There Will Be a Quiz...

The other night, upon hearing cannon fire, Bill came up the stairs to tell me "We've declared war on France." I said, "Never mind France, what about South Shields?" Turns out they only used 'modern pyrotechnics'. However, I was annoyed at having missed a photo op to show you. It was about this, celebrating the 200th anniversary of the death of Lord Cuthbert Collingwood.



Who is this, you ask? His statue overlooks the mouth of the Tyne, just around the corner from the Castle and the Abbey, which I've shown you before. He's the man who actually won the Battle of Trafalgar, even though Horatio Nelson's statue is in London's Trafalgar Square. Nelson was killed at Trafalgar, but it was his strategy that allowed the British Navy to defeat the combined attack of the French and the Spanish in 1805. Though the Napoleonic Wars continued another 10 years, this battle ended Napoleon's plan to invade England.

The BBC website says Collingwood is a forgotten hero of the North East. Though his name appears everywhere, few know his story. They say he was born on a street called The Side, in Newcastle.

Funny enough, when I first started writing this up, I was planning to meet Vivien for lunch. She'd given me some coupons for a bargain two course lunch for £5 at participating restaurants. It turns out that one of the two restaurants in our area is Oldfields. Oldfields is located on the ground floor of Milburn House, a building which used to house the offices where Vivien and last worked together. When we were there it was an art gallery.

I looked up their number on the internet and in the process of booking a table for lunch, I learned something else. It turns out that Milburn House is located on the site that was formerly Lord Collingwood's home; the place where he was born.

Now for the quiz: how many days late am I in posting this?

Turns Out I'm Black

I just stopped by Inside Out Style -- a great blog by the way -- and she offerred up a colour quiz. I was sure I'd either be pink or blue, but turns out I'm black. There are parts of this I certainly agree with.

Nothing can stand between you and your demand for a calm environment. To be free of conflict and disagreement is the only way to live. In fact, it’s this philosophy that probably allows you to be comfortable in conditions that would normally bother others. Your ability to focus is undisputed, and while you enjoy attention, you still have problems understanding how to handle it. No other color out lives by the golden rule as much as you do.

What colour are you?

Happy St Patrick's Day

I have to admit to being a bit conflicted about St. Patrick's Day now that I live in England. As with so much of other concurrent history (what else do you call the things that went on during your lifetime?) I managed to remain largely ignorant about the struggles between the IRA and the English. I still wouldn't say I know a lot about it.

I know some Irish friends from Dublin who went to school here maybe 10 years ago now. They told me about finding themselves in a taxi queue amongst a bunch of drunk and rowdy Geordies and being frightened to be heard speaking; being Irish in that crowd at that time might well have been dangerous. I've also heard Bob talk about how it felt to have his car checked for bombs when entering the military premises to visit his son, who is in the RAF. I once heard a speaker, retired from the Manchester police, talking about how important it was to clean up the bomb site quickly or at least to shield the view of the damages from the public. Not allowing the mess to remain is one way of demonstrating that the establishment is still in control, not the terrorists. Strangely, I was here in 1996, but I don't remember hearing about that bombing. If I did, I guess I thought Manchester was a million miles away, though I attended a week long course there not long after coming across. I guess I never have watched the news very much...

Of course, it all started with Henry the VIII, the story of whom along with his daughter Elizabeth I began my fascination with England. In their fight against Catholicism they began the 'plantations', sending Protestants to live in Ireland. One can follow why they did it, but boy did it make for a big mess.

When I think of Ireland these days I think about Mo Mowlam and her efforts to bring peace; about the millions who starved during the potato famine at a time when Britain was the richest country in the world; and about my Irish ancestors from County Donegal and County Antrim who went to Scotland, to America and Australia.

I think about the several trips we've made to Dublin (must find my pictures to share with you), a small but lovely city with a very laid back, peaceful feel to it. Time is slower there, somehow. Grafton Street is often lined with buskers, street mimes, juggling and magic acts. Bewleys Cafe and Brown Thomas department store, and of course the Guinness Brewery (it truly does taste different when it hasn't travelled) are all worth a visit. If available, visiting Trinity College to see the Book of Kells is fascinating. I think Celtic designs are really lovely (Over here it's pronounced Keltic unless you're talking about the Scottish football team, when it becomes Seltic again - go figure). I must also mention my two favourite statues, one of Molly Malone (the tart with the cart) and another the apirit of the Liffey, Anna Livia (Liffey being the River that runs through Dublin - AKA the floozie in the jacuzzi).

So, when I think of Ireland, I no longer think about shamrocks and leprechauns and wearing green to avoid being pinched. That said, the chairman of our running club is a very nice fellow with red hair from Belfast. He's sent around an email suggesting we all wear something green tonight, so I'd best be finding my shamrock pin, right?

It's a Beach

I was tucked up all cozy in bed, deep into the latest Kinsey Millhone thriller and Bill supplying cups of coffee when a thought of metal drifted through my mind. Seriously. They don't call it 'steely determination' for nothing. Last night I had sort of made a promise to myself I'd go for a run this morning and it looked like I was going to end up keeping it. That metallic thought was telling me to just grit my teeth and get it over with. I was finished with the book in a few pages and proceeded to collect running gear.

It was raining out and the wind had been blowing earlier but I comforted myself it was calmer now. Soon as I was out the door I knew different, it had just shifted direction, coming in from the North East, straight off the sea. Down on the beach I was thinking this was the dumbest idea I'd ever had. The noise of the sea and the incessant, deafening rush of the wind were like two March lions roaring. My arm was insufficient shelter from the needles being driven into my face. At times like this it's always good to lie to yourself. 'You can see the end', I said, 'You only have to make it to the end of the beach, it's right there in front of you.' Of course that was not the end, only the turn around point, but with the wind at my back it had to be easier.

Being lazy, I was down near the surf on the wet part, much more solid and easier to manage than the soft sand at the top. However, this meant dealing with the streams either coming down from inland or created by ravines in the sand, I don't know. To the left of the rocks in front was a pond about calf-deep. I went to the right through the shallower stream feeding the pond. The shock of the cold water through my shoes was almost electric. I could almost imagine the North Sea laughing at my protest that it was supposed to be spring. Still, at least both shoes were wet. I hate it when only one foot is wet, I feel unbalanced. And in some ways the cold of my feet helped offset the heat of my upper half. I had on plenty of layers and I was probably steaming, the outer layer being completely soaked.

Sure enough, as soon as the wind was at my back it faded to a gentle whisper. The rain stopped. As I trudged Mt. Olympus back up to the road I noticed the top portion of my jacket was nearly dry. I passed a bank of grass dotted with thousands of yellow and a few purple crocuses. 'See, sea, it really is spring', but he'd forgotten I existed by then, if he'd ever noticed. Still, the last bit wasn't bad at all.

Bill was waiting for my return to go out on his run, why I'm not certain, but there it is. As he let me in the front door and went to get his jacket he asked 'Was that terrible? Or just awful?'

I had my answer well rehearsed: 'It was lovely'.

Economics Education

I'd be the first to admit I'm an economics idiot. The only claim I can make is that I'm reasonably good at not spending money when I don't want to and in large part this is bolstered by my natural tendency to procrastinate. This tendency has likely cost me a great deal as well, just not in the way of direct expenditure. Given my opportunities, a more self-disciplined person could have been far better off than I am now.

In my defense, I was never taught anything other than frugality and saving. The world of stocks and bonds, mutual funds and equities was and is murky water to me. Sure enough the one time I got involved with an 'Independent Financial Advisor' he turned out to be a major crook -- well, let's not flatter him -- call him a small time shyster. I'd flush my cash before I'd do business with him again.

Anyhow, the other day we were driving back from a visit to Manchester and I was reading from a (free) copy of The Independent. I read that Gordon Brown (the current Prime Minister here in the UK -- I'm not assuming anyone else's political knowledge is much more advanced than mine, either) that (and I can't quote it exactly as Bill has recycled the paper) most of the spending in this country is done by lower income people. I read it a couple of times as the first time I took it as a slightly denigrating comment, but that's what he said.

I put the paper down and did some thinking, then I tried out some ideas on Bill:

• Let's say there is a revolution that allows everyone to start out on an equal financial basis and to have a job to produce income for themselves.
• Some people spend everything that comes to them, improving their standard of living to the fullest they can afford. They do not save. Let's call these 'A' people.
  
• Other people tend to stay out of debt, buy only what they need for a decent lifestyle and not only save, but invest for an income. They may go into business for themselves so as not to work for someone else's profit, only their own. Let's call these 'B' people.
• 'B' people come to own the businesses that A people buy from, either buying the company or through owning stocks. All going well, their investment income may eventually allow them not to work for someone else. This is one of my definitions of wealth, not going to work on a daily basis.
• 'A' people have debts to pay, little or no savings against bad times, they live month to month, one paycheck away from the welfare line. That said, they have new cars, the latest iPod/mobile phone/slim-line TV with cable, season tickets for their football team and they wear the latest fashions from the High Street. Their credit cards are maxed and they live on their overdraft at the bank.
• It looks to me like 'A' people's spending is what makes the 'B' people rich.
  

I'm aware that this is all very polarised classification and most of us fall somewhere between A and B. It is also a fact that not everyone is smart enough or healthy enough to do work well paid enough to do much saving. Less intelligent people -- unless they are very attractive or are gifted in a well-paid sport -- don't normally manage to change their fortunes.

I think what I'm saying is that I wish my early education had included better insight into being a 'B' person. Life - and observing my Mom taught me to be cautious about being an 'A' person, like my Dad; but neither of them knew much about 'B' type activities, aside from the fact that they had experience of being self-employed. Given that our standard of living and security greatly increased when my Dad got a 'real' job, it didn't give me a particularly high opinion of self-employment.

That leaves all those other 'B' things -- but then you have to pay people to do them for you...something I'm fairly loathe to do. Oh well, I'll try to keep it simple and do 'B' things in a very small way. I'm just not certain of getting the more advanced parts right.

I drafted this a long time ago, before the house of cards came crashing down, but when people first felt the breeze of change. I see bits here and there about financial education in schools, but I sometimes wonder if the lack has been deliberate (ever seeing a conspiracy). Are we getting better at teaching kids about money and how to make it work?

Turquoise

Just in case you don't like turquoise, which is apparently THE colour for this spring, here are 37 pages from Pantone with other ideas. The fashion sketches are very entertaining.

What does this mean for me, a frugalist? As I cull closets and loft, browse flea market and thrift shop, I shall be watching for something turquoise, probably a scarf; I'm certain I have a wrap dress I bought ages ago in Sydney, which I've never worn.

Also, I'll be looking for colours that go with turquoise. Browns, I think, especially taupe, but there could be others.

The Pantone website has a lot of links to great articles about colour and fashion. And here's me thinking they just made paint.

What (if anything) will you do with turquoise this spring?

Martin's Name is ---

It was just at Christmas that Martin was talking like a runner: about his routines, his goals, what was hard and why he kept at it. Boring, to any but another runner; I was really pleased to see his enthusiasm, especially as one of his Christmas gifts was a pair of technical running socks. He mentioned a 10k race he was going to do. Not thinking about, going to do; he was aiming to get in under an hour. Bill thought it would be good to encourage Martin and so we put this race, near Manchester, on our calendars and duly entered it.

In the intervening time, in fact for the last year or more, Helen and Martin have been redecorating their house in Swinton, a suburb of Manchester. You saw the building of the deck and the acquisition of two dogs. Dogs and decorating seem rather at odds to me, but Martin assures me they are only maniacal when we’re around. It was good fun to visit periodically and admire the lovely new colour

schemes and the new, or improved arrangement of existing, furniture,

the impressive all-new and re-arranged bathroom installed with the help of brother Simon.

It was an increasingly cute house but when they started thinking about extending the kitchen, Simon pointed out that they might not get a return on that investment, maybe they should just look at buying a bigger house. I think he made the comment partly in jest, but that is just what they did.

From a house built in 1920-30s with three small bedrooms, living

and dining areas, a tiny kitchen and a garden shed, they expanded into a new one with four bedrooms (one en suite with shower), living and dining rooms, breakfasting kitchen, utility room, a downstairs toilet (and sink), another full bathroom upstairs, a back garden, a garage, and off-street parking for two cars. I thought it was rather an extravagant way to get out of doing the trail race, but that’s exactly what Martin did: he managed to organise moving day to fall on the race day.

I normally love off road races, but now realize I’ve not normally done them in winter. It was a partial two lap course and so there were large human torpedoes shooting past for a while. I’d not realized this and it took me a long while to come to terms with having to do the course again. Steep and deep are the applicable words: hills one can only tippy-toe up, ankle deep mud that sucks at one’s shoes. I told you about the race where my main goal was to finish without falling down. The aim here was to keep both my shoes. Bill’s GPS indicated that he’d run an extra tenth of a mile, probably in avoiding puddles of unknown depth and seeking slightly more traction-able mud (as if). It would have been a beautiful course through woods and fields in summer, but my money says they don’t do it in good weather; Brits are like that.

Though I’d changed shoes, by the time we drove to Helen & Martin’s old house, the caked slime on my tracksters had dried and there was no way not to leave crumbled mud on the bathroom floor. A nice cup of hot tea had done a lot to restore me and by the time I got out of the hot shower I felt nearly human again. Martin and Helen kept apologizing for the state of the house, but I just told them to give it a rest; I know of no way to move and be tidy for guests at the same time. We went out to a pub for dinner.

The next day we helped Helen unload the loft while Martin went to get his big rental truck with the electric lift on the back. Simon and Rhiannon drove up to assist; Simon didn’t trust them to be able to re-assemble their furniture properly. We sent Helen off to buy some rope or laundry line as the truck company didn’t supply it. Martin had a friend about his size along for help loading the furniture. Martin was clearly excited about the move, bouncing around from this to that. With both H&M very busy at their jobs, there had been little time for preparation and nothing was labelled. I don’t envy them their unpacking. They’ve only taken 2 days off work, the pair of them, and not even the same two days, so the settling in will be gradual. I gather Helen had moved the priority stuff more carefully, ie her clothes. Makes perfect sense to me.

Once I owned Grandmother’s furniture all my moves were planned out with lists and labels, sketches and room measurements to save movers having to do more work than necessary. Before that everything pretty much fit into the back of my 1972 VW Karmann Ghia.

When we left with Bill’s car full to follow Helen and Rhiannon to the new house before we were on our way home, the truck was about a third loaded, an odd mix of furniture and shopping bags with no securing ropes in sight.

I could only hope that Simon’s engineering sense would save them from shattered furniture, but having watched him and Martin move a washing machine full of wet clothes, I wasn’t certain. I have heard of this being done, but thought it a comedy sketch. I never expected to see it in real life.

Starting over again with re-decorating didn’t seem to daunt Helen in the least. She said they’d live with the neutral magnolia walls for a while until inspiration struck (I see purple in their future, that being the colour of the upstairs carpet). Plenty of work to do with getting the garden sorted. The garage will be a playpen for the dogs (at a kennel for a few days) until that is paved, turfed, whatever.

It remains to be seen what will happen to Martin’s Man-Utd posters, relegated to the loft at the old house. I will admit that I witnessed Helen promising Martin a Man-Utd room in the new house before the deal was done;

true, she had a funny smile on her face. I still think she should have left the posters in the loft. By the time he missed them, it would have been far too late to retrieve them...then again, maybe not the best. She'll know better than I what she can get away with.

Oddly enough I remembered having enjoyed moving in the past (I did it 9 times in 11 years once, or was it 11 in 9?). Never more than when moving do I feel so wealthy: one comes face to face with ALL one’s stuff. Also, there is a peculiar sort of nesting pleasure gained from arranging one’s possessions in a new space. It occurred to me that I could replicate this by just removing everything from a room at a time and re-organising, but I don’t have the heart to inflict this on Bill just for my own amusement. We move stuff in and out of the loft on a continual basis as it is. (I just sent another bag off to the RSPCA yesterday).

So, leaving Helen and Rhiannon to await the arrival of the truck, we made our weary way home by way of the Lake District.

I dumped the filthy running shoes on the garage floor next to the washing machine to wait their turn after the running clothes. It’ll all come out in the wash, as they say, but meantime, Martin owes me a hard race. Come to think of it, two excited dogs, bare soil in the back garden and new carpet might even it all out…but I wouldn't wish that on Helen. He'd just better keep training, is all I've got to say.