Although we don’t yet have a firm moving date, the smell of cardboard permeates the house as my wife Sarah and I began packing a few things this week. Our movers have left us a large number of boxes for that purpose. At first, I felt there were far too many for our needs. However, that changed when packing only my journals filled more than one.

At least a house move is a good excuse to declutter. To not move to the next loft that you currently have in this loft. And to question yourself as to the continuing need for something. It’s not that easy. People seemed programme to say, “let’s not get rid of that. You never know, it might come in useful” At least so far, Sarah and I have shown discipline in that regard.

But sifting through things does bring its element of emotions.

One for me was ‘downsizing’ my books. It’s not the first time I’ve done so, and while this time was difficult, it was nowhere as painful as the last time. That was at the end of my second marriage when my then-wife and I separated, and I moved from a five-bedroom house to a one-bed maisonette. There was no way to accommodate the library of books I had built up over the decades. So, I took around fifty, in the end, leaving something like five hundred behind. This time it was getting from circa two hundred to around half that number. As I write this, those books destined for donation to charity sit piled to my left.

They are an eclectic mix of fiction and non-fiction. All had value to me, and I trust that will prove true for their new owner. I don’t keep many books that I read. Only those that strike a chord or of which I particularly admire the writing. So there should be a treat in store for the new recipients.

Those books that come with me include my collection of Bedside Guardians from 1978 to the present. My Orwells. From his novels to his essays and other writings with a biography or two and, of course, the biography of his wife Eileen that, in a small way, I helped see published. There’s also my collection of F Scott Fitzgerald’s novels. along with biographies and studies of his writings.

Regarding the latter, I recommend two books for those more deeply interested in Fitzgerald’s writing. ‘Bright Star Green Light’ examines how much the work of John Keats influenced Fitzgerald’s writing. Fitzgerald once wrote, “For awhile after you quit Keats all other poetry seems to be only whistling or humming”. And Fitzgerald’s ‘Tender is the Night’ title is from Keats, ‘Ode to a Nightingale’. The other book I would recommend is ‘So We Read On’, which examines what is behind the enduring power of ‘The Great Gatsby’.

I’m also very wary of recommendations when it comes to books. Unless I know the literary tastes of the recommender and appreciate those tastes, I rarely take up a suggestion. One exception is the employees of my favourite bookshop, Mr B’s Book Emporium in Bath. I’ll miss popping in for a chat about books when visiting Bath, but I won’t miss out altogether. I bought from them before I moved to the southwest, and I’m sure I’ll continue to do so.

Another emotional moment came when packing my journals and photographs. Also, the letters that Sarah and I exchanged over the years. And from my working days, the publications I helped put together or in which I’m mentioned. Together with my small ‘memory’ box, the above contents fit into two boxes. Not large boxes, either. While putting in the last few items, I realised that the measure of my sixty-six years, the ‘me that is me’, is now the contents of two boxes. It was a sobering thought.

Yes, I will fill more boxes and cases with my clothes and assorted crockery, glassware, utensils etc. Those boxes will make the journey with me when I venture to my new home in the northeast. But none of those constitutes my life. There’s none of ‘me’ in them. That said, as Sarah and I discussed the division of the more practical items, there was one set of bowls that struck an emotion. 

They are pasta bowls. Yep, something as mundane as that. Yet I know that taking one or two with me would trigger a memory of happy meals with Sarah every time I used them. They were Sarah’s before I came along, and one of the first meals she cooked for us, we ate from those bowls. It isn’t only letters, photos and the like that can trigger a pang of the heart. In my case, a simple pasta bowl can do it. You’ll be relieved to read that I do not have a similar ‘affection’ for other pans, plates, cups, knives, forks, or spatulas. Just those pasta bowls.

The danger of packing too early is that one packs away something for which there is a sudden need before the move. And with the current uncertainty on timing, that’s always a danger. So, it’s a delicate balance of not leaving too much to pack between exchange and when completion is an immovable deadline. And avoid hunting through numerous boxes to find that critical item that is essential to have right now.

There was a positive emotion from the sorting out. Sarah pulled out a folder of several of my Christmas stories. Regular readers of this blog may recall the tradition I have of penning an annual Christmas Story. I then read it around Christmas Day to those present. Afterwards, each close family member receives a copy. I’ve not kept many of those stories myself. 

In the past, I’ve thought about asking people to let me have copies and then pulling them together as a book. From what Sarah has, and while some will need a tidy-up, there may well be a small book of short stories. Pulling it together will be an excellent activity for chilly winter evenings in Blaydon.

Now, back to the packing ….

This is not a treatise on the benefits of a constitutional Monarchy. Nor an argument for the advantages that might come from being a Republic. It’s more of a meandering musing around some aspects of Monarchy.

We have experienced both Monarchy and a Republic in this country. Albeit a Republic, or as called at the time, Commonwealth, for only a brief time. The people, or at least their political leaders of the age, preferred after that short experiment to return to Monarchy. However, one might add a Monarchy that was more answerable to Parliament than God.

The concept of social strata within groups and thus recognising a head of that group goes back to the earliest humans. Different groups valued their people’s skills, attributes, beliefs or knowledge differently in separating one level of society from another. But humans have an innate need to create and live within a hierarchical social structure. Recognising a head or chief also seems to be a natural condition of our psyche.

We can never know who the first ‘Monarch’ was. However, the first to claim they were ‘King of Everything’ was Akkadian of Mesopotamia (what is now Iraq, Kuwait, Turkey, and Syria) around 4000 years ago. The first recorded female ‘Monarch’, Kukaba, ruled Sumer (modern-day south-central Iraq) some 4500 years ago.

The English word ‘King’ comes from the Anglo-Saxon, ‘Cynig’. In turn, that comes from the German ‘Kuningaz’, derived from a phrase that means ‘one who comes from noble birth.’

Belief is that the word Queen, on the other hand, derives from the Germanic Kwen, meaning woman. In Anglo-Saxon, it became cwen, meaning the wife of a King. 

The Bible first records the concept of primogeniture with Isaac’s son Esau. Being the firstborn gave him the entitlement of ‘birth right’ over his younger brother. The Bible also recognises a woman’s right to inherit without a male heir. In contrast, under Roman law, there was no differentiation between heirs of either sex if the emperor did not name an heir before the emperor’s death. However, military power tended to influence who came to power and thus favoured a male.

In England, primogeniture came to the fore in medieval times. Anglo-Saxon times were more democratic. The Witan, a form of a council of Ealdormen, Thegns and Clergy, selected the Monarch. After choosing a Monarch, the Witan then advised them during their reign. This process did not prevent women from attaining the highest office. The Witan of Mercia selected Alfred the Great’s daughter Aethelflaed to be ‘Lady of Mercia’ and to rule over the Kingdom after the death of her husband, the King. As an aside, while Alfred’s contemporaries recognised him as a great thinker, leader, and reformer, he didn’t become ‘the Great’ until the 1500s.

The concept of the Divine Right of Kings in England came first from the often absent from England; Richard I, “I am born in a rank which recognises no superior but God, to whom alone I’m responsible for my actions”. This offered as his defence against the accusation by the then Holy Roman Empire, Henry, of Richard’s collusion with the Saracens. Richard then adopted the personal motto, “Dieu et mon Droit” to echo that he felt he held England by God’s will. Henry V (he of Agincourt) made it the royal motto it remains today. Then again, Henry claimed it was his right to rule France and England.

Later came the first King Charles, who set much store by this Divine Right to rule and brook no challenge to his authority by ‘ordinary’ men. But, as everyone knows, such thinking did not end well for Charles. Indeed, it was to counteract such beliefs that the Constitutional Monarchy we recognise today was born.

People make much of the fact that every King or Queen of England can trace their roots back to Alfred the Great. Charles III is the 32nd great-grandson of that great King. Not down the royal line. It’s taken too many diversions for that to be possible. The Bowes (and Bowes-Lyon) family offers most of the links. They take us back to the late 1400s. Then through other great families, we eventually return to an early English King, Henry II (he that had the falling out with Thomas Becket), in the 1100s. From there, we have a direct link to William the Conqueror. Finally, after a diversion through some grand families in Flanders, we reach Alfred.

Some disparage the use of grandiose words to address the Monarch. “Your Highness”. “Your Majesty”. Nothing like bigging up someone’s ego. It wasn’t an English Monarch who first felt that ‘Majesty’ was an appropriate address. The Holy Roman Emperor Charlemagne decided ‘Highness’ wasn’t high enough. Henry VIII, feeling he was of equal status, asked for the same address. Before Henry VIII, one addressed Kings and Queens as “Your Highness” or “Your Grace”.

“Your Highness” wasn’t just for those of royal birth. Oliver Cromwell, that ordinary man of the people and Parliamentarian, asked people to address him in that way. There was also much debate in the USA about the address to the first President, George Washington. Some favoured “Your Highness,” and the then Vice-President John Adams advocated “Your Majesty”. But, as we know, such arguments came to nought and saw the adoption of the much more straightforward, Mr (and one day, Madam?) President.

Whatever your view on Monarchy, I leave you with a couple of quotations from the only King the English felt worthy of the title, ‘Great’.

“The saddest thing about any man is that he be ignorant, and the most exciting thing is that he knows.”

and

“To speak briefly: I desired to live worthily as long as I lived, and after my life to leave to them that should come after, my memory in good works” 

I guess he achieved that, and they are good words for anyone, wherever they are in the social hierarchy, to follow.

I have bought a house. Well, I’ve had an offer accepted on a property.

A two up-two down in Blaydon on the outskirts of Newcastle. Some may recognise the name from the Geordie ‘Anthem’ Blaydon Races. And it may be a surprise that many of the places mentioned in that 19th-century music hall song still exist. Not the races themselves. They stopped in 1916, and a power station now occupies the site. Yesterday I walked past Balmbras (what was then a Music Hall from where they “took the bus”) and along Collingwood Street. I also drove down Scotswood Road and ended up in Blaydon ‘toon’.

So ahead of me lies my 14th move. Several people congratulated me as I shared the news of my ‘purchase’. Receiving them seemed strange, given the reason for my move. My lone ‘celebration’ was with a glass of Newcastle Brown. More apt than bubbly and in keeping with my overall feelings.

As I’ve written earlier, house purchases can be fraught with delay, confusion, and frustration. However, finding my new ‘home’ went very smoothly. I spent two days behind the wheel of a car driving the highways and byways of Newcastle’s environs. I viewed 14 properties. Shown around by a few estate agents and several owners. I also met several animals.

Ten diffident cats. I would expect no other behaviour. Two amiable dogs (I’m not a dog person but could have happily taken both these home). There was also a somnambulant rabbit, a perky parakeet and a couple of horses at a distance. That’s not counting the rocking horse in one house. 

House viewing offers an intrusive insight into people’s lives. An insight I don’t enjoy. It may be hearing the story of a loved one that has passed, leaving the house vacant. Or the separation of a couple (recognise that one), meaning the sale of the house. Of course, there are also more positive stories of a couple marrying and wishing to set up a home together.

The most exciting incident in one particular property came from a knock at the door while I was doing a viewing. The estate agent showing me around opened the door to find a bailiff on the doorstep. That massive individual, dressed in a dark uniform complete with a bodycam, insisted on delivering a court notice to the house owner. It took some moments to persuade the bailiff that neither the Estate Agent nor I was the said owner. Finally satisfied, the bailiff left the notice on the doormat. It will be no surprise that my interest in that particular property then waned. The only other striking encounter was the choice of wallpaper in some houses. Large bold spots or broad bright stripes in colours of which van Gogh would be proud.

What’s also interesting is that given the outlay of a substantial amount of money, one spends a comparatively small amount of time deciding to purchase. I spent around 30 minutes looking over the place I chose. Talking to the owners and getting a history of the house. They had an emotional association with the property, given it had also been the home of the parents of one of them. Indeed, that owner’s father built the shed that stood proudly in the small garden. The shed’s substantial construction is done so well that it will easily see me out.

A house you choose to purchase has to tick the requisite boxes. Can I afford it? Is it in a good state of repair? Has it the desired number, size, and shape of rooms? Is the garden of a manageable size? Is there a degree of privacy? Is the area quiet? However, in the end, it seems to come down to imagining oneself living in the place. Can this house become my home?

The decision to buy therefore seems more emotional the rational. Indeed, once one reaches a decision and an offer is made, one tends to rationalise why that was the right thing to do.

So, the emotional decision made, I now move forward to the far more mundane administrative, legal, and financial process. The ‘searches’ and all the other aspects that solicitors undertake. The decision to buy may take minutes the process of purchasing some months.

I hope if all proceeds smoothly, I will be able to move sometime in early December. Just in time for the start of a Northeastern winter and all the joys that might bring. 

That said, there is a sense of anticipation, so maybe congratulation is the correct response from others. As with any new venture, there also comes a sense of trepidation. Especially, and despite my numerous moves, as this is the first home I’ve sought out alone, and bought for myself to live in by myself

So even at 66, one can have another ‘first’. Another in life’s succession. From first leaving your parents’ home, first job, car, marriage, child, and, and, and. And as ever, this comes with that familiar mix of emotions of any of those other firsts. But to live life is to constantly move forward to that next ‘first’. Until of course that ultimate ‘last’.

Onward

When I give a book as a gift, I like to write some form of message or inscription on the flyleaf. To me, it personalises the gift. Offering an insight into why that book might mean something to the recipient. I also much appreciate it when someone gifting me a book does likewise.

For my birthday this year, I received a book with an inscription on mentoring. Its writer offered that, in their opinion, I had been a mentor in several other people’s lives. But they then posed a question. Who might I feel my mentor might have been? That question gave me much pause for thought.

Over my years in business, I acted as a mentor/counsellor/’buddy’ to many people. Advising, cautioning, guiding but most importantly, listening. I found you can often read as much from the body language and tone of voice of someone as what they say. They might choose their words carefully, but hiding their emotions is more of a challenge and thus can often reveal more about their true feelings.

One must be careful as a counsellor. Just because you were successful (or unsuccessful) with an approach to a particular situation does not mean the same process will/will not work for another. You are not them. You can share your path and, more importantly, why you took it. Then you must step back and explore with the individual all the approaches that might work better for them. You can’t teach experience. You can only offer examination and exploration of your experience. I confess that’s a lesson I have on occasion forgotten. Pushing my way sometimes, rather than the right way.

Counselling someone in their private life rather than business life is even more challenging. Emotions play a much more significant role. Sometimes even trampling over the logic of a situation. As the expression goes, some cut off their nose to spite their face. The consequences of personal decisions also last much longer than those in a business situation. For example, in my case, an incident at my father’s funeral led to a family schism from which I had no contact with my brother and sister for some 30 years. We reconciled some 15 years ago, but would some wise counsels have avoided such a long separation when the schism arose?

You’ll gather by now that I have not had what I would call a mentor or counsellor. As expected, my parents were an insightful guide to me in my younger days. The thrust of their guidance for leading a fulfilling life was not to become dependent on another. Don’t ‘lose’ your life within someone else’s. Both parents encouraged me to be independent, so it’s no surprise I left my home in the northeast to live and work in London at age 17. Two weeks after sitting my A Level exams. I was no fortune teller, but I knew my results would not astonish the academic world. As it was, I passed all my A Levels but with average grades.

From my late twenties and for the next 10 years, I worked for someone I respected and learned much from. Together we moved from middle management to Managing Director in his case and, in my case Operations Director. More than that, we became friends, not just colleagues, joint family outings, etc. However, when the opportunity came to work for him again a few years after our ways parted, I declined. While the job offered was a rewarding challenge at a handsome salary, I felt I would be repeating the past and learning nothing new. That independent streak in me coming to the fore.

The psychological dynamic of a team fascinated me throughout my career. I always grasped the opportunity for personal and psychological development. To help me understand better myself and others. One of the first programmes I attended as a Junior Manager at age 21 focused on personal introspection through interactive group tasks facilitated by psychologists. I recall no ‘talk and chalk’. Some twenty years later, I enjoyed a similar programme of understanding motivations, group discussion, leadership psychology, etc. There was no PowerPoint, Excel, or Word document in sight. Instead, attendees conversed. Those leading the course did not ‘teach’ us; they encouraged us to examine and understand each other’s personalities. Why do we take a particular approach? What do we find motivating/demotivating? How do we measure success in our lives? And yes, who are the influencers in our lives and why? In short, the programme was all about self-examination and reflection. We all approach life with different experiences, expectations, and ‘ambitions’. To better lead a team, one must strive to understand the personalities of all in that team. 

For my part, and from early in my career, I’ve used personality tests to better understand myself. Such as MBTI, MMPI, and 16PF. My belief being if I can better understand myself, I might better understand others (it doesn’t always work). I’ve remained an ‘ENTJ’ throughout the MBTIs I’ve done over the years.  Assertive, pragmatic, rational, logical, and decisive, but not so good with feelings. I recognise that as I internalise my feelings far too much. I also must work harder to understand the needs and feelings of others. My personal life reflects I’ve dropped that ball more than I should.

Would my career have developed faster or further if I’d benefited from a mentor/counsellor? Would I have been a better boss, colleague, or subordinate? Would I have had a more settled personal life? I can’t answer that. No doubt, my life would have been different. But would I have been ‘happier’? I’m not so sure about that. Personal development and fulfilment come from finding a way through life that makes us feel comfortable within that life. I am content with what I achieved in my business life. And that I remain friends with ex-colleagues. Some of those friendships go back over forty years. In my personal life, I feel I’ve done my best for my family(s). Maybe not always the best ‘best’ constantly, but we must accept our fallibilities.  To be kind to ourselves if you like, as if we aren’t, we will struggle to show kindness to anyone else.

Even though ‘tuesdays with Morrie’, by Mitch Albom, is a short book, it’s taken me some time to read it. Mitch Albom writes well, but the subject is such that one needs to be in the correct frame of mind to properly engage with the content.

Some might see it as a depressing book. The thoughts of Morrie Schwartz, a man with Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS), an incurable ‘wasting disease’, captured through conversations. The cause of ALS is unknown. In the USA, it’s also called Lou Gehrig’s disease after the late 1930s baseball star diagnosed with the illness. 

The cruelty of the disease is that while those afflicted lose all their motor capabilities, the disease does not affect the mind. With many so afflicted, their thoughts would be full of sadness, self-pity, and regret. But not with Morrie Schwartz. He follows a mantra that if you know how to die, you’ll better understand how to live.

Around halfway through the book, I decided to pause and engage with Morrie through another medium. That of the recordings on YouTube made in the latter months of his life. He was everything I anticipated, and the recordings showed how well Mitch Albom captured the man’s essence on the written page. And why Morrie, throughout his life, was so good a teacher, guide, and counsellor. Here’s a short anecdote of his,

To receive a diagnosis of ALS must be a devastating experience. No hope of recovery. Just the knowledge that you will steadily lose all motor functions over the coming months. To become dependent on others until finally, death embraces you. A death that by then you might welcome. Morrie fought that deterioration every step of the way and, in doing so and in sharing his thoughts and wisdom, encouraged many to re-examine the life they led.

Albom’s book contexted my impending separation from my wife, Sarah. I confess to some fear in the early days as I contemplated a future alone. My first reaction was that being alone meant being lonely. I have lived alone before. It was only around six months. And before I retired. I, therefore, had a ‘distraction’ for much of the week. It was evenings and weekends that were the lonely periods. Sometimes the only person I’d speak to over a weekend was the check-out person at the local supermarket. Although when I look back, I realise it wasn’t every weekend. On some, I met up with friends and family; on some weekends, being alone was welcome.

I think my fear of being alone that sprang up this time is that I am now some 20 years older. A fear of falling ill or maybe just falling over. Lying injured or unable to move and not having someone on hand. I could not clear my mind of an episode from some years ago. A colleague’s father suffered a stroke sometime during the night while living away from his family. It wasn’t until around lunchtime the next day that a concerned neighbour entered his apartment. That delay in treatment ever worsened his condition. 

I realise it’s an irrational fear as the same could happen if I was away from Sarah for the evening in a hotel or Sarah was away from our home staying elsewhere. Indeed, my father died of a heart attack sitting in an armchair downstairs while my mother lay asleep upstairs.

Reading Mitch Albom’s book brought home that it was the fear of some emotions one has to combat rather than the emotion itself. Morrie speaks of the fear of loneliness, and of course, that struck a chord. But as I read on, it gave me pause for thought. Morrie encourages us to embrace the fear, not to try to deny it. By becoming familiar with fear, we can then come to understand it, rationalise it and then move on from it. Set it aside and seek more positive emotions

The book is also a reminder to think less about material ‘things’ and enjoy what we might dismiss at the time as the ‘unimportant’ things in our lives. A sunny day, birdsong, a striking sunset and pleasant conversation with family, friends, neighbours etc. To enjoy our feelings, our affection for others and they for you. To give something of ourselves without seeking some gain in return. In all of those, I’m trying.

My entire purpose for decades was to develop my career, earn a good living and give my family(s) a comfortable lifestyle. I don’t regret that. But since I retired, I’ve learned to look again at what makes me content. To ask what makes me feel fulfilled?

Morrie also speaks about forgiveness. Not so much for others but for oneself. We are what we are. Subject to failings and human frailties. Suppose we aren’t able to understand and forgive ourselves. In that case, we cannot understand and, if necessary, forgive others in our lives. It’s not easy, I certainly struggle with it, but if we succeed, we offer ourselves greater contentment.

It took the thoughts and words of a man approaching death to help this man come to terms with a fear of my life ahead. And that’s the critical word. Life. While Morrie knew his death steadily approached, he did not know precisely when that time would come, which is true of us all. Morrie just made the absolute best of each day and offered encouragement for us all to do just that. 

In my copy of ‘tuesdays with Morrie’, the concluding chapter is the opening chapter of the next book Mitch Albom wrote. A novel called ‘The Five People you meet in Heaven’

The first paragraph contains a sentence that we all could do well to keep in mind

“All endings are also beginnings. We just don’t know it at the time”.

Sarah, my wife, and I chatted briefly about a couple of poems last week. A pleasant interlude from discussion of property searches, conveyancing, estate agents, house surveys and the like. Our respective house moves progress at the speed of all house moves. Slowly, but I trust steadily.

Anyway, back to poetry, and the first poem we discussed was ‘Love after Love’ by the wonderful Derek Walcott. It’s a poem that helped me get over an earlier marriage that failed. The poem helped me rediscover who I am. Over the years, I’ve posted the poem a few times on social media with the thought that it might act as encouragement to others who might struggle to move on from the sadness of the heart.

The time will come

when, with elation

you will greet yourself arriving

at your own door, in your own mirror

and each will smile at the other’s welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.

You will love again the stranger who was yourself.

Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart

to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored

for another, who knows you by heart.

Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,

peel your own image from the mirror.

Sit. Feast on your life.

I don’t feel I need such encouragement right now. I’ve yet to move to my “own door”. However, things might be different, say mid-February of next year. When, under leaden northern skies, I’ve slipped and slid along snow-covered streets in Newcastle, or its environs, to my two-up, two down. And felt the easterly wind whipped off the North Sea to scythe people with its icy blast. Then I may well need these words. And wine and bread to help the mirrored smile.

The other poem that Sarah and I chatted about was Desiderata. Interestingly, I had a brief Twitter conversation about its origins only a couple of weeks ago.

Many believe it is some ancient wisdom passed down through the ages when it’s a prose poem written by Max Ehrman around 1921. And the poem’s Latin title means ‘Things Desired’ with the publication of the poem coming more than ten years after its first writing.

“Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story. Avoid loud and aggressive persons; they are vexatious to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time. Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism. Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment, it is as perennial as the grass. Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be. And whatever your labours and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.”

I first came across the poem in 1971 when it became a hit single.

It’s all sound homespun wisdom, and thus it fitted well into the late 1960s / early 70s culture.

I think its appeal to people is the same as that of Rudyard Kipling’s ‘If’. A poem that was written in the Victorian era and that is still popular in the UK. Indeed, its first two lines greet tennis players at Wimbledon as they leave the locker rooms.

Desiderata may be schmaltzy, a bit of motherhood and apple pie. Yet if it helps a person feel better about themselves. Encourages them to move forward with optimism. Builds someone’s inner strength and self-belief. Then that’s fine with me.

I wrote in an earlier post that moving on from lost love is to me like grieving, and in William Congreve’s play ‘The Mourning Bride’ are the lines,

“Musick has Charms to soothe a savage Breast,

 To soften Rocks, or bend a knotted Oak.”

Well, I think one could write the same of poetry.

As many people do, I have a ‘Memory Box’ or, more accurately, a ‘Memento Box’. It’s not large – I tend to travel light through life. 

Within that box is an eclectic mix of objects and items from before my birth to more recent times. My great-grandfather’s pocket watch (that’s wound using a key). Some cards my grandfather sent from the trenches of the Great War. My father’s medals and my mother’s ID card from the Second World War. Also, some shrapnel from a German bomb. I wouldn’t be writing this if it had exploded closer to her. When it comes to my lifetime, there’s my school reports, a FA Cup Final programme from 1974 and various other bits and pieces. One is a ‘Boarding Pass’ for the Titanic Hotel and Museum in Belfast.

A thoughtful birthday gift of some years ago from my wife Sarah as I have a keen interest in that famous ship. The Titanic Hotel was once the offices of Harland and Wolff, the ship’s builders. The museum, just next door, is a striking building whose star-shaped design has ‘sides’ that are the exact dimensions of the ship’s bow.

I’ve been fascinated by the story of RMS Titanic from my youngest days and my watching of a ‘Night to Remember’, starring that British stalwart actor Kenneth More in the role of Second Officer Charles Lightoller. The film is romanticised but still far superior to the more recent offering by James Cameron.

A young teenager, replete from Sunday Lunch, I settled down with my parents to watch a Black and White ‘classic’ that in the late 1960s was the staple of BBC Sunday afternoon viewing. ‘A Night to Remember’ gripped me for the next couple of hours. A year or so later, I read the book of the same name by Walter Lord, on which the film is based. Since then, I’ve read much about the short-lived life of the Titanic. From its inception to its demise. I feel the most definitive book on the subject is ‘Titanic – Triumph and Tragedy’ by John P Eaton and Charles A Haas. Over the years, I’ve also read biographies of passengers and crew. Because of the 1958 film, Charles Lightoller is well-known; however, the individual that sticks in my memory is Violet Jessop – ‘Miss Unsinkable’. Violet lived to tell the tale(s) after surviving the sinking of the Titanic and its sister ship Britannic (it hit a German mine rather than an iceberg). Violet was also aboard Titanic’s other sister ship Olympic when it collided with HMS Hawke.

Interestingly it was the ripple effect of that collision that led to the RMS Titanic meeting the iceberg. Repairs to RMS Olympic delayed work on Titanic by three weeks, thus pushing back its Maiden Voyage from March into April. And who was the captain of RMS Olympic when the collision occurred? No other than Captain Smith, who met his fate as captain of Titanic.

I don’t have much time for the more recent Titanic film as someone deemed it necessary to plot around a fictionalised story for some unknown reason. This, despite an abundance of engaging true stories about the people who sailed on the Titanic.

For a love story, we have Mr and Mrs Straus. Married for over 40 years, they chose to stay together on the sinking ship out of love rather than to part. For intrigue, we have John Jacob Astor. One of the wealthiest men in the world, he died, leaving his young pregnant second wife to face future ostracism by his family. For bravery, we have Lightoller himself. Once he’d seen the passengers away on one side of the ship, he tried to float two ‘collapsible’ boats before almost drowning. He then spent the night with many others standing on top of one of the upturned collapsible. For female fortitude, we have the ‘unsinkable Molly Brown’. But best of all, for humour, we have Charles Joughin. The ship’s baker, who stories say refused his allocated place, as a seaman, in a lifeboat. He then got drunk, stepped off the stern of Titanic as it slipped below the waves and ended up on the same upturned boat as Lightoller. There are many more such tales.

It’s not just the drama of events I find compelling. It’s the fact that the accident brought home to many of the time the class divisions in British society, and the aftermath played its part in challenging those divisions. 

Women and Children First! Providing that is, they were first-class or second-class women and children. Indeed, a more significant percentage of first-class men survived than third-class children (far more significant than 2nd and 3rd class men). Was the money paid by Sir Cosmo Duff-Gordon to the few crew members in his near-empty boat compensation? Or a bribe, so they didn’t return to pick up survivors? As was the day’s custom, the White Star Line stopped the pay of all the crew, be they survivors or not, at the exact time of the Titanic’s sinking. Yet Bruce Ismay, the owner of the White Star Line, saved himself at the last minute by climbing into one of the boats. These examples and others drew attention to the difference between, and the indifference of, the privileged and the lives of the less fortunate.

The tragedy also threw up many mysteries. What happened to the binoculars in the crow’s nest? How much of a part did the fire within the coal heaps below play in damaging the ship? Was the Californian as close to Titanic as reports suggest? Could its Captain have come to the rescue of many of those that lost their lives?

I have never quite determined why this historical incident interests me so much. Is it that I wonder how I might have felt and acted if Sarah, my wife, and I had been aboard Titanic? I see us as Second-Class passengers. I stand on the Boat Deck and say goodbye to Sarah as she sits in an open boat. I tell her not to worry and that I will see her soon as the crew lower the lifeboat towards the dark, icy water. I see her anguished face vanishing into the watery void. What would I then do? Go against all of society’s mores of the time? Attempt to get into another boat ahead of a woman or child? Or wait stoically on the deck and scan the horizon for a rescue ship. Hoping that if I did end up in the freezing water, my life jacket would keep me afloat long enough until rescue. Or would I give up hope and go back inside and hit the bottle (it worked for the baker!)?

No matter what we imagine, we do not know how we might act in the face of extreme danger. We might think the best of ourselves, but we too might do as Bruce Ismay did in the early hours of that fateful morning.

And as a footnote, the sinking of the Titanic was not Charles Lightoller’s final act when it comes to the rescue of others. He also skippered a ‘little boat’ during the Dunkirk evacuation 28 years later. He and his ‘Sundowner’ (capacity of 21 people) saved 127 service personnel in a single trip. Lightoller even evaded, by some intelligent sailing, a bomb dropped by a Stuka.

That led again to the ‘portrayal’ of Charles Lightoller on the Big Screen. This time by Mark Rylance in Christopher Nolan’s ‘Dunkirk’. For dramatic purposes, Rylance’s character has a different background, and ‘Sundowner’ becomes ‘Moonstone’, but what happens in the film is close to the truth of Lightoller’s escapade. Although I confess that, as with Titanic, I prefer the 1950s version of Dunkirk.

I guess I’m (literally) just an old traditionalist.

It’s an afternoon of balmy radiance, and I’m sitting alone in the garden.

Well, I say alone but not quite. Close to my feet dozes a recumbent cat. Occasionally a butterfly silently flutters by, and the not-so-silent bees go busily about their business. Studiously moving from one flower to another. Above me, a single seagull coasts on the warm currents. Sailing serenely across the clear azure.

A slight breeze gusts occasionally, sending a ripple through the leaves of the surrounding trees and bushes. The sound contrasts the continuous twinkle of water I can hear falling gently into the pond.

For lengthy periods I hear no voice, no car, no aeroplane. Just the sounds of nature.

I’m reading ‘tuesdays with Morrie’ by Mitch Albom. My quiet setting is perfect as it offers no distraction to the contemplation of the story of the author’s journey towards a redefinition of what he sought from life.

Today, I’ve done some cleaning, some shopping, visited solicitors, paid fees, and continued my saga with the tax office (their systems seem the epitome of fragility). This and much other ‘important’ stuff fills our lives and brings us both our sense of achievement but also frustration, and worry.

When I come across these words in the book, spoken by its hero, they made sitting in the garden the most important thing I will do today,

“It’s what everybody worries about, isn’t it? What if today were my last day on earth? …. the culture doesn’t encourage you to think about such things until you’re about to die. We’re so wrapped up with egotistical things, career, family, having enough money, meeting the mortgage, getting a new car, fixing the radiator when it breaks – we’re involved in trillions of little acts just to keep going. So, we don’t get into the habit of standing back and looking at our lives and saying, is this all? Is this all I want? Is something missing?”

My wife Sarah didn’t need Morrie to help her chart a path towards her solution to those questions. I’m not sure I yet have my own answer. However, this book, full of optimism and encouragement from a man declining through a devastatingly debilitating disease and on the cusp of death, gives me much pause for thought.

For now, though, I’ll put Morrie aside and listen to the bees, the ripple of a breeze and watch a seagull glide.

As Sarah, my wife, and I separate, a significant step is selling our home. It’s preparation for that which has occupied us over the past week or so. Choosing an Estate Agent and Solicitor. Having the place photographed, marketing material produced and providing information to help subsequent ‘searches’ etc. So far, we’ve had a positive response with several viewings and an offer. So the ball is rolling …

Being so occupied is good for us because it moves our thoughts to the future. However, inevitably, as we’ve come across some item or other, we’ve both lapsed back into a warm memory of a time passed.

This will be my 14th house move and Sarah’s 17th, so we both know the ropes. Over the years, the amount of paperwork has increased, but the fundamental process remains the same. We also know that, as with every other move, there’s many a slip ‘twixt cup and the lip.

The most memorable of those was our move to Wiltshire when a lapse by our solicitor saw us technically homeless for a night. He managed to complete the sale of our home in Hertfordshire. Then he spectacularly failed to transfer the funds to allow completion of purchasing our new place. All sorted the next day, but it made for an uncomfortable episode.

The first house I purchased was with my first wife, Kym. It was in 1976, and I was the grand old age of 19, while Kym was 20.

We’d married the year before, and our first home together was a beautiful ground-floor flat in Twickenham. Just beside Richmond Bridge on Cleveland Road. From it, we had an uninterrupted view of the Richmond Ice Rink. That’s now long gone, so if we were still there, we would have an uninterrupted view of the Thames across Cambridge Park. The rent on the flat was £120 a month, paid in advance. Kym and I could afford that, but the challenge was finding another £120 for the deposit. We had around £150 savings, and our combined salaries were circa £5,500 a year before tax. However, at the time, inflation was still at 16.5% (it had earlier peaked at 25%). As we are now seeing today, high inflation quickly eats into take-home pay.

However, we so wanted the flat that we persuaded the kindly elderly husband and wife Landlords to take two cheques for £120 each. They could take the first to the bank immediately. But, we asked that they hold off for 7 days depositing the second cheque to allow me to cover it by borrowing £100 from my father (repayable at £10 a month). The week’s delay allowed the transfer of the money from my father’s bank account to mine. Such arrangements seem so slow these days of almost instantaneous bank transfers, credit cards and the like.

My memory of the Landlord’s office in Richmond is of something out of Dickens. You reached the tiny room by climbing a steep set of creaking stairs. Within the room, the couple sat opposite each other at high desks surrounded by piles of papers. There was one little window high up in the wall above them. The glass was so discoloured that it threw an amber hue over everything. Anything you touched threw up a cloud of dust. The couple gave me the impression that they rarely left the office and seemed dust-covered too.

The flat Kym and I rented was small. Comprising a bedroom, lounge, kitchenette, and bathroom with a handkerchief garden dominated by a plum tree. However, the tiny rooms always seemed bathed in light. The bedroom flooded with sunlight in the morning, and the sun’s mellow glow bathed the lounge in the evening. So many places I’ve lived in my life have been just that. Places where I lived. But that little flat in Twickenham will always have a special place in a quiet corner of my heart.

Sadly though, spending so much on the rent wasn’t sensible, so Kym and I decided to buy a house. And in March of the following year, we moved to 37 Third Avenue in Leagrave, north of Luton. A small two-up, two-down. It cost the princely sum of £8000 on which we took out a 95% mortgage. In those days, mortgage calculation was 2x the higher wage earner. Kym. And half the lower wage earner. Me. During the time in our flat, we had saved hard. With the return of the deposit on the flat, we had £400. The purchase was completed in January, but we wanted to ‘do up’ the place. So, for several weekends in late winter, we travelled from Twickenham across London and then on to Leagrave to spend time painting, wallpapering and the like. Eating fish and chips out of newspaper and supping tea from mugs with paint-stained hands. Simpler days. And the circle now completes as it’s likely that the last house I purchase will also be a two-up two-down or something of similar ilk (but sadly, not at 1970’s prices).

The road to the sale of our home and the purchase of new properties may be a familiar one to Sarah and me. Yet, as I wrote earlier, experience tells us there will be at least one bump as we travel along that road. As Rabbie Burns wrote in ‘To a Mouse’… 

The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men

Gang aft a-gley.

Fingers crossed, not too a-gley

I am the product of a mixed marriage. My mother and her family were ardent Sunderland AFC supporters. However, my father and his family were avid followers of Newcastle United FC. So, on which side of the coin was my allegiance to fall?

In my early years, my parents (they were both engaging raconteurs) would regale me with stories of the teams and players they’d watched when younger. In my mother’s case, it was the likes of Len Shackleton, Billy Bingham, and Stan Anderson. In my father’s case, it was the likes of Hughie Gallacher, Tommy Lang, and Jackie Milburn.

I loved my mother, but the black and white side drew me. I was to follow the Magpies, not the Black Cats. I think it may have been the anecdotes my father shared of his early days watching and then playing for Newcastle United ‘youth’ that swung me his way. My mother’s stories had appeal too, but my father’s offerings took me inside the NUFC team of the 1920s whereas my mother spoke only as watching as a spectator in the 1940s.

As a Father’s Day present, my son bought me a book entitled ‘All with Smiling Faces’. Some might recognise that as a line from the Geordie ‘anthem’, Blaydon races. The book is the story of how NUFC came about and how within 30 years, it became the best team in England.

It’s a very well-researched book but not dry in its delivery. The writer, Paul Brown, captures so well what football means to the city of Newcastle. The character of its people, their pride in their team and city, and the atmosphere on match day. Brown brings to life the players of over 100 years ago. They are not just names in a history book. Brown offers a glimpse of their personality. 

Popular culture has 1892 as the year of the founding of NUFC. However, in truth, The NUFC story goes further back in time. To the formation of a football club by some teenage cricketers in 1881. The oldest was nineteen and the youngest fourteen, and they formed a football team to have something to play outside of the cricket season. The boys lived around Stanley St. in the east end of Newcastle. Not surprisingly, they named their club Stanley FC. That club was one of many in the city, and countless other towns and cities around England, as the popularity of football increased.

Many of those fledgling clubs failed to take flight and within in a couple of years or more had disappeared. But not Stanley. They changed their name to Newcastle East End when they learned a club had formed on the other side of the city called Newcastle West End. East End moved to different grounds, attracting better footballers and a growing following. Eventually, East End’s west end rivals failed financially making their ground at St James Park available. East End moved in. Changing their name to Newcastle United FC happened as a means of appearing attractive to both East End and West End fans. Not because of the merger of the East End and West End clubs as thought commonly.

So began the journey to the club that exists today. After writing about the club’s formation, Paul Brown recounts their early journey through to the end of the Edwardian era. And while the book’s main thrust is of NUFC, along the way Brown offers a snapshot into Edwardian England and the life of working people. His book reflects the early years of professional football, not just NUFC.

In one chapter, Brown writes of one of the earliest films of a football match. It’s from 1901 and shows NUFC plating Liverpool at St James Park. The short film shows just as much of the crowd as it does the game (not caught on camera was the only goal, scored by NUFC). Why was so much time spent filming the public? Those early filmmakers knew that people would pay to watch the film in the hope of seeing themselves rather than a few glimpses of the game. I’ve added it to this as it offers an exciting insight into the Edwardian game. I especially like that you can see one of the players discarding a cigarette as he reaches the field of play-an act I’ve yet to see in the modern game.

https://player.bfi.org.uk/free/film/watch-newcastle-united-v-liverpool-1901-1901-online

Brown also reflects on the north/south divide of the time and how the Geordie reputation for warm welcomes and bonhomie existed then just as it does now. As expressed by a writer of the time that Brown quotes,

“And what finer race of people shall you find in other parts of this kingdom? They are the warmest-hearted people in the world, and of such a people and of such a town they have built among them, one cannot hear too much, nor feel too hearty and admiration”

Another thing that draws me to the book is that some of my father’s anecdotes crop up. Although my father offered more background ‘colour’. For instance, as my father told it,  the backstory to Newcastle’s dropping of number of players that then led to their worst ever defeat had more than a little to do with alcohol. Indeed, Brown does make mention of the time a NUFC player who, after having a drop too much before the game, needed an on-field pointer as to which direction NUFC were kicking. It was a different game on those early days of football.

Paul Brown has authored an excellent book. Not just for those who follow NUFC. Anyone interested in the growth of “the beautiful game”, and social history will find something in the book for them.

Howay the Lads!!