Grief is the price we pay for love.
Queen Elizabeth II
A sad day and there are many out there far better equipped than me to express their sympathies.
Rest in peace.
Keeping The Lights On
Pubs and the hospitality trade in general, so much a thread of our everyday lives, probably thought that the days of Covid would be as bad as they could get. And then came this.
So much for the West trumpeting how they would punish Russia when it seems that they held our balls gently in both hands without us actually knowing. After six weeks of posturing, we now know whose job it is to make the big decisions.
Driving for the dental tycoon in recent weeks I’ve heard numerous so-called experts push their ideas; the reality is that it is time for urgent action and only a big wad of cash will do it.
Without pubs, the whole fabric of British life would change for the worse. These are places that bring us together to meet, live, love and learn.
This situation is not of their making.
The Long And Winding Road
Hopping across numerous radio channels hour by hour I’m struck by the death of the love song, something I have written of before. Most attempts these days seem whiny apologies – where have all the great ones gone?
Perhaps it is from living in the eighties with the great songwriters and performers. The other day a guy I did not know was doing a cover of “She’s Only A Woman” by Billy Joel. It made me cringe; he may as well have been singing about bleach.
Is it down to these days of confused sexuality that a lot of blokes sound like girls? Or maybe I was just lucky to grow up in another age?
Wonky Thinking
And still consumer groups fret about the likely reaction of the British consumer to wonky vegetables, made more probable by the dry conditions this summer.
In the midst of a cost of living crisis not seen for decades, I’m sensing worrying about the smooth curves of a potato is missing the point. In fact I cannot remember the curces of a potato ever getting me going until lashed in salt and vinegar.
Levelling Up
One of the more interesting radio clips last week was a sports science piece concerning attempts to get kids to play and compete at sport against kids of equal size rather than age.
It reminded me of coaching days of old when I had regular reason to question a bearded six-foot twelve-year-old. As my team looked on with worried eyes and imagined broken bones, I wondered how much the game really mattered.
And then one season I had my own giant. I checked his birth certificate, even his school, I even asked his dad; all was in order. Finally – revenge – I had Jaws on my team!
Except that this kid was utterly useless and could not hit the skin of a custard pie. In the field he was so static the pigeons used to come and sit on his head.
More Tall Tales
Mother Nature in all her glory stands some ten-feet tall in my back garden, my mini-allotment, full to the brim of imperfectly shaped fruit and veg, loved as if they had the curves of Marylin Monroe.
From one small seed, this has grown and, as its beauty fades over the next few weeks, word will spread of this giant feeding station in BD10.
Birds will descend, the bees having done their work and later, squirrels will scuttle up its giant stalk to cling on for dear life at the top as they feed as if on a two-for-one at Maccy Ds.
And soon the string giant stalk will start to wobble and fall; the circle of life in full glory.
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