It felt like spring yesterday, and I was determined to enjoy it. Eat outside check. Window shop at my favorite boutiques. Check. The prong on my cane to melt, and not even know it. A driver rolled down their window, and yelled, “your stick”. A friend I was with had to clue me in that it wasn’t the stick, but the prong that melted. My hands were black. I rushed into the next boutique who showed me to the bathroom, and put the prong in a bag. We had a great laugh at that one. It was then off to CVS, where I bought the last prong they had. Luckily it worked. Thirteen dollars for a prong. I was never more grateful for those long receipts with coupons. I had some to lessen the cost. All this to say, I saw the goodness of humanity yesterday.
I can complain and worry, but it does me no good. So I just laughed, and then got treated to an ice cream cone. I don’t know if my heart has been changed, or if God using to me to minister to me. I’m just grateful. Life isn’t always great. I won’t sugarcoat it, but I need to find the good. Anxiety and depression are things that plague me, so I have to find the good, for my own sake.
If I find it in an ice cream cone or the sun warming me up, I will. Acceptance comes in any form. And I will grab that bull by the horns.
In Great Britain, speed restrictions mean that the maximum speed you can legally travel at on our public roads is seventy miles per hour. Go above that speed and you are liable to receive a hefty fine or points on your licence that may result in a driving ban.
It is not unusual. This is the same in most other countries,
As some of you may recall, my motor vehicle is a silver Hyundai i20 called Clint. When driving him along, I stick strictly to the speed limits in built-up areas. However, when out on the motorways I confess that I will sometimes push Clint's speed up to 80mph. Thousands of drivers do the same. This is also not unusual.
As it happens, a Hyundai i20 is very capable of travelling at 116mph. That is its official top speed even though Clint's speedometer suggests a maximum of 220mph.
Clint is an ordinary, economical car manufactured for the mass market like all of his siblings. However, many car models are souped-up and styled like racing cars. At the top of this page you can see the fastest road car in the world. It is produced in Sweden. It is the Koenigsegg Jesko Absolut which has a top speed of 310mph and incidentally will set you back £2.3 million.
310mph is well over four times Britain's maximum speed limit so I simply ask, what the hell is the point of owning such a car? Legally, you will never be able to test the car's capacity for speed.
On the one hand you have governments, the police and road safety organisations urging drivers to stick to the speed limits. On the other hand, you have car makers producing cars that the ability to totally smash designated speed restrictions.
What is going on? Surely manufacturers should be warned in no uncertain terms not to make cars that tempt fate with regard to speed. It is very easy to blame drivers but surely car makers are largely to blame for selling cars that encourage drivers to go fast - Ferrari, Lamborghini, Audi, Porsche, Bugatti. McLaren - but also the mass market producers - Ford, Kia, Volkswagen, Hyundai, Toyota and the rest.
If "they" were really serious about addressing speed on our roads, "they" would ban the production of souped-up racing cars and even common cars like Clint would not have the ability to go beyond 100mph.
There are men and women who go all starry-eyed about speedy motor cars and for some, owning such a vehicle is perhaps their prime goal in life. - their dream. I am not one of those people. Usually, I do not think about cars very much at all and I am not even slightly interested in the Formula One circus nor car programmes like "Top Gear".
To me, cars should be all about getting people efficiently from point A to point B, preferably burning as little fuel as possible, not speeding along like a racing driver. There - I have said my bit. What do you think?
I am sitting in our lounge with my feet up watching "Questiontime". The chairwoman, Fiona Bruce, is refereeing the discussion that follows a question from a member of the audience about the end of the world and America's 47th president. I am sorry but I cannot remember his name.
Anyway, I am suddenly conscious of movement on our staircase and then the closed living room door is slowly pushed open. A moment later and there's our Phoebe in her Bluey pyjamas, holding her cuddlesome friend, Monty the sloth.
We had put Phoebe to bed at 8pm following her bath. I had had to read her two stories though one was the real life tale of the American gymnast - Simone Biles.
"Hello Phoebe!" I say warmly, with my arms open as if to say - come and join me on the sofa!
But Phoebe just stands there in the doorway. I ask if she is all right and then I notice that she is visibly upset. She isn't smiling and her eyes are filling up as though ready to cry.
"Is something wrong?" I ask.
"I want Mummy and Daddy," she manages to communicate with difficulty.
"But you'll see them tomorrow. Grandma and Grandpa love you too you know. You are safe with us darling."
With my arms open again, I invite her over to the sofa. With hesitation, she crosses the divide and comes over to sit with me. I give her a one-armed hug. She asks what it is that I am watching and I tell her that it is just grown-ups talking.
"I'll turn it off if you want. Do you want to watch something else? You can have whatever you want."
"I want Peppa Pig please Grandpa."
And so I find Peppa Pig on YouTube. Then I ask Phoebe if she wants some warm milk which means a two minute trip to the kitchen and a ping of the microwave.
Back in the living room, Peppa and her family are visiting the local swimming pool. They are all in their swimming costumes - her brother George and her parents - Mummy Pig and Daddy Pig. Strangely, in all the Peppa Pig cartoons I have watched, Peppa's parents have never been blessed with first names.
Phoebe has calmed down now, not threatening to cry. She has been such a happy strong-willed girl thus far in life, not liable to tears. We are close together on the sofa now and she is under the fleece throw. We agree that she will only watch one more Peppa Pig episode before going back to bed.
She - Phoebe not Peppa - finishes her warm milk and without complaint she remounts the stairs.
I want to just make up a story when I put her back to bed but she insists that I should read one. With the subdued light in her room, it is hard to follow the writing but I struggle through, give her a kiss and say "Night - night Phoebe".
To me it has seemed like a step in her progress to adulthood. At three years old she would never have sobbed for her parents and it reminds me of a night when I was a child - probably two or three years older than Phoebe. Lying there in my bed, I suddenly wondered what my life would be like if my parents died. I would feel so bereft, so empty and I started to weep so that my pillow became wet with tears. I still remember that moment as if it was yesterday.
The journey from the innocence of childhood to full-blown adulthood is a long one and to be truthful, I think we are all still on it.
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Ballad of the Sad Young Men
Here's another song from Roberta Flack. She wrote it herself. It was inspired by the times she played piano and sang in late night bars. When interviewed about it, she said she was thinking of the young, homosexual men she encountered at those venues. Roberta was often thought of as a significant supporter of LGBTQ rights, long before such support became fashionable...
Sing a song of sad young men, glasses full of rye
All the news is bad again, kiss your dreams goodbye
Firstly, I would like to take this opportunity of wishing farewell to Roberta Cleopatra Flack who died this very day in New York City at the age of 88. She was born on February 10th 1937 and was blessed with the voice of an angel. She could take a song and get lost in it, totally absorbed. I have mentioned her a few times in this blog and five years ago I showcased a video of her singing "The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face" on the BBC back in 1972. She was thirty five and at her peak, comfortable in her own skin and at one with the lyrics of one of the most plaintive love songs ever written.Here it is.In her memory, please give it a listen.
Secondly, I would like to welcome Arctic Fox back into the blogging fold. He was lost but is found again. I used to joust with him in the early years of my life in blogging but then, in 2012, he disappeared as sometimes happens. However, In Arctic Fox's case, he chose to return just this year after a thirteen year gap - possibly because he had time on his hands after losing his job. He is a Yorkshire lad like me and the way he writes is kind of quirky but genuine too. Why not roll over there and check him out?
Thirdly, one of the other guys who regularly contributes images to the Geograph project is a fellow called Julian Paren who worked for many years with the British Antarctic Survey team. He is retired now. The other day, I stumbled across a video he was commissioned to produce eight years ago by the Gatliff Hebridean Hostels Trust. It looks appreciatively at the island of South Uist in Scotland's Outer Hebrides. I found it peaceful, mesmerising and enticing - taking me away from the continuing worries most of us are having about Ukraine, Gaza & Israel, Putin, The White House and the future of our planet. Maybe you would like to visit South Uist for a little while too, courtesy of Dr Paren's video...
