Monday

We looked after Phoebe today. There was a teacher training day at her primary school. 

She asked me what happens at a teacher training day and I replied, "Well the teachers all gather in the school hall and pretend that they are trains as they sing, 'I'm a choo-choo train'. This is why they call it training".

For a moment, she seemed to believe me and then the realisation dawned, "You're just kidding Grandpa!"

She wanted to go swimming at Dronfield Leisure Centre where Shirley took her many times before she was obliged to climb aboard the conveyor belt of formal schooling.

We drove up to Totley and had lunch in "The Cross Scythes" before travelling on to Dronfield. It was a wintry day and there was a dusting of snow on the hills and roads - but nothing too problematic.

When Shirley and Phoebe went in the leisure centre, I ventured out for a stroll around Dronfield and I also popped into a couple of charity shops. In one of them, I found a ceramic plant holder in which I estimated I could place one of my young busy lizzie plants. I wanted to give it to Frances as a late Christmas present as she had shown interest when I told her about the strain of impatiens I have nurtured for forty five years - from cutting to cutting and from year to year.

My estimation ability  with regard to sizing things up is pretty well-tuned and sure enough, when I got home, the designated plant pot fitted into the silver-coloured plant holder perfectly.

In the churchyard of St John the Baptist, I spotted a very old cross. I often see old stone crosses in churchyards. Usually, they have been moved there in past times because of road developments. The crosses, originally in prominent locations, frequently got in the way.
The cross in Dronfield churchyard

The cross in this particular churchyard is probably Anglo-Saxon - making it around 1250 years old. In fact, it is older than the oldest parts of the parish church that date back to 1135.

Crosses were sometimes erected for pagan or early Christian reasons but in addition they might have been boundary markers or market crosses given legal permission by which ever king or queen happened to be on the throne at the time.

They are a feature of the historical landscape of England and more than two thousand of them remain. We live in a suburb of Sheffield called Banner Cross but our old stone cross disappeared many, many years ago. Few people seem to give these precious time travelling structures much thought as they walk on by but I wish that the crosses could speak. They would have such tales to tell.
The Hall - Early eighteenth century townhouse in Dronfield


from Yorkshire Pudding https://ift.tt/Jo1kjWK

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Easter

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Today

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The view from Simon's back yard. It takes an hour and a half to travel to the village where I was born and raised. Today, Shirley came with me and saw my brother Simon for the first time since August 2019. As a nurse for more than forty years, she was not daunted by his changed appearance. With the cancer and everything he has become a bag of bones. So painfully thin - like a malnourished prisoner working on the Burma railway under Japanese supervision.  Wasting away. We stayed all afternoon.  Shirley had his washing machine on and we changed his bedding. I had bought a new fitted sheet, duvet cover and pillowcases from Tesco. Shirley said that his old bedding was "disgusting".  We brought tins of mushroom soup and cans of "Fanta" and "Coke" and some pots of chocolate mousse plus a couple of pints of milk. They were received with zero gratitude. In fact, he insisted that six cans of soup was far too many. I encouraged him to have a bath while...
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