashing what the other main political parties stood for and promising to get rid of anyone who doesn't think like them or are the cause of the problems.

Imagine street demonstrations unfurling their nationalistic flags and symbols, hailing this far right party as amazing whilst the minority cower in fear.

Are you thinking of Germany in 1933?

Or The United Kingdom in a year or two?

Just imagine.

Be careful what you wish for.

It could easily happen here.

Pin cushion

It's that time of year, when the medical profession want to use me as target practice. In other words, it's annual vaccination time.  Yesterday I had a flu injection. Tomorrow it will be the covid one and, as all good things come in threes, I'm getting part 2 of my shingles vaccination in a few weeks' time. I'd better not drink any fluids or I'll look like this....

When the Red Red Robin Comes Bob Bob Bobbin' Along

For the last couple of months or so, I have had a little robin that comes to visit. That is actually an understatement. He virtually has moved into my garden and lies in wait for me every morning. As soon as I come downstairs into my kitchen, he can see me through the patio window and swoops down to sit right outside. At first he had the very fluffy feathers of a youngster, but over the months has been growing into his sleek adult feathers.  I started feeding him a few breadcrumbs, as I had stopped feeding the birds seeds and suet after the invasion of mice I had last year (see here). The little robin seemed addicted to the breadcrumbs and started hanging outside my patio door up to four or five times a day right up until sundown. My window cleaner told me that robins like cheese and, when I googled it, it was indeed true. I suppose the cheese is not unlike suet, good for their bones and it helps fatten them up to cope with the long hard winters. So now my little robin is even more addicted to visiting me several times a day, as he effectively gets a cheese sandwich handed to him (well, not on a plate). 

Here he is saying hello to me.......

.... and then having a bath after his cheese sandwich

Sadly, over the last two weeks, I have noticed another robin swoop into the garden, dive-bomb him and chase him away. Because of this, he is coming less often and always looking over his shoulder, when he does. I am rather inclined to think it is not an amorous encounter, rather it looks more like territorial warfare - like a Battle of Britain fight between a Spitfire and a Messerschmitt. I feel quite protective, as my little robin was there first.  I think I ought to start calling my robin Zelensky and the swooper Putin.

Food for thought

For any professionals out there, please excuse the rather poor drawing of my stomach above. It is the best I can do in the circumstances but it helps to explain to people a problem I have had for some time.

Back in 2016, it was discovered that I had a tumour growing on my stomach wall. I wrote about it at the time here. Known as a GIST (Gastro-Intestinal Stromal Tumour), the Stromal in this case refers to it growing in the stomach wall or muscle. In the drawing above, you can see the oesophagus or food pipe coming down into the stomach and the tumour (shown in red) was just below that near the top of the stomach. Fortunately the tumour was benign but it was removed as they can become aggressive, if left. The whole procedure was supposed to be done by laparoscopes, but it was awkward to remove that way and the four-hour operation resulted in me being opened up completely, so I have a vertical zip-fastener scar down my middle.

So far so good. Unfortunately, the stomach wall that was removed with the tumour contained nerves which tell the pyloric sphincter (the little black line shown at the base of the stomach) to open and spill its contents into the duodenum and onwards to the intestines. Consequently without that nerve constantly nagging the sphincter to open, my stomach only empties when it feels like it and can be bothered. It results in food and acid building up which then refluxes into my throat, often in the middle of the night when I am in a deep sleep, and I wake choking. I have to take meds to neutralise the acid and also occasionally have the pyloric sphincter stretched via a gastroscopy to encourage it to open better. My consultant prefers to do the procedure once a year or even once every six months as the valve gets very lazy indeed. It is pushing two years since I last had it done, so had been experiencing more problems with the acid reflux including one awful episode where I was in a deep sleep and the acid came up and went into my lungs instead, resulting in my "drowning" and fighting for my breath for over half an hour. As you can imagine, living on my own, this was a frightening experience, so I immediately arranged for another gastroscopy and stretch which was done two days ago.

Because of the acidity problem, I cannot eat too late into the day and need at least 4 hours between eating and going to bed. I also have a nightmare choosing what to eat when dining out. These days most menus seem to be full of spicy this and spicy that with chilli or curry or other fiery combinations - all of which can cause my stomach to flare up. It is so difficult to find something on the menu that is not going to cause me problems. I wish chefs would realise that not everyone has a cast-iron stomach. Obviously things could be far worse in old age and I must be grateful this is the only real medical problem I have.

Addendum

Just to update my previous post, I thought I'd record my waking last night.

Having gone to bed at 11.30pm I woke at

00:01

01:17

02:31

03:33

04:42

06:53

07:07

at which point I dragged myself out of bed. Needless to say, I have cancelled both the back-to-back gym classes today which I nickname my survival classes as I usually come out drenched in sweat afterwards. I didn't think I would survive if I went to them today after such poor sleep.

Sleepless in London (not Seattle)

 

The  picture above is typical of what I often see in the night. Sometimes it says 12:31 or 2.54 or 3:17 or all of those. The fact is I wake at least four times in the night these days, often half an hour after I have fallen asleep in the first place.  Often every 90 minutes. I used to be such a sound sleeper and could manage eight hours solid perfectly well. But the last three years has seen a serious decline in my sleep pattern to the extent that I wake frequently and don't feel slept-out when I rise at my usual 7 or 8am. When I wake during the night, I rehearse having difficult conversations with people, or draft in my head an email I need to send or practise learning off by heart a choir song I need to learn or make a mental list of things I need to do the next day or what to wear for a special event. My mind just doesn't seem to switch off. (By the way, I never ever wake because I need the toilet!)

I tend to avoid looking at blue light before bedtime, retire regularly around 11pm, read for half an hour or so in bed and even take medication to help me sleep (amitriptyline prescribed when my daughter was not sleeping through the night until she was 8 years old and my sleep patterns were disturbed at the time.) I have even sprayed lavender on my pillows to aid sleep (supposedly meant to help except it doesn't!) I have undergone sleep apnoea tests and they have proved I don't have that, so I am in a quandary what to do to get a decent sleep. Rather than fight it, I often get up, say at 3am and make a hot chocolate, then read for an hour and that often helps. By 7 or 8 am I am in such a deep coma, I could sleep forever, but usually have things I need to address so drag myself out of bed. 

 

Global warming?

In my front garden, I have a climbing rose that I have had for about 3 decades. This is a picture of it when it was blooming its heart out a few summers ago....

Today it looks like this....

It has obviously been distressed in the heatwaves we have experienced this summer. I did water it with the hose regularly. Maybe I overwatered it or underwatered it or it just didn't like the heat, but, whatever the reason, sadly it has died after all these years with me. I shall give it until spring to see whether it recovers, but all the branches are brown,  so I very much doubt it.

How not to be a parent

I was travelling back home on the local tram the other day. A woman got on with a little boy of about 6 years old and a buggy carrying twins of about 2 years old. She was glued to her phone for her entire journey on the tram as she stood by the pram. I could see she had earphones and was obviously gyrating about to some music fed into her ear. The little 6-year-old boy kept trying to engage in conversation with her but she just totally ignored him, not even acknowledging him at all. She was so engrossed in her phone. The little boy started to call out the name of the next tram stop as it was announced on the tram. He would repeatedly say "The next stop is....." much to the amusement of the other passengers. Still his mother ignored him. Then just as the tram was pulling into their stop, the little boy put his hand on one of the twins, at which point the mother yelled at him with a look of disgust on her face "What did you have to wake him up for?"  In a foul mood, she pushed the pram off the tram and the little boy followed behind sheepishly.

It got me thinking what kind of person that little boy would grow up into. Starved of interaction with his mother and always in the wrong. Desperate for human contact and ignored. In complete contrast, there was another mother on the same tram with a young baby of about a year old, holding him up to the window and pointing everything out to him. Is what we become nature or nurture? I seriously worry what will become of that little boy.

Isle of Man Part 2

Our third full day was quite busy and involved studying the transport timetables carefully to work out a strict timetable to see everything north of Douglas.

After an early breakfast, we walked northwards along the Douglas seafront and caught the Manx Electric railway from its terminus to Laxey. 

With the sea ever on our right we finally arrived at Laxey, famous for the largest working water wheel in the world at just over 72 feet in diameter. Built in 1854, it was used to pump water from the nearby mines which were rich in lead, copper, silver and zinc. We climbed the 96 steps to view the very top of the wheel and survey the surrounding countryside. Back on the ground we did a short walk to the entrance to the mines where we donned hard hats and went in as far as we were allowed.

Entrance to the mine

Miners' cottages

Our strict timetable allowed an hour there altogether before we headed the 20-minute walk past the delightful miners' cottages back to Laxey train station to catch the Snaefell Mountain Railway that would take us up to the highest point of the island. 

The island is quite hilly (dare I say even mountainous) along the central part that rises from north to the south. Scattered with flocks of sheep, it is also quite important for the Grand Prix TT races which use that area as part of their route. In fact while we were on the island what looked like hundreds of motor bikers dressed in their leathers and on powerful motorbikes were arriving for the Grand Prix that started days after we left. Once the mountain train gets you to the very top, you are greeted by amazing views on all sides, although the wind was so powerful up there, you could barely stand upright. 

We dived into the only building up there - once a tiny hotel and now a cafe with the most amazing cakes and choice of hot drinks, which we utilised as our lunch stop. All too soon, it was time to catch the mountain railway back down to Laxey again where we picked up the connecting electric railway on to Ramsey.

Some of you will be familiar with the lovely Jaycee who writes a blog called Diary of a Nobody. I have followed her blog for some time and of course knew she lived on the island, so was keen to meet her, if I could, while I was there. We arrived in Ramsey soon after mid-afternoon and had time to do a quick tour of Ramsey before meeting up with her. Considering we had never met in person before, it was like meeting an old friend and the conversation flowed so much so that the hour we had allotted together flew by and all too soon it was time to say goodbye. It is heartwarming to think that blogging can lead to such meetings and friendships and that the internet can bring people together.

Ramsey Harbour

Ramsey town centre

After saying goodbye, we caught the bus (much quicker than the electric railway) back to Douglas. We grabbed a lovely fish supper in Douglas harbour and then walked the entire length of the promenade back to our hotel, content that we had fitted a lot in that day.

Our final full day was spent exploring the area south of Douglas. First we caught the steam train as far as the small fishing village Port St Mary. 

Steam train about to leave Douglas

Port St Mary

The locals all over the island are so friendly. Numerous times over the four full days there, whenever we stopped maybe to check a bus timetable or look at the map, someone would approach us with helpful directions or information. Even more so in the smaller villages. We then caught the bus for the short hop to Port Erin. In all fairness, we could probably have walked it in about 20 minutes, but by then it was very hot and already midday so I was beginning to flag. Once at Port Erin, two scoops each of the local dairy ice cream for lunch revived us and we sat on the seafront watching the families on the very sandy beach enjoying the hot sunshine.

The amazing beach at Port Erin

We then caught the bus to Castletown, which was formerly the capital of the island until 1869 when the Parliament moved to Douglas. As can be befitting to an ancient capital, it boasts one of the best medieval castles in the British Isles, Castle Rushen. It was built around 1200 AD for a Norse king and served first as a fortress, then royal residence, then mint and latterly a Victorian prison. There was so much to see that we spent a good couple of hours just wandering around the many rooms and reading up about it. Entry, as with the other sites we had visited, was all included in our Go Explore pass we had bought several days before. 

View from the castle

By the time we left the castle, it was late afternoon and very hot, so we decided to sit on the outside terrace of a very attractive bar with a nice cool beer and enjoy the view of old buildings of the town, before catching the bus back to Douglas for our last night there. A walk along the promenade to a pub at the far end took us to our last supper there and we agreed it had been a lovely relaxing holiday.

Our final day saw an early start and a bus to the airport only to discover our flight back to London Gatwick had been delayed by an hour. All other internal flights were unaffected and there was no explanation why there was a delay. It was only when we were on board the plane that the Captain apologised for the delay and said they had been waiting for a part to be delivered from Aberdeen. If anything was going to undo the calm we had felt after a relaxing week on the island, that would be it. Had the wing fallen off or was there a loose screw in the engine? Bravely Kay and I gritted our teeth and with our intrepid help -after all the Captain was not going to manage without us - we oversaw the safe take-off and landing of the plane!!  Back to Gatwick, back to South London and the end of a wonderful break.  I can now picture the Isle of Man perfectly and have been able to assemble more information on my father's time there. All in all a perfect holiday.