Who Am I?

Je m'appelle/mein Name ist/mijn naam is/my name is Graham Barry Edwards.  Apologies but I don't know the Swedish translation.

A few days ago Scriptor Senex/CJ/John/Clive/ blogged about Who Am I?  He pointed out that I had my name problems too.  Yet another thing in common between two brothers.  I thought about enlightening the world (or my tiny part of it) as to my names but decided not to.  Until this morning.  I was replying to an email when I noticed that the previous email I'd sent was signed off 'Graham'.  That's be OK for most of my emails 'cos that's my name.  But....

Like CJ I don't use the name that Mum and Dad called me which was Barry.  Some of my older friends  and people who know me through my wife or early days or The Pottery still call me that.   However I've been called Graham as well since I worked in a hospital at the age of 16 whilst waiting for surgery.  That is what most newcomers to my life know me as.

The odd thing is that, despite the huge mixing of those who know me through more than one source, I always know instinctively who calls me what.  I suppose it's like the French with their Le and La.  There are some  sort of rules but you have to know by instinct or rote to get them all correct.

Anyway nowadays I'm known by Barry, Graham, GB, Geeb, G and VPE or Vieux Pet Ennuyeux.  As I (and they) get older the number of people calling me Barry diminishes. CJ calls me GB as do quite a few other people.  I like that.  I've always like the use of initials as a name.  A handful of close friends call me Geeb (which I also like muchly) but I think I use that in written form to only three people.  Steve used to call me Barry, then Graham and now simply G.  David (ADM) alias Marcel Du Marche has always called me Graham however as he was the person who, all those years ago, said that I was a boring old fart, when he started up his blog dialogues avec mon jardinier écossais  I adpoted the pseudonym Vieux Pet Ennuyeux (French for Boring Old Fart) to comment.  Marcel and VPE communicate frequently by email and Skype.  David and Graham talk to each other!

The Giant Weta

L'Archiduchess as an aside in a posting What's the etymology of the phrase 'to levy taxes'? asked whether it was true that there are no snakes in New Zealand and that there is an insect as large as a hand.

There are no snakes in New Zealand.  In fact, unlike Australia where almost everything is a threat to life or its enjoyment,  there are almost no insects, reptiles nor animals that are deadly in this country.

However we do have a huge insect with a body about 10 cm long and a leg span of 20 cm.  It is called a Giant Weta  and it is big by insect standards with a maximum recorded weight of 71 grams - the weight of a song thrush.  It's a docile creature and it's only defence is its tough exoskeleton.  This was sufficient defence against indigenous potential predators such as morepork, harriers, kingfishers and tuatara.  However it has meant that it has become the prey of many introduced manals and rodents.

(Photo: Richard Sharell.)

More Bulls

Whenever we go to tournaments in Palmerston or Wanganui or New Plymouth we go through Bulls.  I've posted about Bulls before in A Town Called Bulls and  A Town Called Bulls - Revisited..  It's a place which is always worth a stop whether it's for coffee or a meal or for the book shop or some of the other specialist shops on the main street.  For me it's the opportunity for new photographs:

And if you believe that!

 

A fence adornment

 

and another

 

A new ice cream shop!

It's Back

For good I hope.  Since I arrived back in my antipodean home my croquet has been abysmal.  As that is such a large part of my life that has been pretty disastrous.  My confidence has not gone but it's taken a bit of a knock.  However on Saturday I played Association with two of the best players in the Club.  Last year after I'd had a session with one of them my game improved no end.  This afternoon my game has returned as if it had never been away.  Along with such an improvement in play comes, of course, the required improvement in confidence which was in danger of taking a knock.

To Be The Best

When I was a small child in Liverpool we had a neighbourhood street sweeper.  He happened to be called Alfred but that's not relevant except to demonstrate the weird tricks of memory whereby I can recall a name from 60 years ago and not remember momentarily the name of a friend's daughter whom I've known all 40+ years of her life during a conversation when I was speaking on the phone today. 

When I was walking down the road I often chatted to Alfred.  One day he imparted some wisdom to me that I've never forgotten. 

CJ and I went to a small private Prep school in the area.  You need to know that because of what Alfred said.

Alfred said that whilst he was only a street sweeper with little education and I went to a smart school what mattered was who you were and that you strove to do what you did as well as you could.  He said that he was satisfied that he was the best street sweeper in Liverpool.    And he may well have been. 

What struck me later though was his use of the word 'only'.  I have never got used to people who say that.  I once rang an office and when I asked who was speaking was told that it was 'only' the office junior.  I pointed out that most offices can function satisfactorily for a while without senior staff but that most offices seem to collapse if the office junior is not there to find things.  Well that's how it used to be anyway.  There is no such thing, if one thinks about it, as an only in life.  There are just different roles to be played.

It's odd what we recall and what shapes our thinking.  As Andy used to say "It's a funny old world, Dad."

Sitting in Bed

Sometimes late at night I like the idea of going to bed and sitting with a book or, more realistically, Samantha, on my knee and reading or writing.  In practice it rarely works because I have never been one for reading in bed and I tend to put my head on the pillow and fall asleep within a minute of doing that.  Just occasionally I remain awake long enough to do something for a few minutes, such as take a photo of what I see when I sit up in bed at night.

 

To Pay Or Not To Pay.....

I went into town during the week and parked at the garage where I'd had some work carried out and went in to pay a bill.  I came out and drove into the under cover municipal car park next door and parked.   It saves me putting the hood up. It is a pay and display car park.  I walked off to meet a friend for lunch and do some shopping and as I sat down at the café I remembered that I hadn't bought a pay and display ticket.  Oops.  I don't know what the fee is for not displaying a ticket.  The cost per hour for pay and display is $1.

So here is the dilemma.  When I got back I went to buy a ticket and assuage my conscience that I'd not cheated the system.  After all it costs the public to provide that parking.  Then I though.  "Hang on.  What if I receive a penalty in the post in the next week or so.  Do I want to pay twice?  After all  I was there for a couple of hours so there was a good chance that I'd be caught.  There are a lot a parking people."  So I didn't.  But then my conscience troubled me.  I know it's only $2 I'm talking about but....  Ah well.  Life's full of these dilemmas.  Playing the Glad Game.  It's hardly a serious matter in the scheme of things and if that's the worst I have to worry about then......

An Evening Stroll

On Thursday evening Catriona called to see if I would like to go for a walk with her and Wendy and, of course, Misty.  Yes.  It was a cold but lovely evening and a walk seemed like a very good idea.  It turned into more of a stroll than a walk but it was good fun if of limited exercise value.

Note for those with dial-up or slow broadband:  I have tried to limit the size of these photos whilst using the extra-large setting on Blogger.  There are, however, more photos than usual on this posting.  Please let me know if you have difficulty downloading it.

 I must look these up.  There's a clump down the drive

 

 A happy Catriona

 

 There's water in the lake again

 

 Why do children have the urge to pick animals up all the time?

   Paddling through the pondweed

 

 Keep away from our babies!

   Cormorants on a handy branch

 

 Fallen down a hole

 

 Oh that poo tasted so good!

 

A Paper Wasp in the agapanthus

Talking of Memory

I was just writing to a friend and the subject of memory and confusion in old age became relevant.  It occurred to me that CJ and I were spared that although Mum (whose memory at 90+ was better than mine has ever been) referred to her 'forgettory' rather than her memory.

As usual I digress.  When Dad was taken into the nursing home suffering from chronic heart failure and could no longer even lift a spoon to his mouth because his heart would not pump the blood round fast enough to maintain the effort, the Social Worker came to assess him for eligibility to be there.  I had just arrived from the Outer Hebrides and was completely disoriented as to what year it was never mind anything else.  Dad also had macular degeneration and could no longer see to read nor, realistically, to watch television..

After a pleasant exchange the Social Worker asked Dad (who was 94) if he could tell her the date.  Excuse me.  A man with no eyesight in a nursing home single-occupancy room and no radio.  How is he supposed to know the date when I didn't?  I said as much.  The Social Worker and I had a 'discussion' until Dad said "For heaven's sake you two stop squabbling.  It's - whatever the date was.  I finished lunch about half an hour ago.  They probably serve lunch around 12.30.  So I reckon it's probably between 1.30 and 2 o'clock."  He then recited the name of the Prime Minister and a host of other things that the SW was likely to ask him. 

She and I looked at each other sheepishly.  I went and got us coffee!  She asked a few questions related to more personal matters.  Said everything would be ok and that was that.

Somehow I think I'll be lucky. It was pointed out to me this morning that it is Friday 13th.  Oh.  It's Friday is it?  No.  Joking.  I knew that because I have the family for dinner tonight.  But the 13th?  Next someone will be asking me what month it is.  It's late spring.  It must be May.  Oh no.  It's May in the Northern hemisphere isn't it.  So it must be...?   Oh dear.

Oh Dear

Whilst reading all the blog comments this morning I suddenly had a thought for a one-paragraph posting.  By the time I'd opened up my browser the thought had vanished.  There is a saying in Gaeldom "Old age does not come alone."  Too right!