The Great Oak

Sad as it may seem, I will hang onto plants, generally houseplants, willing them back to life, long after they’ve gone off to the big compost heap in the sky. They sit in the corners of the house, quite obviously on their way out but I’ll still tend them until the very last vestiges of life have long since gone and then, most reluctantly I’ll take them to the tip for a rather emotional ‘goodbye’.

Why am I going on about dead plants? Well it’s so that when I now tell you that I am slowly decapitating a great oak,  that you take into consideration the fact that I do try and preserve plant life wherever possible, but the great oak is such a troublesome creature that it just has to go, bit by bit.

Look at the picture. This thing is enormous. I reckon that it’s about 60ft tall and has, at a conservative estimate, some quarter of a million leaves on its branches, half of which seem to end up covering everything in sight and then rot, and the other half end up at the bottom of my pool ….. and then they rot. It’s not a pretty sight.

So two years ago when we moved into our new house, which is about ten yards from the great oak at most, I decided that the beast had to be tamed. I got my extending ladders out. I got my chain saw readied and then my old French neighbour came down to the fence and asked me what I was doing. ‘Taking bits off the tree’, was my reply. ‘Ah but eeet is my tree monsieur’, he said. ‘No it’s not’. ‘Yes it is’. ‘No it’s not’. Etc etc – you get the picture. Anyway, I went off  to get my plans to prove to him it was my tree but by the time I’d got back he’d gone off and as Frenchies are never one to back off of an argument when it concerns land, fences or trees, I assumed that he’d been trying it on for some reason or another.

Anyway, I took down a couple of the easier branches and left it before I fell off of the ladders which generally were perched on the branch I was cutting down – yes you’ve all seen it in cartoons! I did this for the first two winters and then last summer, old Frenchie came down to the fence again and in amongst other questions, asked me when I was taking more branches off the tree. It transpires that the tree is so tall that it obscures his views over the valley and so he was keen for me to risk life and limb (pun intended) to remove the bigger branches, some of which are so big that they could be trees in their own right.

So last weekend,  now most of the leaves have left their branches and are settled nicely at the bottom of the pool, Guy and I got all the gear out to remove a few more branches whilst Frenchie was in his Paris retreat. We’ve removed all the easy bits but now we’re at the larger branches which hang over a series of electricity boxes, so we now need to proceed with a greater degree of care.

We’ve refined the process over the years. I climb the ladder whilst Guy tries to start the chainsaw. He doesn’t manage it so I go back down the ladders and start it. I climb the ladders and Guy pulls on the rope which hoists the chainsaw up to my level but invariably, as soon as I grab it, the motor cuts out so we have to go through the whole process again. Generally, I am completely knackered before I’ve even started cutting!

The first two branches were so big we had to tie the half-fallen boughs to the car’s tow bar and pull them off, but the third branch was in a totally different direction and we had to cut it virtually all the way through and then run as it crashed to the ground.

After we’d cut the fallen branches into logs and cleared up, Guy and I found ourselves looking up at the tree and saying the same thing, ‘after all we’ve cut off, there’s no difference’! And indeed, it is true. I have run my wood burner on this tree now for the third winter and the tree hardly looks touched. Next year I’ll sort it out.

  

Nigel - An Interesting Lunch

It's a small world they say and sure enough it is. We’ve all got stories of bumping into the guy who lives in the next house in a far flung part of the world or my friend, Christine who found her long, lost, adopted son living virtually round the corner from her. But now that I’m a virtual recluse in the tiny hamlet of Tourrettes Sur Loup and my wife seldom lets me out, I don’t have these experiences. Well not many of them, but I had one last week which I wished I hadn’t. Let me explain with a rather convoluted story to get us there.

 Quite a few years ago when I was a Sales Manager in IBM, I was called into a company who were setting up a major new financial system in London. The guy who was the brains behind it was a well known City figure, a Mr Smithers-Blair, but well known in the sense that he rubbed the ‘establishment’ up the wrong way – he was christened the ‘enfant terrible’ of London. Anyway, the sale went well and a final, high-level meeting at their fancy offices across from Buckingham Palace was organised. I was to bring not only the guys who would install and support the system but, as a show of commitment, my senior IBM manager.

We arrived at their offices (actually a rather grand house) at 9am prompt where we were met by Mrs Smithers-Blair, a rather attractive, immaculately dressed individual who made it quite clear that as her husband was out of the country, she’d be running the show. We were shown into the board room which was floored in the most beautiful powder blue, thick, luxurious carpet. She went off to get the maid to make some coffee.

Upon her return, and as she entered the board room, she lifted her nose and said  ‘oh – what’s that awful odour?’ Sure enough, there was the most appalling smell and when we looked down, we saw a trail of dog poo all over the carpet. Indeed, there was lumps of dog poo all the way to the front door, so it was one of the IBM lot who had brought it in. We all started looking at our shoes to see who the culprit was, each of us hoping desperately that our own shoes were clean and then the culprit owned up. It was my senior manager.

Mrs Smithers-Blair then shouted for her maid to bring a bucket of hot water and a brush and instructed my manager to clean up the appalling mess. My manager, making full use of his position of authority,  turned to one of my support staff and instructed him to clean it up, which, brave lad,  he refused to do. In the end, with all of us wandering over to the table where coffee had now been served, my poor manager was left to get down on his hands and knees and wipe up the trail of dog poo.

Despite that little problem, the deal went ahead and the new financial system became a major success. As is usual in IBM, I was moved onto something else, but I kept a passing interest in Mr and Mrs Smithers-Blair, which was not too difficult as they were always in the news, particularly when their son, Nigel, got into one of his many scrapes, all of which were wonderfully documented in the papers.

Fast forward quite a few years and I’m sitting in the bar in Tourrettes when a stunning red Ferrarri, followed closely by a beautiful Mini Cooper, scream to a halt in the car park and four youngish guys get out and wander over to the bar. The Ferrari driver I recognise – it’s one Nigel Smithers-Blair, who just happens to sit at the table next to mine outside on the pavement. 

They sat down and within a few minutes were wondering why it took so long to get their bottle of champagne and why the Bar Des Sports did not stock Bollinger!

Never one to miss an opportunity, I asked one of the group for a light and we started talking. After a few minutes I let it be known that I actually knew Nigel’s parents from my IBM days, which did not impress him at all. We spoke about those days when his father had started that new system and how well he was doing now (making millions) but it was obvious that he was more interested in our rather attractive local bus driver than anything I was saying but eventually after she drove off without giving him a second look, he asked some questions about the village and village life (apparently he lives in Monaco). He was quite interested about living in such a small community and asked where the local club (nightclub) was. Now amazingly as it might seem, we do actually have a nightclub in the village which only opens a few nights per week, mainly in the summer and so I gave him directions and off, he and his ‘chums’ went, leaving a huge tip for the waitress and a business card for me.

About an hour later, the Ferrari and the Mini roared past me on the main street, their horns blaring and shouts of something or other coming from Nigeland his pals. I’m going to keep tabs on Mr Nigel – watch this space.      

Arizona (Sheriff) Joe

You all remember Sheriff Joe Arpaio of Arizona, who painted the jail cells pink and made the inmates wear pink prison garb. Well.........

SHERIFF JOE IS AT IT AGAIN! 

Maricopa County was spending approx. $18 million dollars a year on stray animals, like cats and dogs. Sheriff Joe offered to take the department over, and the County Supervisors said okay. The animal shelters are now all staffed and operated by prisoners. They feed and care for the strays. Every animal in his care is taken out and walked twice daily. He now has prisoners who are experts in animal nutrition and behaviour and they give great classes for anyone who'd like to adopt an animal. The prisoners get the benefit of 28 cents an hour for working, but most would work for free just to be out of their cells for the day with the cats and dogs.

Sheriff Joe also has a huge farm, donated to the county years ago where inmates can work and grow most of their own fresh vegetables. He has a pretty good sized hog farm which provides meat, and fertilizer …… for the plants.

He has jail meals down to 40 cents a serving and charges the inmates for them. 
He stopped smoking and the distribution of porno magazines in the jails and took away their weights and cut off all but 'G' movies. He started chain gangs so the inmates could do free work on county and city projects and then he started chain gangs for women so he wouldn't get sued for discrimination! He took away cable TV until he found out there was a Federal Court order that required Cable TV for jails, so he hooked it back up again, but showing only the Disney Channel and The Weather Channel. When asked why he showed the weather channel he replied, 'so they will know how hot it's gonna be while they are working on my chain gangs'.

He cut off coffee as it has zero nutritional value. When the inmates complained, he told them, 'This isn't The Ritz/Carlton.....if you don't like it, don't come back.' With temperatures being even hotter than usual in the jail’s tents (116 Degrees), the Associated Press reported that  about 2,000 inmates had been allowed to strip down  to their government-issued pink boxer shorts but were still complaining about the heat.
He told all of the inmates: 'It's 120 degrees in Iraq and our soldiers are living in tents too and they have to wear full battle gear, but they didn't commit any crimes, so shut your mouths!' Way To Go, Sheriff! 

 Thanks to my mate Dave Smith who sent me this from the US.

The £1 Shop

If, when I’m in the UK, I ever venture out shopping with J, there’s always a major argument. She wants to hit Bond Street, or the local equivalent and I want to find the nearest ‘Pound Shop’. You know the ones. Everything costs a pound. I can rummage through those shops for hours seeking out bargains. I love it. I’m almost beside myself when I come across something I normally buy in the major shop chains, such as shaving stuff or deodorants, razors or bits for the garage.

But now, with the credit crunch hitting almost everything which moves on the High Street, the words, ‘Pound Shop’, have a whole new meaning.

Last month you could have bought Woolworths for £1. Yup – you could have bought all 850 UK stores for a measly quid. You would have had to take on 35,000 staff and their debt of £365 million but so what – 850 toy and sweet shops for £1 !!

Woolworths have a special place in my heart. As a 3 year old I remember going to the Woolworths store round the corner from our house in Glasgow. It was a vast store , or to a 3 year old it was. My mother would prop my pram up against the counter side and there I would watch the man take a small piece off of the huge block of butter and then, mesmerisingly, pat it between two blocks of wood until it formed a perfect cube or rectangle and then he would wrap it up in greaseproof paper.

My mother would then head for the biscuit counter where, because we were not well off, she would buy a bag of broken biscuits, which I would be into as soon as it was placed in the pram. Oh happy days!

Fast forward 30 years and J and I are living in Windsor. Every Saturday morning, we’d head into town and invariably end up in Woolies so I could buy some CDs or gardening stuff or even things for the kitchen or the garage. It was a one-stop shop for me but that was it’s problem. It was too many things to too many people but if you were to stop 100 people today and ask them what Woolies meant to them, the vast majority would say, ‘Pick and Mix’, their sweet counter.

Unfortunately, things are not too sweet today for the shareholders or the staff. Woolworths did not find a buyer and went under after 100 years on the high street.

Annother ‘institution’ which recently went under the hammer for £1, was the London Evening Standard, a tabloid newspaper with a daily circulation running into hundreds of thousands. In London, at the end of the working day, it is impossible to go further than a few yards before bumping into someone reading the Standard. It’s everywhere, and a very good paper it is too with an award winning web site confusingly called ‘This is London’. You would have thought, seeing virtually every second person in one of the world’s most populous capitals reading the Standard, that its finances would have been sound but alas, no. The Standard was losing some £35 million per annum and so it was sold, lock stock and fancy Kensington offices to …….. yup – a Russian, for the princely sum of £1. Oh – and he used to be a member of the KGB which would have made the reporting of the Russian dissident, Litvinenko, who was poisoned in London a few years ago, very, very interesting!

So – step right up and buy yourself the UK’s biggest sweet shop or London’s biggest newspaper for £1. Oh, and if the UK government hadn’t spent some of my well-earned taxes saving the banks, I bet you could have bought yourself a nice little financial institution for the same amount.

 

 

1000 Marbles

It was my pleasure to take the Reverend Anne Naylor to lunch on Thursday. I’d been asking her to ‘play around’ for a while but although it was sunny, it was cold, so golf was out of the question!

Anne is multi-talented. She is an author on books about personal success and development, she writes for various websites including the Huffington Post (a US based online newspaper), runs a personal development group called ‘Possible Dream’ and performs wedding blessings for the rich and occasionally famous. Her 2008 ‘claim to fame’ (apart from marrying myself and J) was being pictured in Hello magazine, marrying Jamie Packer, the richest man in Australia.

Now, you may think that the Reverend and I cut an unlikely pairing but she has a lighter side and sends me the most awful jokes, many of which are a bit risqué and then she brings me down to earth by sending something very thought provoking, such as the following story from an unknown gentleman, who given his circumstances, could actually be me.       

The older I get the more I enjoy Saturday mornings.  Perhaps it's    
the quiet solitude that comes with being the first to rise, or maybe 
it's the unbounded joy of not having to be at work. Either way, the  
first few hours of a Saturday morning are most enjoyable.            
A few weeks ago, I was shuffling toward the garage with a steaming  
cup of coffee in one hand and the morning paper in the other.  What  
began as a typical Saturday morning turned into one of those lessons 
that life seems to hand you from time to time. Let me tell you about 
it. 

                                                                 
I turned the dial up into the phone portion of the band on my ham 

radio in order to listen to a Saturday morning swap net.  Along 

the way, I came across an older sounding chap, with a 

tremendous signal and a golden voice. You know the kind; he 

sounded like he should be in the broadcasting business. He was

telling whomever he was talking with something about 'a  
thousand marbles.'  I was intrigued and stopped to listen to 

what he had to say.     

                                                               
'Well, Tom, it sure sounds like you're busy with your job.  I'm 

sure they pay you well but it's a shame you have to be away

from home and your family so much.  Hard to believe a 

young fellow should have to work sixty or seventy hours a 

week to make ends meet.  It's too bad you missed your  
daughter's dance recital' he continued.  'Let me tell you

something that has helped me keep my own priorities.'

  

And that's when he began to explain his theory of a 

'thousand marbles.'  

                              
'You see, I sat down one day and did a little arithmetic.

The average person lives about seventy-five years. I 

know, some live more and some live less, but on 

average, folks live about seventy-five years.' 'Now then,

I multiplied 75 times 52 and I came up with 3900, which

is the number of Saturdays that the average person has

in their entire lifetime. Now, stick with me, Tom, I'm 

getting to the important part.  It took me until I was fifty-five

years old to think about all this in any detail', he went on, 

'and by that time I had lived through over twenty-eight        
hundred Saturdays.  I got to thinking that if I lived to be

seventy-five, I only had about a thousand of them left to

enjoy.  So I went to a toy store and bought every single

marble they had.  I ended up having to visit three toy 

stores to round up 1000 marbles.  I took them home 

and put them inside a large, clear plastic container right

here in the shack next to my gear. Every Saturday since

then, I have taken one marble out and thrown it away.     

I found that by watching the marbles diminish, I focused

more on the really important things in life.'   There is 

nothing like watching your time here on this earth run out

to help get your priorities straight.'  'Now lett me tell you 

one last thing before I sign-off with you and take my 

lovely wife out for breakfast.  This morning, I took the 

very last marble out of the container.  I figure that if I make

it until next Saturday then I have been given a little extra 

time.  And the one thing we can all use is a little more time.' 

It was nice to meet you Tom, I hope you spend 

more time with your family, and I hope to meet you again 

here on the band.  This is a 75 Year old Man, K9NZQ, clear

and going QRT, good morning!'          

                      

You could have heard a pin drop on the band when this 

fellow signed off. I guess he gave us all a lot to think about.  

I had planned to work on the antenna that morning, and 

then I was going to meet up with a few hams to work on the 
next club newsletter. Instead I went upstairs and woke my 

wife up with a kiss...  'C'mon honey, I'm taking you and the

kids to breakfast.' 

 

'What brought this on' she asked with a smile.'  'Oh, nothing

special, it's just been a long time since we spent a 

Saturday together with the kids.  And hey, can we stop at a 

toy store while we're out?  I need to buy some marbles.'