Waiting for what, an appointment, a date?
I’m always there early, so why are THEY late
It’s not very hard to plan well ahead
‘Cause life is so short, and a long time you’re dead!
Seagulls are fine when they’re bobbing
up and down whilst floating on the sea
How come they poop while they’re flying?
And why does it all land on me?
|AUTHOR:||Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772–1834)|
|QUOTATION:||I wish our clever young poets would remember my homely definitions of prose and poetry; that is, prose,—words in their best order; poetry,—the best words in their best order.|
Today I was working in the front garden. I was digging out Grape Hyacinths and Bluebells that are always threatening to overtake every other plant.
A lady stopped to pass the time of day. She lives fairly close by and I see her often, and wave. Occasionally we have a brief chat.
Today, she greeted me with, “Oh, I didn’t realise that you lived there, so close to me!” She told me that she was Secretary of the local Allotment Society, and how busy that kept her. She also informed me that she had a pacemaker fitted, and how it had given her a new lease of life.
The conversation progressed along traditional lines and then she set off to continue her journey home.
I did not let on that we had had an identical conversation last time she passed by when I was gardening at the front, almost at the same spot.
As she left I said, “I’m Peter by the way!”
She reminded me of her name.
For the life of me, I cannot remember what it is!!
Happy with myself,
my body is a temple.
Not just a little late, but over 45 years since I first wrote this in a Valentine’s card. I can’t find the copy I wrote at the time but I have remembered it for all these years. Don’t know what that says about me!
It was sent to my long term, off and on, teenage, and into my twenties, girlfriend whom I shall love for ever!
If you don’t see my name, look at it acrostically.
Prolific enterprises turn eventually recumbent. My attribution turns to hieroglyphics, excogitate what’s said!
I was rather pleased with it at the time!
I was going to call this “Two fingers, a small vibrator, and warm breath on my Willy”, but I thought that might excite some of my readers too much!
Too late! I’ve said it now, and I wholeheartedly apologise to the excitable blogger who likes a lot of cake. He is now lying panting under his desk and will need a large, stiff one to recuperate. I think his choice is Whisky!
I’m sure that all you ladies will agree that there can never be true equality. After all, you have to put up with menstruation, the pain of childbirth and discomfort of breast feeding, with mammograms, cervical smears, menopause, not to mention makeup, hairdo’s, high heels. The list goes on and on.
How can you possibly understand the trials of man flu, the worries of whether our tackle conforms to “average”, whether we could, if we wished, grow a beard or mustache, how to compete with Mr. Grey?
No! There can never be true equality.
I seem to have strayed from my original line of thought, so please bear with me while I give myself a severe talking to!
A couple of days ago I went to the doctors for a regular appointment and, being a man of a certain age, I was going for a check up of my parts.
By parts I mean PRIVATE parts. You know, the bits down there…………!
Now, it’s not the first time, and it will most definitely not be the last.
I no longer feel totally embarrassed, wanting to hide in a corner, nor do I think “Is s/he comparing me with others?” I do, however, make doubly, triply, quadrupley, sure that I am 100% clean, smell reasonably nice, and that my underwear is colourful enough.
This time I was being checked for sensitivity of the stomach and bowel, any testicular abnormalities, and for prostate irregularities. I’d already had blood and urine test results so was not overly concerned that there were going to be anything nasty to discover.
The doctor was superb and warmed his hands before touching anything. He handled my testicles as if they were the eggs of the last bird on earth. He was very gentle when he found that my prostate was slightly enlarged (which I already knew), but smooth. He gently cleaned up afterwards and I almost expected him to pat my bottom before telling me I could get dressed again.
As I walked away, with a smile on my face, I thought, “Damn – I forgot to take a selfie!”
On a previous check up I had been seen by his wife! Not just a random “Please let my wife feel your balls” kind of appointment. She really is a doctor too!
That experience was vastly different.
I think she was auditioning for the role of a juggler! I’m convinced that she used a pool cue to check my prostate, and the large end at that! When it came to pulling my pants back up, it was obvious that she had failed to wipe away any excess lubricant!
So, that’s the two fingers sorted!
Now we go back in time to the very first really intimate examination I can recall. I forget what age I was, but I was in the Army and, I think, probably in my late 20’s. I was suffering from quite severe hemorrhoids and had been referred to an Army hospital.
The consultant explained what he was going to do and that I would feel a slight vibration, but it should not hurt.
I did – and it didn’t!
I rather felt that, as he inserted the proctoscope and filled it with air, he really ought to have shouted out Wey Hey!
That covers the small vibrator!
There were many times when I had my testicles cupped in a doctor’s hand and was asked to “cough”! That was standard practice when I was a child, and during Army medicals. I was never quite sure what that was supposed to check!
I well remember the very first time I had my testicles fully checked as an adult. This particular doctor was a rather strange individual with a very unusual name. He was very good and had been my doctor of choice for some time. I had eventually plucked up the courage to ask him to check my testicles because I was concerned about tenderness.
He told me that he was going to kneel down in front of me, as that was the best position for him to check me thoroughly. What followed was a little disconcerting. As he gently tested me for any abnormalities I could feel his gentle breathing. It felt very close! I did totally the wrong thing and looked down, only to look straight into his smiling eyes!!!!!
There’s the warm breath!
If you’ve read this far I do hope that you have not been offended. There is a little humour in all of these situations but the main point, for both men and women, is that we have to check ourselves, and be professionally checked, at regular intervals.
If you’ve neglected self checks, or checks by your doctor, or hospital, sort it out now. It could save your life!
When I first joined the Army, in September 1964, I started a journal, of sorts, that I called “Special thoughts and feelings”. I would lie in bed at night and write myself into another world, well away from the stresses and strains of Army training.
I jotted down a few poems, a few thoughts, a few hopes, a few dreams.
I listed the words to “House of the rising sun”, and made a list of songs that I could play on guitar.
I rewrote the collection on Sunday 19th March 1967 and retitled it “Private poems and prose by Pete + thoughts in words in writing”. Unfortunately, at that time, I omitted some of my earlier work, thinking it unworthy of record, or not wanting to be held to account. I regret that!
The book I used for the rewrite was a hardcover indexed book issued by Her Majesty’s Stationery Office, S.O.BOOK 345.
I made the mistake of writing CONFIDENTIAL , in red, at the top and bottom of the book.
Because I was in a job that dealt with matters confidential, and higher, the next time I went through Customs I was stopped, and held for some considerable time, while the book was scrutinized in depth!
At that time I was madly in love with Susan. I had been since the age of 14 when she had moved to my nearest village, when her father became Head of a nearby Secondary School. I recall that she had previously lived in Preston, Lancashire.
A lot of content, therefore, revolved around thoughts of Susan.
I intend, over time, to share the content of this “Blog before Blogs were invented”.
I shall record the entries exactly as they were written, but may add comments viewed from a “few” years distance!
There are odd scraps of paper in the book with some complete, some incomplete, and some “what on earth is this meant to be” scribblings. There’s also a “work of art”.
There is one particular poem, titled “Or is it?” that I should have copyrighted. The first line is “Walk in the air……….” I’m sure I could have argued the case for some rights to “The Snowman” song!
Having whetted your appetite, I’m not holding myself to any timetable.
“The Army” series, came about through my Niece, Penny, requesting some information on my Army days. She was doing some sort of project that required a “behind the scenes” view of military life, so I started to jot things down.
I got a little carried away!
After my initial burst, as documented in the previous few “The Army” posts, I was asked about my time in Northern Ireland.
This is the result. It was written in 2011.
For more like this click on the Tag “My Life”.
A bit about our time in Northern Ireland – Omagh, County Tyrone
[This is our particular experience. Procedures were constantly changing depending on the risk at the time, hostile activity, whether families accompanied or not and the length of tour.]
Prior to going we had to register our car with NI plates. This is done via DVLA who have special arrangements to ensure that there is not a “block” of numbers that are all forces!
We were told which ferry to use and numbers of military personnel, per ferry, were restricted.
Military personnel did not acknowledge each other on the ferry, even if they were well known to each other.
We were given a choice of 2 routes to use within NI and were not allowed to deviate. This ensured that the routes could be swept by military personnel at all times. (Panel vans were often used with one way vision rear windows). We had a specific time in which to complete the journey.
If we encountered any military check point, at any time, I had to show my ID card below the window line such that it could be seen by the soldier but not by anyone else.
On entering the barracks, all cars proceeded through a chicane of blast walls so that any risk was minimised. (Omagh barracks had a car bomb driven in and detonated shortly before we arrived!) We were checked by a single soldier close by with a second soldier covering him from a distance.
Once into Lisanelly Barracks we were given the keys to our house and, later that day, our belongings and furniture arrived.
Some houses, on one particular side of the camp, were left empty, because they had been damaged by fire bombs thrown over the perimeter wall. These were probably incidents performed by youngsters. Nice thought!
I had to regularly go into town to the bank, often carrying large sums of money. I wore civilian clothes and always tried to be discrete and to talk as little as possible. That’s fine until one of the cashiers says, at the top of her voice, “Are you from the Barracks then?”
When parking the car, I tried to ensure that I could view it from a distance with as few obstructions as possible. This helped when it came to returning to it. I could check for anything suspicious whilst approaching and I became very adept at tying my shoelaces and doing press-ups very quickly without too many people noticing. It became routine to do this and to check under the seats before getting in. I still check round my car but now for tyres and bumps!
One year Claire was due to fly in, from school, on 12th July. Because this is the day for Orange Marches, to celebrate the Battle of the Boyne, we had to get special permission to leave the barracks to collect her from the airport. On the way we found that the motorway was closed because of a security alert and we were diverted onto side roads. Unfortunately, we ended up in the middle of an Orangemen convoy of cars with no way of avoiding them. We were stuck in the middle for some considerable time. Very unsettling! If you have ever heard of the saying “sixpence, half a crown” this was definitely such a time. (Ask a friend!)
We were able to travel within specific areas. Other areas were a definite no go. Armagh for example was, and is, a hot bed IRA area. Our main operational area (I was with 2nd Battalion Royal Green Jackets) was the Strabane/Castelderg area on the border with Eire.
We sometimes went to Gortin glen, a really lovely area close to Omagh, and we felt almost normal at such times and were able to almost forget the circumstances of our restricted life. We also enjoyed going to the North coast and blew away the cobwebs at the Devils Causeway.
Always, at the back of our minds, were the unspoken thoughts and concerns that lots of people, who looked and behaved exactly as everyone else, would quite like to kill us or anyone else who did not fit in to their ways.
We were warned on arrival that opposite the entrance to the barracks was an office block which was constantly manned with people who were taking photographs and notes of all arrivals and departures. I suppose that intelligence gathering is a vital part of any war!
Erica “signed on” in NI and was given a fictitious address to use. However, she found it very difficult to cope with friendly ladies asking what she had been doing, where she lived, what she wanted to do. She met a young man on several visits and he appeared to realise she was a soldiers wife, she believed he was an ex policeman but neither could be open and honest.
During our time there Erica had to go to hospital in Belfast. Belfast was not a nice place to visit. She was driven by a young lady driver, was a little disturbed by the pistol on the seat beside her, and not entirely happy with all of the road blocks and paramilitary types between her and the hospital. Belfast had bunkers on the tops of blocks of flats. Most were IRA bunkers!
Our House was alongside the Helipad – a very large area where the helicopters were stored, serviced, took off and landed, apart from the Chinooks. They landed on the sports fields. Consequently, we were always aware if something big was happening. We saw the bomb disposal teams coming and going, the stores being loaded and unloaded. One night, a particularly low flying heli lifted our garden shed and deposited it 3 gardens down!
As a Warrant Officer I had to take turns to man the Operations room during the night. This involved handling communications by radio, telephone and teleprinter and acting as the link between the barracks and all patrols. It was stressful at times, especially if there was “contact” with any hostiles. You could detect the edginess, the fear and the adrenaline over the radio but felt almost helpless in that you were unable to see or hear what was happening because the radio procedure on contact was “Contact. Wait out”………………………… What the hell was happening, they were too occupied to let you know!
A lot of the equipment that is used by soldiers is dangerous. Guns, explosives, helicopters, large vehicles, bayonets, heavy objects.
In my tour of Northern Ireland more soldiers were killed and injured by accidents than by hostile action. This is probably true of all deaths in NI but don’t quote me on that.
We had a major helicopter crash where, miraculously, only one soldier was killed. One poor young lad was very seriously injured and burned. He crawled away from the crash site and was not found immediately. Amongst other horrific injuries he lost his sight and has been a resident of St Dunstans ever since.
One young Corporal was married to an absolutely stunningly pretty and highly intelligent girl. They were a lovely couple. He became insecure and could not understand why she had chosen to marry him. He attempted suicide by shooting himself in the chest. He survived and appeared to recover fully. However, the second time round he made sure and shot himself through the roof of his mouth. What a tragic waste.
Despite all this, life went on. People got married, children were born, relatives died, gardens were created and thrived, church, shopping, parties, all of life carried on.
Whilst writing this I am brought to tears! What a tragic waste of life but how privileged I am to have experienced what the majority cannot even contemplate and how fortunate I am to have had Erica beside me.
Pause for thought
What is the difference between a bunch of lads, noisy, brash, slightly offensive, standing on a street corner and a troop of lads patrolling the streets in NI or Afghanistan?
There is an almost even split between the number of British troops killed in combat situations and the number killed in non-combat situations – that is, in accidents, friendly fire incidents or from natural causes.
The IRA killed almost twice the number of British soldiers in one year (1972) as Iraqi insurgents have killed over more than three years.