I very much enjoy the TV programme, ‘A House through Time’, in which David Olusoga explores the lives of those who occupied a house through the decades. The well-to-do and the ne’er-do-wells. Those on the up and those on the make. All human life is there, as the saying goes.

It prompts this Reflection on some of those who once inhabited the places in which I’ve lived.

I grew up in a house built after the Great War, as one of the ‘homes for heroes’. The irony I always saw was that my father first rented and then bought the house from a German Pork Butcher who owned both it, and the one next door, where he lived with his family. The Steins although, just before hostilities broke out in 1914, they changed their surname to Stone. Sadly, that name change did not stop some miscreants from breaking the shop’s windows during the war. Not an unusual occurrence to those shop owners who bore German names. I do not know how the Stones came to buy the houses sometime after their building.

The room I shared when I first lived in London was in a house in Leinster Gardens. Built in mid-Victorian times, I suspect it had a tale to tell from its first days of grandeur, as a property of choice close to Hyde Park, to what it had become when I lived there. A hostel for those newly arrived in London with multiple ‘tenants’ occupying each room (in my case, I shared with three other young men). Most noteworthy in Leinster Gardens were the two ‘false’ houses. They’re façades built to match the look of the rest of the street. Transport for London maintain the ‘buildings’ as they hide a short area of uncovered underground tracks. From the road, the ‘houses’ look as if they form part of an unbroken terraced row.

The first house I bought back in 1976 was a bargain as the owners dropped the price to help a quick sale. They were in their mid-twenties and bought the two-up, two-down for £9K some three years earlier. Their asking price to my first wife and I was £8.5K. Quite a reduction. The reason was their imminent divorce and their wish to dispose of assets quickly. I don’t know the whole story. However, it did make me ponder on how their lives together must have changed. That first excitement of buying and moving into their new home to this hasty disposal. A relationship can turn sour for a host of reasons and in no time at all.

I’ve moved home many times and on one occasion bought from the family of an old lady recently deceased. When first viewing the property, there were all the signs of her recent occupation. Food in cupboards, toiletries in the bathroom. The family must have struggled to come to terms with clearing those last vestiges of someone they loved. I believe the house had been the old lady’s home for all her adult life after marriage.

When settling in Wiltshire, our first house, built in the Edwardian era, was the oldest I’ve occupied. On the architrave above the front door were the words “Gordon’s Villa”. Who was Gordon, we wondered? The first owner of the house? Our research disproved that. The first owner was a widow of the surname Evans, who built the house and several other nearby cottages on what was up until then, farmland. There was a thought that Gordon may have been her husband’s name. But that was not the case either. Another idea was it may be the name of the builder. That proved impossible to confirm, but it seems a bit of an arrogant act to carve your name so prominently over the threshold of someone else’s home. Finally, someone offered a left of field theory that the name might be in honour of General Gordon, killed in the late 1880s in Sudan. He was a figure held in high regard, and statues to him abound all over England. We moved from there a couple of years ago, so our research ended and thus the mystery remains.

None of the properties I’ve occupied over the years, offer the rich history of those houses featured in the TV series. However, everyone’s dwelling place, be it grand or small, has a story of human existence to tell. The celebrations, the heartbreaks, the laughs, the tears, the fallings out and the making up. But our time within our homes is temporary. The places in which we dwell will see us come and will see us go.

And this week’s music? Well, I’ve already shared ‘Our House’ by Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young in an earlier Reflection, so this time, it’s Madness 

This week’s reflection is of some traditions I recall from my younger days living in the northeast of England. That, unfortunately, seem now to have fallen by the wayside.

The first and most obvious is ‘Penny for the Guy’. That ritual before the 5th of November when children would go door to door showing off their homemade version of Guy Fawkes in the hope of receiving some small monetary reward. I suspect the loss of that ritual was a combination of safety concerns over fireworks and the increasing popularity of ‘trick or treating’ on the nearby Halloween. There may also be a concern at the concept of the metaphorical burning of Roman Catholicism.

Another tradition no longer seen is drawing the curtains in the house of someone just deceased and keeping the curtains that way for some days afterwards. I believe that goes back to Victorian times. As did stopping all the clocks in the home at the time of death and covering all mirrors. The latter was the superstition that the dead person’s soul might become trapped in an uncovered mirror. I do not know when stopping clocks and covering mirrors died out (pardon the pun). However, curtain closing was still happening in the Northeast of England into the late 1960s.

Also linked to death was showing respect when any funeral cortege passed. I recall as a boy that everyone would standstill on the pavement and face towards the mournful procession. Men would remove their hats (more commonly worn than today), and women would bow their heads. I have not seen that happen for decades. In recent times, the nearest I recall was people lining the streets of Wotton Bassett to honour the return of service personnel killed in Iraq / Afghanistan and flown into RAF Lyneham.

On a happier note, a tradition I recall at weddings was throwing small coins by the bride’s father as she and he left the family home en route to the wedding. He threw the coinage from the back window of the car as it moved away, leaving a melee of children to tussle for the minor prizes on offer. It was initially a Scottish custom that must have inveigled its way into the northeast of England. However, I have not come across it in the south of England. And even in the north, it seems to have had its day.

There was also the tradition of ‘crossing a strangers palm with silver’ after a christening or baptism. The practice is the giving, to the first stranger seen after such an event, a ‘silver’ coin. At the time of my own baptism that was ‘half a crown’ (My parents told me that. I confess I do not recall the event myself). If the christening was of a baby boy, the stranger must be a female. If it was a baby girl, then a male. While I have described the northern tradition (another that has died out), there may have been a southern variant of giving the child the ‘silver’ coin.

Although more a superstition than a tradition is placing a coin in a wallet or purse before giving it as a gift. The idea being the said wallet/purse would never after fall empty. I am not overly superstitious, but I still do that to this day.

And saying I am not superstitious, there are two things I try to avoid. One is putting shoes on a bed – a portend that someone will then soon die in that bed. The other is not to cross on a set of stairs. It’s from sword-carrying days when there was the risk the other person might turn and stab you in the back (one can never be too careful, even today).

My challenge this week is finding a piece of music in keeping with this Reflection. I did think of ‘Tradition’ from ‘Fiddler on the Roof’. But, instead, I have gone completely off topic and just chosen a song I like. My argument is that earlier today I watched ‘The Many Saints of Newark’ that serves as a prequel to the TV series, The Sopranos. This song features as a musical backdrop in an episode of ‘The Sopranos’.  I like the TV series, this new film and very much like this soulful song from Nils Lofgren with slide guitar playing at its best …

In a Reflection a couple of weeks ago I mentioned that two friends asked if I might say some words at their wedding. That happened last Saturday. A gentle day of celebration for the happy couple, their family and close friends. People were truly kind with their comments on the words I spoke.

It all served to jog my memory of events that happened at a couple of past weddings I have attended as a guest.

I was ten years old when I went to my first wedding. That of my brother and I remember the wedding for three things.

The first is what seemed like a platoon of soldiers (my brother was in the army) that stayed in our small three bedroomed terrace house before the wedding. To make room for all I slept in a single bed with my dad (no easy feat given he was on the ‘generous’ size). My mother and sister slept downstairs in the ‘room’ (there were only three downstairs rooms — the kitchen, the ‘room’ and the bathroom). My mother scared herself the first night when she thought she saw a ghost. It turned out to be an embroidery of the Sacre Coeur in Paris hung on the wall and that no one realised had fluorescent thread.

Secondly, I wore my first suit, and it itched like hell.

Finally, the traffic accident involving my brother and his wife as they left the reception. My memory is that I was playing on a slot machine in the building in which the reception was held when my father passed me at pace. I followed him. Fortunately, my brother and his wife were OK. But a lorry involved crashed into a wall trapping the driver. My mother ushered me away from the scene. However, I remember my father climbing into the lorry cab to administer aid until the ambulance and fire service arrived.

Another wedding that sticks in my mind was one I attended in the mid-1970s. The bride was a friend of my first wife. You could sense the tension between the two families from the moment my wife and I arrived at the church. 

This was not the Montagues and the Capulets. But it was a close-run thing. The wedding being over, all retired to the reception, and the two families stayed distinctly apart. Each keeping to their own side of the room in almost separate celebrations. The ‘happy’ couple doing their best to evenly spend their time with their guests by moving from one side of the room to the other. It was after the newlyweds left the violence erupted. Tables went over, drink spilt, and people tumbled as whatever feud existed burst to the surface. My wife and I felt escape to be the better part of valour. I never did find out what were the family differences and how the evening finally ended.

A year or two later again my first wife and I attended the wedding of some mutual friends. Midway through the reception, we noticed many of the guests disappearing through a doorway on one side of the room. We knew it was not to get to the bar as that was happily fulfilling its role on the opposite side. Then the bridegroom too disappeared, followed moments later by his bride. Our curiosity peaked, my wife and I decided we would investigate.

The door in question led down a short corridor. From a room at its end, we could hear animated voices. We peered in to see the absentees clustered around a TV. On that was the Grand National. Many in both families were avid gamblers. Even a wedding was not going to stop them seeing if their horse ‘came in’.

I am pleased to report that at last Saturday’s wedding the married couple did not end up in a traffic accident nor did they or their guests disappear to watch TV, nor did it end in a punch up. Instead, it was as it should be. A happy couple declaring their love for each other supported by their friends and family.

I won’t share the words here that I spoke last Saturday, but this week’s music offers a hint. It is the late and great Bob Marley. Songwriter, singer, and philosopher …

Today is a Tuesday and my Reflection this week is of a Tuesday 20 years ago. 

One upon a time people used to say that they could never forget where they were when they heard of the assassination of President Kennedy. I was seven and on a visit to my grandparents with my mother. Although I may not have fully understood what had happened, I recall their shocked reaction and much-animated conversation. Then came the grainy disjointed pictures on the TV. It would be many years before the Zapruder film that showed the full horror of the event became shown more widely.

Nowadays, people would say they can remember where they were on what we now call ‘9/11’. 

I was at work that Tuesday in an office just north of London. I recall an ordinary business day until around 2 pm when word spread quickly around the office of news that an aeroplane had crashed into one of the Twin Towers in New York. The cause was unknown, but most believed it to be a light aircraft and an accident.

Someone then pulled up some live TV pictures on their laptop. Smoke and flame billowed from the ugly wide gashes in both towers. This was not light aircraft and no accident. Confirmed when we saw a recording of the second aeroplane smashing into the South Tower. Everyone watching felt a palpable sense of both shock and disbelief.

Work became an afterthought as for the rest of the day we watched the unfolding horror that culminated in the towers’ collapse. All through that afternoon came more news. The attack on the Pentagon. The downing of United Flight 93. Then more stories of aeroplane hijacks and other threats (all in the event proving to be false alarms). Nevertheless, there was clearly a massive loss of life. And what attacks might come next and where?

I drove home that evening listening to the continuing radio coverage in something of a daze. I wondered what the events I had seen might now herald. The entire world seemed in shock. A pervading atmosphere of being on the verge of war. 

We in the UK knew terrorism. Some of us experienced the IRA bombing campaign in London and elsewhere when bombs and bullets seemed a daily occurrence and caution was the byword. The world had seen the aeroplane hijackings of the 1970s. The killing of some hostages and the blowing up of empty planes on the ground. But the use of laden planes as missiles was another paradigm. Previous threats and acts of terrorism seemed insignificant compared to events in New York that Tuesday.

Of course, the past 20 years have now seen the UK suffer our own suicidal terrorist attacks. Especially the tube bombings of 7 July 2005. The presence of armed police has become much more the norm now. A few years ago, after one terrorist attack, I even saw armed officers at my small local railway station. So, it is not just significant conurbations that are at threat.

The Saturday after the 9/11 attack, I read this piece by the author Ian MacEwan in the Guardian. It touched my heart then, and it still does so today. The insight into the mind of those who undertake such deeds is as true now as then. And as then, love is all we have to set against these murderers.

http://www.theguardian.com/world/2001/sep/15/september11.politicsphilosophyandsociety2

I have chosen a song from Springsteen’s Rising album. His tribute to all those who lost their lives and lost loved ones in the attack. Some might find this track surprising, given its upbeat tone. But I chose it for precisely that reason. Just as love was all those who died had against their murderers, then hope is all everyone else has against terrorism. We cannot overcome terrorism by being cowed down by it but by being defiant in its face. By working and waiting for that sunny day …

Two friends are soon to marry and asked me to say a few words at their wedding. Their request caused me to ‘pen’ this week’s Reflection on talks, presentations, and speeches.

My first talk/presentation was some forty-seven years ago, not long after I began my career as a Forensic Chemist. Given the need to give evidence in court and present papers at conferences, new starters received training early in the art of public speaking. I write ‘training’ when in truth we were thrown in at the deep end. In my case, I was given a topic, ‘The structure and analysis of nicotine’. Catchy, eh? I was then told my presentation would be to half a dozen far more experienced colleagues. Colleagues who had forgotten more about the analysis of nicotine than I could ever tell them.

The most challenging presentation is when the audience is a handful of people. It’s much easier to look out on a sea of faces. Also, giving a talk on a subject on which your audience knows as much if not more is intimidating.

I still recall that dry-mouthed feeling as I stood before my ‘audience’. I didn’t have butterflies in my stomach so much as large birds all soaring to and fro. In my ears, I heard only my pounding heart. Then, taking a deep breath, I began. As my talk progressed, there was absolutely no reaction from those listening. They could have been playing poker. The less they reacted, the faster I spoke. My thirty-minute presentation took about twenty. By the end, I could feel my palms sticky with sweat.

The audience feedback was kinder than I expected. Much positive criticism helping me understand the dynamics of an audience and some dos and don’ts when presenting. That early tortuous experience helped me overcome the feeling of fundamental vulnerability that a person can get when standing in front of a group.

A few years later, when not long in Industry, I attended a training course on junior leadership. Part of the course was given by a psychologist. One topic discussed was the interaction of a speaker with an audience. For example, how to spot how comfortable a speaker was with that audience. Did the speaker create a barrier? i.e. standing behind a lectern, crossing their arms over their chest, or refusing to take questions until the end. It all helped me understand the psychology of public speaking.

That psychologist taught me that an audience tends to be ‘sympathetic’ to a speaker. Very few, if any, would wish to swap places with them. Very few will ask questions as so to do puts them into the role of the speaker on which the rest of the audience will then gaze.

Since then, I’ve given countless talks, presentations, speeches, and the like. At weddings, conferences, training courses, and more recently conducting guided walks.

I always look to begin any talk with something light-hearted. To break the ice with the audience and to settle me into what I wish to present. It doesn’t have to be something that will bring a belly-aching laugh. In fact, it’s best not to try for too many laughs when giving a presentation. Leave that to the stand-up comedians.

Some people are exceptions to that last statement. One of the worst occasions I had at a business conference was following a gifted speaker and a natural comedian. For some 30 minutes, he had the audience in his palm and at times rocking with laughter. Anything I was going to say after him would fall flat. But there was no point in trying to compete with his natural style. I delivered my talk as I’d planned. No one fell asleep, and I even received a few smiles and titters. Sometimes the show just must go on.

I also take a leaf out of Churchill’s book. Many aren’t aware of his poor early performance at public speaking with a tendency towards a monotone delivery. Now he is seen as a great rhetorical orator who fluctuated in pitch, pace, and volume. He advocated if you need notes to assist in speaking then don’t hide them away and pretend you don’t. Let the audience see them. But, of course, those magic see-through teleprompters have done away with that.

I’ve also done ‘two-handers’ with a fellow speaker. They can be tricky unless you practice the timings together. One that always stays with me was the finale of a business presentation. My co-presenter and I stood at opposite ends of the stage, then finished the presentation by ‘skipping’ like Morecambe and Wise towards each other. Our presentation was on good partnership in business, and we used M&W to illustrate that point. I’m not sure how much the audience took in our talk, but from the laughter I heard, they enjoyed our skipping.

I’ve spoken at several weddings. Three of my own! My eldest daughter’s and my eldest son’s. At my daughter’s, I did an after-dinner speech and a bible reading in the church. I am not a man of faith, so I couldn’t help glancing upwards once or twice for any passing thunderbolt when doing the latter.

So how will I feel when standing in front of the wedding guests plus bride and groom? Well, despite so many past presentations I will be nervous, no doubt. Not because I might fluff my lines but more that I don’t deliver my words in the way I wish, for my friends. I feel both honoured and humbled they’ve asked me to speak. I hope I do them justice.

Oh, and no I don’t remember the structure of Nicotine other than there are lots of Carbon and Hydrogen molecules with some Nitrogen thrown in. It’s also a deadly poison, more toxic than cocaine although it’s the tar in cigarettes that’s carcinogenic not the nicotine.

Which is my tenuous link to this week’s music. …A song I’ve always liked and that is some 90 years old. This version by the Platters that most people will recognise is a little younger …

I have travelled, for business and leisure, to many different countries in my 65 years. However, until last weekend, I had not taken a holiday in Wales. This week’s Reflection is of my first such mini break there.

I did visit Wales many times on business. But, as with any business trip, it was a car, office, restaurant, hotel, car type visit. Affording little opportunity to peruse the surrounding area.

I’ve attended a Bruce Springsteen concert in the Millennium Stadium and celebrated a birthday in Cardiff. Still, I cannot say I took the opportunity to explore Wales’ cosmopolitan Capital city much on either occasion.

Regular readers may also recall I inadvertently made a fleeting visit to Wales on the day I retired. Who knows? My boarding the wrong train may have been my subconscious telling me it was time I paid Wales a proper visit. On the other hand, of course, it may simply be my inability to read a station departure board…

This first holiday was a short stay with friends who ’emigrated’ (well, one did. The other was a Welsh exile) from England to the Ceredigion area of Wales some years ago. And what a lovely stay it proved to be.

Tucked away in the countryside our friend’s early Victorian house is also near the coast. Surrounding their home are the gentle sounds of nature rather than urban cacophony. Depending on which direction that one looked, there were rabbits breakfasting, cattle ruminating, sheep flocking and horses looking to pass the time of day. On one stroll, we even caught sight of some Alpacas. I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised, given the close relationship of Wales with Patagonia.

Being we were so close to the coast and with such warm weather, the seaside beckoned. We arrived at one of the many coastline bays to find the sea lapping the edge of a broad swath of sand. The receding tide offering opportunity to explore the caves that bordered the bay. I may not see the Mediterranean this year, but the Irish Sea made for an ample substitute. Mimicking in appearance how Van Gogh saw the Mediterranean,

“… you don’t always know if it’s green or purple – you don’t always know if it’s blue – because a second later, its changing reflection has taken on a pink or grey hue.”

Travelling further along the coast to the bustling seaside town of New Quay, we caught glimpses of dolphins and porpoises cavorting not far offshore. Dylan Thomas often visited the place. He also lived there for a while. It’s said it may have offered inspiration for parts of ‘Under Milkwood’.

Overall, it was a wonderful break with good company in the beautiful countryside. I think I can say that my first ‘proper’ visit to Wales will not be my last.

My music this week combines today’s Reflection with that from a couple of weeks back about cinema. My grandfather was not a great cinema-goer in later life. I only went once with him, and that was to see the film ‘Zulu’. It would have been 1964 or 65.

Most people will know of the film. The heavily romanticised and historically inaccurate retelling of the Defence of Rorke’s Drift in 1879. Some 150 British and colonial troops repulsed many fragmented attacks by over 3,000 Zulu warriors. There is a scene in the film where the defenders sing a version (there is no one version) of ‘Men of Harlech’ to boost their morale. The original song recalls the spirited defence of Harlech against an invader in the 1400s and now has a close association with Wales. In truth, there were only ten soldiers of Welsh origin within the defenders at Rorke’s Drift, but that scene has stayed with me ever since. Here’s a male voice choir giving an extraordinary rendition,

I made mention in a recent post of an encounter when in Naples that reminded me of a scene from the Godfather. This week’s Reflection is of that encounter …

My wife and I spent part of our honeymoon in Naples. Yes, I know it’s not everyone’s dream destination. It is a little too Italy in the raw for most.

One day we took the Funicular railway to the Napoleonic Fort that sits high above the City. It was a sweltering day, even for late September. After looking around the place, we decided on some refreshment.

It was early afternoon when we entered a nearby restaurant that offered a majestic view across the Bay of Naples towards Vesuvius. We opted for an out of doors table in a shady corner.

There was only one other table occupied. It was some distance from ours. Sat around it were half-a-dozen or so middle-aged men. All dressed smartly but casually. They had clearly been there a while. Their laughter and conversion flowing along with the wine. High spirited but not boisterous. 

After the waiter took our order, I asked where the toilets might be. The waiter pointed past the table where the men were sitting and answered, “inside the restaurant”. I rose intending to head in that direction. As I did, I noted some younger men standing in a loose ring around the table of older diners.

Ummm I thought to myself, Sarah and I may have stumbled upon a social gathering of a few Camorra or other local ‘family’.

Undeterred I made my way towards the toilet being careful to keep my hands visible. The only thought in my head, the scene in The Godfather where Michael visits a restaurant’s bathroom to seek out a hidden handgun. As I drew nearer the gathering, one of the younger men turned in my direction with a clear interest in my intent. I smiled and offered a “buona giornata” in my best attempt at Italian. No doubt detecting my English accent, and labelling me a tourist, he relaxed, smiled, and offered a “ciao “, in reply.

I made it safely to the toilet. Once there my thoughts were still on The Godfather in which after Michael leaves the bathroom with a weapon, he despatches his two dining companions. Might the young men believe this too maybe my plan?

People, I came out of the toilet with jazz hands and some disappointment that the younger cohort paid me no attention. To them, I was clearly no threat to their elders.

The link to the film played out further as a little later a young man and what I assume to be his girlfriend appeared in the restaurant. They made straight for the table of the middle-aged men. I guess the young man was a relative of one the diners. There was much gentle joshing of the young couple who shyly took two hastily arranged seats at the table. Again, what came to my mind was the wedding scene of The Godfather. The ‘innocent’ Michael’s arrival with his girlfriend, Kay, to the acclamation of the guests.

Real-life imitating cinema.

Take care, everyone. Stay safe

It was a trip to the Dentist that prompts this week’s Reflection.

I am not really a fast-food ‘burger’ person. I know my kids felt deprived in their childhood in that MacDonald’s, Burger King, or the like were very rarely places frequented. Having said that, I do like a freshly well-cooked burger, especially if it’s a little different such as the pork and chorizo offering that I enjoyed when out with friends recently. On that note, a small Burger place opened recently in my hometown.

I’d heard good things of it, so I thought I would give it a go when between volunteering ‘shifts’ at the local Museum and don’t have a lot of time for lunch. Those good things were true.

This was not one of your, ‘here’s one I prepared’ earlier places. It takes around fifteen minutes to prepare the burger. It was worth the wait. A juicy, cooked to perfection burger that was flavoursome with spot-on seasoning. A brioche bun that was light to the touch and taste. In my case, it came with a fresh, crisp salad, and a sliver of Mayo (I don’t go heavy on Mayo). Twice the price of a typical ‘fast-food’ place but a more generous offering with infinitely more flavour.

What has this got to do with Dentists, you might ask? Sadly, while eating such a burger last Saturday lunchtime, I broke a piece off a tooth. I should add it had nothing to do with the burger. I’ve yet to crack or chip a tooth while eating the likes of hard toffee, pork crackling or a crisp apple. It’s always happened when chewing on a sandwich. Explain that if you will.

From an early age, my teeth have been something of a challenge.

My first visit to a Dentist was at the age of seven. Because of the concern that my first teeth were not relinquishing their positions to let my adult teeth occupy their space. The result was the extraction of five first teeth under ‘laughing gas’. I can still recall the smell of rubber and the sight of the mask approaching my face while the Dentist told me to take a deep breath. I don’t know how long I was under, but I recall visiting my grandad an hour or two afterwards. He investigated my mouth and likened it to the aftermath of a battle of the Great War.

Fortunately, that first visit did not leave me with Dentistry trauma. Especially given the number of times since that I’ve needed dental work. It did leave me short-changed, however. No tooth fairy appeared for those five teeth. At the rate of the time, I was down two shillings and sixpence.

Despite those extractions, my adult upper front teeth did not appear in the orderly fashion hoped. One of my canines didn’t show up at all. The result is the haphazard arrangement of the upper front teeth I have today.

In my early twenties, my then Dentist offered to address the issue by using braces, posts, etc. Deemed cosmetic, the cost would have been high. Around £1000 (at the time half a year’s salary), so it wasn’t going to happen. Not that it bothered me. My upper front teeth and I had gone through the harsh experience that can be school, as well as various courtships (does anyone still use that word?), and indeed, I’d been married for two years. It was by then too late for vanity.

However, I’m conscious of my upper front teeth. So, you won’t see me in many photos with an open-mouthed smile.

I suppose I must be grateful at my age that the teeth I have (one or two have fallen to extraction over the years) are at least my own. That said, those left have been drilled and filled, capped, and crowned. I’ve also had root canal treatment and other dental ‘joys’. Now that ‘laughing gas’ is long gone, it’s meant many, many Injections. In every part of my mouth, too, including the roof — that one was painful.

And how did this most recent visit go? Well. Is the answer. Last Monday morning, I called the surgery. Fortunately, they’d had a cancellation that day, so by 2:45, my mouth was under the detailed examination of the Dentist plus assistant. All very up close and personal. The result of that was the confirmation I’d lost part of the corner of a molar.

My Dentist asked, “Did I want a temporary filling and to return for the full repair, or should we get on with it now?”

“Now”, came my reply.

In the same length of time that I’d waited for my burger, the Dentist injected me, removed an old filling, and rebuilt my tooth. There followed the usual attempt to rinse one’s mouth out while half of it was numb, and as ever, I dribbled as a child. I’m sure dentists ask you to do that just for a bit of fun.

Anyway, that’s me sorted until the next time …

My music this week is another one from the Pogues, as Shane McGowan has even (or at least used to have) more of a dental challenge than I. Great songwriter, though, and this should get your feet tapping

Last week was National Allotment week in the UK. It’s therefore right that my Reflection is on gardening.

I’m no gardener. I didn’t inherit that gene from my father, who attentively tended his garden. He primarily grew vegetables. Potatoes, leeks, sprouts, parsnips, carrots, beans, peas etc. He limited his flower gardening to bulb chrysanthemums and sweet peas. In terms of fruit, it was raspberries, blackberries, and gooseberries. 

His pride, however, were his tomatoes. Whereas children these days take chocolate or some other treat as a thank you to their teacher. At the age of seven my gift to my class teacher, Mrs Hissett, whom my father knew, was a bag of his tomatoes. My recollection was of her usually stern face breaking into a beaming smile, so I guess he was good at growing them.

He took scrupulous care of them in his large greenhouse. On one occasion while he and my mother were away for a weekend he charged my then teenage sister with the tomatoes’ welfare . It was early in the season and the nights chilly, so he used a paraffin heater to keep them cosy. He left careful instructions as to the lighting of the heater and the size of the flame needed. Alas, my sister didn’t quite follow the instructions, discovering many of the tomatoes covered in fine soot in the morning. Unfortunately, she and I could not wipe off all the soot before his return, much to my father’s disappointment. He was not slow to anger (a gene I inherited), so his disappointment with my sister was very ‘direct’.

Until I left the Northeast in 1974, I used to help him in the garden on Sunday mornings. Yes, even in my teenage years. And even if I had enjoyed a ‘heavy night’ before. I much enjoyed those hours together in conversation. He offered much sage advice on gardening yet I didn’t catch the gardening ‘bug’.

I suspect my father’s interest in gardening came from the ‘Dig for Victory’ campaign through the Second World War. That time when the Government exhorted all to turn any bit of land into a vegetable patch. Yet, it seems the British were gardeners even in Roman times. Having said that, it was a separate set of Brits. Those first gardeners were the Celtic British that the Anglo-Saxons saw off after the Roman Empire fell. But somehow, gardening infected those new ‘British’ or, more accurately, English. Gardening in Britain really took off in the 1600s and led to the likes of Capability Brown. Then it was the landed gentry cultivating their ornamental gardens. Which, by the 18th-century, saw British garden design influencing those of other nations.

It may once have been a wealthy persons’ ‘sport’. But it does seem that cultivating your own bit of land does fall naturally into the British psyche at every level. Even I gave gardening a go after buying my first house. I stuck to vegetables and had some success, but deep down, I knew it wasn’t really for me. I was simply echoing my father’s interest.

Gardening, therefore, fell to my wives who were far more green-fingered than I. Our garden today is a testament to the efforts of my wife. In the two years we’ve lived in our current place, she has transformed the garden beyond all recognition from that which it was. It’s a profusion of flowers and plants of all diverse types and varying colours. A living van Gogh painting at times. Bees certainly appreciate her efforts as early mornings in summer one hears a constant background of buzzing as they go about their work. I can’t name many of the flowers, but I know the Bee’s particularly like the lavender plants outside our front door. Bees of every size and shape compete for the pollen. And the butterflies too.

As well as the flowers, my wife grows raspberries and strawberries. There’s also apple, pear, cherry and plum trees. Right now we are enjoying the fruits of the latter.

I suspect I just don’t have the patience to be a gardener, or the attention needed to keep things in good order. It’s not a 30 minute a day job, that’s for sure. So, my hat off to all the gardeners out there. I trust those who have allotments enjoyed ‘their’ week.

This week’s music just must be this, the Waltz of the Flowers, from Tchaikovsky’s well-loved ballet, The Nutcracker. Close your eyes and imagine the dance of those beautiful flowers.

Kermode and Mayo’s film review is a podcast that I much enjoy. It’s a well thought through, well-produced and well-delivered show by two consummate professionals. A well-balanced mix of Mark Kermode’s authoritative and acerbic reviews and Simon Mayo’s everyman approach. Humour running as a counterpoint to some serious stuff in the world of film.

One light-hearted feature was for Mark and Simon to guess, from three short bios, the recipient of a ‘films recommended for you’ list as offered by many streaming providers. The idea is that the streaming providers’ algorithm using past viewing to guide future recommendations would show which of the three people’s it might be. The bios were short. E.g., a 19-year-old student reading economics at the LSE or thirty-something exiled Australian engineer living in Leeds. It always surprised me when Mayo or Kermode matched the recommendations to the correct Bio, given it held only such scant information.

For this Reflection, I thought I’d see how I might appear. I thought my Bio might be Liberally minded, art-loving, retired ex-businessperson. Then I needed the list of films recommended for me.

Well, with cinemas closed through lockdown, the last five films I watched on a streaming platform were …

The Mauritanian – a legal drama based on the story of Mohamedou Ould Slahi, a Mauritanian held for 14 years without charge in Guantanamo Bay 

Judas and the Black Messiah – a biographical drama about the betrayal of Fred Hampton, chairman of the Illinois chapter of the Black Panther Party in the late-1960s 

Ammonite – a romantic drama very loosely inspired by the life of British palaeontologist Mary Anning

Minari – a semi-autobiographical drama of director’s, Lee Isaac Chung, upbringing in a family of South Korean immigrants trying to make it in the rural USA

Portrait of a Lady on Fire – a French historical romantic drama of an affair between an aristocrat and a painter commissioned to paint her picture.

Here’s a list of the top 5 films the algorithm produced,

Dark Waters – a legal thriller dramatising the true-life case of Robert Bilott’s claim against DuPont after they contaminated a town

Shadow in the Cloud – an action horror following a female pilot in WW2 who meets an evil gremlin on board her plane

Another life – a 1920s crime drama based on the real-life murder of Percy Thomson by his wife and her lover Frederick Bywaters

Sound of Metal – a drama of a metal drummer who loses his hearing

Camus – a French drama of the life of philosopher Albert Camus seen through the eyes of the many women in his life.

So, what do you think? Does the algorithm work or not? I have to say numbers 1 and 2 of the recommendations don’t really appeal to me. I know the story of 3, so I may give that a watch, although I suspect it will be a loose interpretation of the actual case. Numbers 4 and 5 have no appeal to me at all.

More than that, if you had my Bio above and saw the list of recommendations, would you say they are a ‘match’. I’m not so sure. Why not give it a try yourself and see if your list is more representative of you?

Anyway, while you are thinking, here’s some music. It’s got nothing really to do with the Reflection above. I just like it. It’s the late and great Ennio Morricone again. This time conducting his composition for the film, ‘Once Upon a Time in America’. And what a film. It has the most enigmatic ending I have ever seen.