One of my favourite memes and one I often post on Twitter (or X or whatever the hell it is called these days) is a quote attributed to John Lennon, and what it says is this; Time you enjoyed wasting was not wasted. I kind of like that quote and it’s one that I often think about when I’m pottering about either reading, watching TV or surfing the internet.
Having the odd day just pottering about is good for the soul and for me, an opportunity to indulge in numerous cups of tea and sandwiches. I really do like my sandwiches.
Last week Liz and I went to a funeral and I suppose I’m at the age now (let’s just say mid-sixties) when I tend to see more funerals than weddings.
I can’t say I knew John, the deceased, particularly well and I was surprised to find that he was a foundling, abandoned as a baby and never knowing his birth family.
The service was good and in fact the vicar struck what I thought was the perfect note, not too sad and not too light hearted. John’s son by a first marriage was brought up in Canada and he seemed a very pleasant fellow recounting stories of the fishing adventures he and his father had in Canada.
The first ever funeral I went to was my Uncle Raymond’s. Raymond was my favourite uncle and the most wonderful guy. When I first started work when I was sixteen, going on seventeen, I used to get off my bus, the 152, at the Bluebell pub in Handforth after coming home from work in Manchester and Uncle Ray was there, waiting for the pub to open. Inside he chatted to everyone, the staff, punters he had never met before and at the drop of a hat would produce the photographs from his recent cruise showing him and my Auntie Elsie sat at the captain’s table. He would come back home with us, have dinner and then take my dad out to finish the evening off.
When he died his funeral cortège took a detour past the British Legion, one of his numerous watering holes, and the staff and customers came outside to pay tribute as his coffin passed slowly by.
The funeral was sad and tearful and the wake was pretty similar. A lot of sad people, a lot of tears and my dad, who had probably lost his best friend, was devastated. I was driving that day and was asked to run some long forgotten relative home. I did so and returned a short while later. Only twenty minutes or so had passed but when I returned, I returned to a happy, noisy, enjoyable party, full of laughter and fun. I don’t know what had happened in the twenty minutes I had been gone but I came back to exactly the sort of party that my Uncle Ray would have loved.
When my Gran died the funeral service was held in Marple, I’m not sure why as it was nowhere near where my Gran lived or was buried. The journey from there to Southern Cemetery in Manchester was for me, a masterpiece of motor car management, juggling with high water temperature and having to dive into a garage to top up my car with water.
At the graveside I noticed my dad making signs to the two grave diggers and after the coffin had slipped into the ground and the final words of the vicar had faded, my dad, a former grave-digger in years gone by, had a happy and joyful reunion with two of his old co-workers, much to the dismay of my mother who stood with me and cried her heart out. (Not your finest moment, dad.) At least he thought better of introducing her to his friends which I thought he was going to do at one point.
Funerals are odd things; in a way they are not for the dead but for the living, those left behind after a loved one has died and I have to say, not only did I enjoy my mother’s funeral, although enjoy is not perhaps the right word, but it helped me more than anything to say goodbye to her.
Back to this more recent funeral and as the drinks began to flow the sadness of the occasion seemed to ebb away. The only really disappointing issue was that the funeral was scheduled for 9:30am which for someone, who since retiring no longer has to get up early, was a bit of a challenge.
The buffet was served at 12 on the dot and despite there being quite a considerable gathering there was no concerted rush for the food in fact I was the one of the first to get up. I really do love funeral food. A buffet is comprised of pretty much everything I love, pork pies, sausage rolls and of course sandwiches. There were my two favourites, cheese and ham and there were also some rather nice cheese and tomato pizza slices. The tuna sandwiches were not my cup of tea at all so I avoided them like the plague. Still there were plenty of other delights for me including a lemon drizzle cake for afters.
A pork pie selection: Terry Kearney, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons
A few years ago, I went with Liz to another funeral in Lytham. I felt distinctly out of place, an intruder even, as I did not know either the deceased or his family. There was however, a rather nice buffet which, under the circumstances, I felt it was important to do justice to. The world is full of wonderful food and some outstanding cuisines but I do think that there is nothing nicer than a pork pie. Some moist pork, some jelly, all encased in pastry, what could be nicer?
On that particular occasion the widow had seriously underestimated the demand for food and I did feel a little mean when I grabbed the last pork pie moments before a teary-eyed lady in black appeared and eyed the empty plate somewhat wistfully.
When I was introduced to her later, I could see from her expression she was trying to place me. As I smiled and offered condolences I saw the moment of realisation, and I almost heard her say in her mind ‘I recognise him- he’s the bugger who took the last pork pie!’
Some elements of this post came from a previous one so apologies to regular readers if it sounds familiar.
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Once again my birthday has come round and I’m another year older. In some ways I don’t mind being 68, after all I’ve put the time in, the full 68 years. A few years ago I retired. Once upon a time I loved my job, I mean really loved it, so much so I hated to have time off but in the last few years I went the other way. I hated it and after a long spell of being at home because of Covid and also helping Liz who had just had a hip replacement and needed assistance for a while, I really wasn’t keen on going back. I used up all of my remaining holidays, looked at my financial situation and realised I could retire about 6 months early. So I did! Those 6 months before my state pension kicked in were a little tough financially but what the heck, I was glad to be finished with work.
I’ve been suffering lately with a lot of back pain and I thought I might as well have a bit of a moan here and just get things off my chest. I’ve had a little mild back pain for a long while. I don’t mind that, I really don’t. I’m retired so I’m officially old so it’s only right to expect a little pain. I can’t run anymore; in fact, I can’t even remember the last time I ran. Maybe it was for a bus or something, I don’t really know but it’s certainly not something I can do now.
It’s a long time since I’ve made a video for my YouTube channel and recently I’ve been trying to think about what my next project should be. When I’m stuck for a video I tend to tweak or even remake some of the short videos I use on social media to promote this page and my two books. In fact my YouTube page is made up of quite a lot of videos like that as well as numerous short video versions of my poems. Every now and again I try and put something different together. I usually make a video about our yearly trips to France in our motorhome and I’ve made a few videos about Manchester, my home town and also the place where my book Floating in Space is set.
Most of Mersey Square, the square at the very centre of Stockport, was fenced off while the builders worked on the new bus station. A huge railway viaduct spans the centre of Stockport and the bus station or bus interchange as they are now calling it is mostly on one side of the viaduct with part of it spilling over onto the other side. Someone told me it was due to open in two weeks time but looking around, that seemed to be a pretty tall order.
I walked round to the other side of the bus depot and there opposite, what used to be the main exit for our buses, was the Comfortable Gill. The Comfy, as we affectionately called it, was the pub where we busmen used to drink after the day’s shift was over. At one time if a driver was due to finish after last orders at 11, the landlord used to accept telephone orders for a pint so sometimes we could pull in at 11:20, park the bus in the depot and then pop over to the Comfy to find a pint waiting for us to sup while we cashed up our day’s takings. When I saw it the other day the Comfy was all closed up and looked neglected. So many of Britain’s pubs have closed down and I walked away hoping that the Comfy might be saved in the near future.
Even on holiday in wonderful warm Lanzarote I’m a man who needs a cup of tea, and by tea, I mean hot tea. Just think of all the workers in far off India who have worked to grow and cultivate tea leaves and package it and send it off to people like me. I wouldn’t dream of insulting those people by drinking a cup of lukewarm or even cold tea. Liz however doesn’t mind cold tea but after chatting further I found our earlier experiences have shaped our attitude to tea. She had a Saturday job working in a café and usually found that she was so busy that she had little time to drink her cuppa and generally picked it up when it was cold.
I started in that job in the late 1990s and gradually government regulations became more severe. Bar towels and beermats featuring cigarettes were banned. Cigarette advertising was banned on the machines themselves. I had to take out pictures of packets of cigarettes from the advertising panels of my machines and replace them with bland pictures of a match flaring up. I left the job in 2005 and joined the Highways Agency and in 2011 cigarette machines were banned from UK pubs. Nice to see some familiar looking ciggy machines here in Lanzarote though!
Back here in Manchester it was nice to have a few days to myself after Christmas and New Year. One thing I tend to eat a lot of when I’m alone is sandwiches. Yes, I’ve always loved the humble sandwich. As a child I took sandwiches to school, either ham, cheese or corned beef, almost always on white bread. Occasionally I’d have a salmon or salmon paste sandwich but generally salmon or any kind of fish just isn’t my cup of tea.
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Friday was another cold and wet day here in the north west of England. We had planned to dine out at a nearby Italian restaurant and then walk over to the Pier Inn for a few beers and listen to the music. I wasn’t feeling at my best even though Liz and I knew our friend Ray would be performing and we do like his music. There was a 30% off deal at Allegria, the Italian restaurant in question but the catch was this: to get the 30% off, diners have to book a table 24 hours in advance. We hadn’t booked and that meant paying the full price. There was only one thing for it, I had to call for help. I quickly dialled the Northern Association of Tightwads and I was soon through to an advisor.
Perhaps that’s a consequence of nearing the latter stages of my journey through life. Recently when we were travelling through France motoring along through the endless country lanes of the Loire valley, it seems as if I only became aware of the speed when I reached a new village or hamlet and had to slow down. Perhaps that’s the way it is with time too, that you only notice the passing of time with some new event, something that brings time into perspective.
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