tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76703682617707132492024-02-21T02:07:22.748-08:00margaret cloughAll writing courtesy Margaret Cloughmargaret cloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15393457266517145153noreply@blogger.comBlogger140125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7670368261770713249.post-62722237035942141382022-04-18T09:07:00.002-07:002022-04-18T09:07:33.925-07:00BACK FROM THE DEAD<p>I haven't written anything on this blog for more than two years. I suppose I just became rather lazy. Also I did have less time because I was participating in writing courses. There was a course on diary writing and then a memoir course. Because of Covid these were Zoom courses so I was glued to the computer for several hours each day. Then as Covid restrictions were partially lifted I was hospitalised with a severe lung condition. At first nobody thought I would recover. My daughter, Shirley came down form East London and other two daughters, both based in New Zealand, managed to get permission to leave the country and came to bid me goodbye. I was in hospital for a month but miraculously made a good recovery and came back home, better and fitter than before. The two New Zealand daughters stayed on to help me settle back after I was discharged from hospital.. Then when they tried to go back to New Zealand they couldn't. First it was quarantine regulations and then, just as they were about to leave, the third wave struck and flights were cancelled. Altogether they were here for nearly three months. This was lovely for me, but didn't suit their families all that well. </p><p>There have been a few changes in my life since my illness. My daughter have put in lino-type floors instead of carpets to reduce dust and I am living more quietly, not driving much or very far and having help with walking the dogs. I am more aware of my mortality, I suppose, and more grateful for what I have. I thank God every day for my continuing health, for my pleasant life in this nice and friendly old age complex and above all for my dear and loving family.</p><p>t</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>margaret cloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15393457266517145153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7670368261770713249.post-4355489176817502522020-09-21T03:04:00.011-07:002020-09-21T03:38:30.398-07:00 Some More About Dogs<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />I haven't written in this blog for more than a month, but was reminded today when a friend sent me a video of the winning round of an Agility Competition. It wasn't Crufts. I think it took place somewhere in America. The Border Collie who was featured, was amazingly fast. I don't think I have ever seen such a fast round. The course was a fairly easy one, no tricks that I could see, but the speed was impressive and so was the handling, but with more dependence on spoken commands than we usually see nowadays.<p></p><p>My comment was that my Jack Russell would have done the course with ease, but unfortunately at a much slower pace. Beemer is 12 years old now and has slowed down considerably. On the plus side, now that I can't run with him any more, he has bonded very well with Yolande, his handler. His attention is totally her when on the course. <br /> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwDnbO-pwrbJZZn_ob4dLYH13xzX9hV1UFNvjA4iueAw97FX7XEMUn9e1VzxkQCPYsCamsYvi0tVMQWx_4ENw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxrjphOVvg7rIAHw0EeUlbwPzQQJeOC17rqvyV5D08ARAxTOXGRmATYQZ6D6Wvk1nAlFS-ak11OtBYR2efVsA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>margaret cloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15393457266517145153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7670368261770713249.post-43617236617372434112020-08-02T07:56:00.002-07:002020-08-02T07:56:54.193-07:00The great Poodle warEvery morning I walk my two dogs Beemer, the feisty Jack Russell terrier and Lassie, my pretty little rescue dog, We go all round the grounds of the Old Age Complex where I live. At almost the furthest point from the gate is a cottage with very well-kept garden. Here behind a high wooden fence , live two poodles, a big black Standard Poodle and his companion, a little miniature poodle. A cacophony of barks always greets us as we pass their gate, I am sure they are flinging insults in dog language at us and my two give back as good as they get. I usually hurry past as quickly as I can.<br />
<br />
Last week as we came to the Poodles' house there was, for the first time, no sound of barking. and the gate was open. The rules regarding dogs in our complex are clear, Dogs must be behind a fence or on a lead at all times. I thought the owners had taken the dogs out, but just after I passed the gate, the big Poodle came rushing out, snarling and with teeth bared, closely followed by the smaller one. My dogs responded with snarls and yelps. Neither of them are aggressive, but I wasn't taking chances and tried to hurry them away. The noise was terrific, not only were all four dogs being most vociferous, but I was also shouting at the poodles to "Go home" at the top of my voice.<br />
<br />
All this commotion brought the owner out. She joined in the chorus, yelling at her dogs and trying to grab them. The whole Poodle War didn't last more than a few minutes and it was much more like a shouting match than an actual dog fight. I don't think any of the protagonists got bitten. On examination afterwards there was some wet fur but no blood. The Poodles' owner was very apologetic. She told me she had just left the gate open for a few minutes while she helped her disabled husband into the car. We were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.<br />
<br />
The "War" ended with no harm done,However, this incident illustrates the importance of socialising your dog, At our dog club we have special socialising sessions where members and dogs stand in a circle and then each person, one by one takes his or her dog around and weaves between the others.<br />
This works very well.. My dogs are not perfect by any means, but after taking part in these sessions from an early age they are used to meeting other dogs on or off lead and can almost always be trusted not to cause trouble.<br />
<br />
Not everybody has the opportunity of joining this kind of socialising session, but you can help your dog to learn how to behave around other dogs, by allowing him to meet them. Make it a one on one meeting at first and allow just a few seconds of sniffing the first time, before leading him away. The next time let them greet one another for a little longer. Most dogs like to make new friends.<br />
<br />margaret cloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15393457266517145153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7670368261770713249.post-49847279366497603672020-07-25T03:22:00.001-07:002020-07-25T03:22:23.425-07:00MARGIE CLOUGH'S DOGBLOG<br />
It is such a long time since I wrote in this blog, but now I Have a reason for doing it again.<br />
Lately I have been doing a Zoom writing course. Each week we have been given an assignment. This week's one was to set up a make-believe blog, give it a name and a first post.<br />
Here it is<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
This blog will be called Margie
Clough's Dog Blog</div>
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<br />
</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
MARGIE CLOUGH'S DOGBLOG</div>
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<br />
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Hi,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Let me introduce myself. My name is
Margie Clough and I am the owner (or perhaps it would be more
accurate to say I am owned by) two dogs, Beemer, a Jack Russell
Terrier and Lassie, a cross-breed who looks a bit like like a little
collie or a miniature Golden Retriever. In later posts I am going to
tell you all about them</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV75bPE0X55FHtU0aBgF8tsr0yOLvMcYaeMp-Ox62NLfqSW78E1vpR1i4oV9BIhB8UI5hVdJzu6zpEJMrH3TfPOby1ZUL0UgPjkcy5MiJdp5Wb2SDKS4Sm7CC4aU3GlPsd9ylLtPxdREo/s1600/DOGS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="384" data-original-width="400" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV75bPE0X55FHtU0aBgF8tsr0yOLvMcYaeMp-Ox62NLfqSW78E1vpR1i4oV9BIhB8UI5hVdJzu6zpEJMrH3TfPOby1ZUL0UgPjkcy5MiJdp5Wb2SDKS4Sm7CC4aU3GlPsd9ylLtPxdREo/s320/DOGS.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
and the adventures I have with them, but in
this first post I just have to tell you some great news that I have
just heard. So The first item on my blog will be this:<br />
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GREAT NEWS
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
A new book on The relationship between
people and their animals has just been published . It is <i>Survival
of the Friendliest</i> by Brian Hare
of Duke University.</div>
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Anyone
who has done the online course Dog Emotion and Cognition will
be excited to hear that not only is there a new book which builds on
the work done at Duke on dog cognition but that a brand new course is
envisaged based on this book. For all you dog-lovers who have never
thought of tackling an online course-- Give it a go. You will learn
so much about dogs and how they think and how they behave and it will
immensely enrich your relationship with your pet. It has has
certainly helped me to understand my two fur children much better.
Start with the first course: <i>Dog Emotion and Cognition.</i>
This can be found by Googling Coursera, a provider of online courses.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
In
this course, Brian Hare not only tells us how dogs have become
adapted to living with humans, but also gives you fun games which you
can play with your dogs that will measure their different types of
cognition, e.g. their Empathy or ability to communicate.
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<br />
</div>
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I would also encourage anyone who owns
a dog to join a dog club. All charge an annual fee, but dog clubs are
not expensive. Both you and your dog will enjoy the club activities
where you will make new friends and learn new skills. Different clubs
cater to different interests. Some are meant for specific breeds,
others concentrate on training in different disciplines, such as
Obedience, Carting or Agility. Most of them have a web page which
will feature different activities, competitions and shows. During
Lock Down I have not been able to take Beemer and Lassie to their
weekly training session and they have missed it badly. I try to keep
up their training at home, but it isn't the same. They do try to keep
fit by rolling Coco Cola bottles and chasing birds out of the garden.
Digging is another activity they enjoy, but I am afraid they don't
understand why I don't appreciate their attempts at helping with my
gardening.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
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So Farewell until next week when you
will be able to read about the Great Poodle Battle and the War with
the Vacuum Cleaner.</div>
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<br />
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I might post something about the dogs again. Watch this spacemargaret cloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15393457266517145153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7670368261770713249.post-73566263741686097152020-01-12T03:45:00.000-08:002020-01-12T03:45:21.193-08:00LOOKING BACKI haven't visited this page for a very long time. I have been busy with other kinds of writing. I was doing an online course which took up a lot of time. I also went back to a novel I started a few years ago when I belonged to Paul Mason's writing group. This novel was to be a response to a prompt Paul had given us. He read us a piece in three parts each in first person but each in a different voice. While part of the group, I wrote the first part of my story, which was set in the seventies, in the time of the first wave of student protests. The second part was to be set in the eighties and the third in the nineties. Coming back to it, I am struggling with the second part and actually considering making it the third and final part. It is taking shape,but very slowly.<br />
<br />
Working on a story set in the last century has made me revisit my own past, the kind of life we lived then, the conditions in which we lived and the emotions and attitudes belonging to that time which can now be considered historical. Now in my eighties, and turning a critical eye on my younger self, I am surprised to find that I have to revise my opinions on a number of matters.<br />
<br />
Firstly, my self-image. Already in the previous piece I about living with mental illness, I am in the process of changing my opinion of how I coped with that particular problem. I have always been filled with regret that I had not been able to help my daughter more. I felt guilty too. I accused myself of being impatient, of often losing my temper of not making more of an effort to understand her, Looking back, I am actually surprised at how well I coped. Instead of seeing my inadequacy, I am appalled at the inadequacy of the Health Services. All a patient gets is a monthly injection and a packet of pills and the rest is up to the long-suffering family. So, now I no longer think of myself as weak but as actually rather strong, battling bravely on my own with almost no help in an almost impossible situation.<br />
<br />
Another idea about myself that I have had to revise is my estimate of my mental capacity, I have always taken for granted that I was born with a high IQ. I had such a highly intellectual family so I thought I should be as gifted as the rest of them. Lately IQ tests appear regularly on Facebook. I have taken one or two and found them rather challenging. This makes me wonder if my brainfar from being exceptionally bright, is actually very average after all. Not that I take Facebook tests like this seriously,( I find them so boring that I seldom finish the) but I have felt in the past that I was inclined to under-perform and have sometimes been disappointed in myself. Perhaps there was no need for disappointment. Perhaps I am just not able to do any better. One might think that this would be a blow to my self-esteem, but in fact it is quite a relief. I can lower my expectations. I don't have to go on trying so hard any more.<br />
<br />
A third consideration is my poor memory. Living in an old age complex, forgetfulness is something of general concern. We are all afraid of the bogie Dementia and are constantly aware of lapses in our ability to recall names and faces. Now I make allowance for such lapses. Knowing that I may forget to go to them, I now write the dates of every appointment in my diary. I am amazed to discover that in old age I am more reliable at turning up to events than I have ever been. This makes me wonder if I always had a memory problem. None of my school-mates used to get into trouble for bringing the wrong books or doing the wrong homework the way I constantly did. I was always writing out lines or staying in after school because of something I had forgotten to do. My memory for book-learning was normal, even above average. I can still recite most of the poems in my school poetry books and even today, I can tell you the capital cities and chief exports of dozens of countries, but it was the things I was supposed to do that I forgot. A poor memory for faces is a recognised disabling condition known as prosopagnosia,.Could I suffer from something similar. No doubt this condition has a genetic cause. My father was famously absent-minded too.<br />
margaret cloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15393457266517145153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7670368261770713249.post-41076509204869244012019-07-07T13:10:00.000-07:002019-07-07T13:10:49.911-07:00Mental Illness in the familyI have just been reading <i>Enumerations by </i>Maire Fisher, <i> </i>an excellent book about a boy with OCD. It gives a clear and informative insight into how it must feel to be a sufferer of this condition. It also gives a graphic account of the devastating effect on the boy's family. 'Yes," I thought, "It must be so hard for parents to come to terms with a mental illness like that." Then I thought again. "But <i>I</i> had to live for years with mental illness in my family. Not only Alcoholism, which was bad enough, but Schizophrenia as well. Those parents I was feeling so sorry for had it easy in comparison. They felt lonely in their affliction. The school wasn't much help to them and their friends were inclined to be judgmental and blame them for their son's condition. I had experienced the same reactions, but the mother and father in the book had sympathetic psychiatrists and health-care workers to assist and encourage them. It was only after several years of coping on our own that we were able to get treatment for the mentally ill family member. Looking back and comparing myself to the mother in the book, who seemed to be falling apart under the strain, I am filled with admiration for the woman I was then. There I was, holding down a full- time job, running a household which included a preschooler grandson and three girls going though the problems and traumas typical of teenage girls, and at the same time coping with an alcoholic and a schizophrenic and getting no professional help from anyone I was a bloody marvel! How on earth did I manage? <br />
<br />
My present GP asked me when I first consulted him for my shortness of breath, whether I was not very sorry that I had smoked cigarettes. He was surprised when I said," No." 'I explained that I am sure that at many occasions in my life I would have had a complete break-down of some kind or another if I hadn't had the calming effect of nicotine to help me. And then of course, there was my faith. It was the Lord's love and guidance more than anything else that got me through the hard times.<br />
<br />
[In later years, my daughter was correctly diagnosed and put on medication, the other girls became more understanding and became a great support to me. Then my husband stopped drinking and life took a turn for the better.]margaret cloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15393457266517145153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7670368261770713249.post-39636006114197817882019-01-23T00:34:00.000-08:002019-01-23T00:34:46.523-08:00GENERATION GAPMy friend June wanted me to go with her to go to an editing course. I thought my short story collection could do with editing and just might, if improved, become fit for publication, so I went along. Dawn Garish, who is a dear friend, is running the course. Now, she is very much into using writing, especially, memoir writing, as therapy. This is not really what June and I are after. So far we have attended two sessions and I think we both found them disappointing. However, I did take note of some comments made about my pieces and changed them, very possibly for the better. So it hasn't been a fruitless exercise by any means. At the second session, one of the participants read us the piece of writing that she had revised as had been suggested and it was very much improved. So she certainly benefited. But I can't help contrasting this course with other courses I have attended. I think particularly of Sindiwe's writing courses and also of Finuala's workshops. I did find one of her comments on my poem about ICU useful, but really when it comes to poetry, Dawn just doesn't have it.<br />
<br />
I was in two minds about continuing with the course. Thinking it over and analysing my feelings, I have come to the conclusion that I am out of place in the group. My work may be light, even frivolous, but I am serious about writing. I love what I consider "good writing" and am very critical of anything else. In other words I am a literary snob. If I were to give my honest opinion of most of what has been read at this group, it would would just be hurtful and offensive and not help at all. The style of writing most of the participants admire and probably aspire to is popular and may well turn out to be publishable. This goes for the subject matter too. A lot of it is about unhappy childhood, which so many writers seem to have experienced. I do not easily relate to this.(I also think it has been rather done to death, but maybe that is just me.)<br />
<br />
After careful consideration, I realise that the main problem is that I am too old for this group. Two of the members are approaching my age and they write stories that I can enjoy. I can't say the same for the other three. One piece, involving child abuse, that was read at the last session, I thought was quite revolting. I found bile rising in my throat. It actually turned my stomach.The other members of the group obviously did not feel the same way. Dawn did say that there was perhaps too much graphic detail, but in general the writer was told she was honest and wrote well. I did not agree! If it had been a description of her own experience of abuse, it would have been bad enough but would have aroused sympathy. It wasn't! She admitted that it was entirely fictitious and in fact, listening to it, one of the things that struck me was that it did not ring true. The voice, supposedly that of a nine or ten year old, sounded much too adult. I am probably too squeamish, but the writer seemed to enjoy wallowing in disgusting detail. I could not keep quiet. I had to say that I found the piece too disturbing and did not want to listen to it.<br />
<br />
I understand now that for this group I am on the wrong side of a generation gap. Perhaps, growing up in the puritanical fifties I am too prudish. I do not share what seems to me to be an a strange fascination with guts, genitals and bodily fluids. I admire the clear, spare writing of the authors I grew up with and don't like the fluffy pretentious style of much of what is published today. I think I shall go to only one more session and before it, or after it, explain my problem to Dawn.<br />
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<br />
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margaret cloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15393457266517145153noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7670368261770713249.post-39215277203271464712018-11-11T11:04:00.000-08:002018-11-11T11:04:58.650-08:00Sexual Orientation and Gender IdentityThese are two long words for "Gay or Straight?" and "do you think of yourself as male or female?" ?" At church today we were told that these questions are of great interest to the Powers that be in the diocese and are to be the focus of debate. I am not sure quite what this means, but assume we shall be called to meet and discuss our attitudes to LGTB people.<br />
<br />
After hearing Father Stafford's sermon, someone in the congregation suggested to me that I might be interested to meet some gay friends of hers. I didn't want to be discouraging, but I couldn't see much point in such a meeting. I have friends who go in for in dog training, bird- watching,creative writing or poetry. They are my friends because of our shared interests and because they are people I like. Some of these friends are gay. It is just something I accept about them like the colour of their eyes. When I was young my parents numbered several same-sex couples among their friends. So I was aware of differences in sexual orientation from a very early age.<br />
<br />
However, I am aware that gay people are often subject to prejudice and discrimination and I am willing to join in any discussions that may be instigated by Father Stafford. To this end I decided to look up the subject on Google. I battled my way through some rather heavy scientific articles and came up with some most interesting nuggets of information.<br />
<br />
Firstly it seems that our gender identity and sexual orientation are an integral part of who we are. They are both permanently programmed in the brain while we are in the womb. In other words we are born that way. There is no evidence that the way we are brought up or our social environment can influence our gender identity or sexual orientation.<br />
<br />
At conception we receive either two X chromosomes or one X and one Y chromosome. The embryo with a Y chromosome will develop male organs and male physical characteristics and the one with two X chromosomes will develop female sex organs and female physical characteristics.But the story doesn't end there. Hormones are produced in the mother's body which have an effect on the baby's growth. The amount of testosterone during the development of the foetus determines the sexual differentiation of the brain; a testosterone surge causes the brain to become more masculine, a lack of testosterone causes it to become more feminine. So a baby may be born with the body of a boy and the mind of a girl or vice versa.<br />
<br />
It has been found that female animals that have been affected by high testosterone behave like males and choose other females as mates and male animals lacking testoterone before birth behave like females.<br />
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So nobody chooses to be gay. Being born that way is challenging, It is harder for them to accept themselves, find their place in the world and to find love. Those of us who were born "straight" are challenged too. Our challenge is to find ways of being more accepting and inclusive of those who are different from ourselves.<br />
<br />margaret cloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15393457266517145153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7670368261770713249.post-40329796703128124072018-10-01T12:40:00.002-07:002018-10-01T12:40:22.422-07:00A problem with prayer<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
Bible reading in church on Sunday was from the Epistle of James. In it he
encourages anyone who is ill to inform the church elders so prayers can be
said. I was not feeling well enough for Church on Sunday and had to tell a
friend who rang in the morning, that I couldn’t give her a lift. She obviously
took James seriously and when she got to church<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> asked the congregation for prayers for my
recovery. Unfortunately, this caused a certain amount of consternation because when you are prayed for like this, everyone imagines you are, if not actually
on the point of death, at least seriously indisposed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">My
neighbour, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Liz, from two doors away, was at church that morning and heard the prayers. Shocked and concerned , she
popped in to see how I was. At that time I was still <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>groggy and could only sip at the<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>bush tea she brought me. However, it seems the
prayers of All Saints Church are very powerful and by evening I was almost
fully recovered. In fact, having not eaten all day, I was rather hungry and so
when Val, my next-door neighbour, rang and invited me to join her in a light meal I <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>left everything at once <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and walked over to her cottage. As I didn’t
intend to stay away long, and was going to be so close by, I left the computer
on and the door unlocked ( Actually, I never lock my dogs in the house so in
case there is a an emergency like a fire<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>they would be able to escape.) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">While
I was enjoying a glass of red and a delicious bean bredie,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>my almost- next-door-neighbour, Liz , came
round again <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>to see if I was still in the
land of the living. She was horrified to find the state of my home. It was <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>reminiscent of the Marie Celeste: door open,
lights on, computer running ,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>dogs
hiding in the bedroom and the occupant mysteriously missing.. What could have
happened? It was already dark. Perhaps I had suddenly had another attack of
illness and gone to find help. Perhaps I had gone outside and collapsed and was
lying unconscious somewhere. . She consulted her husband, who was on the
Residents committee. He agreed something should be done. Security was informed,
nurses were called, the supervisor was phoned, all the staff alerted.
Everyone went into action: the house was searched and the grounds scoured, but although
I was only a few metres away I was not to be found. Just before Management was
about to go to the lengths of informing my next-of-kin, Liz came to check my
cottage again, encountered me <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>getting
ready for bed and the search was called off. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I
was most touched by the concern shown by friends and by staff, but now, to
prevent a similar happening, I have given my cell-phone<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>number to Security to keep in the office at
the gate and I have also given it to as many people I can think of, so I can be located when
next I go missing<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />margaret cloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15393457266517145153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7670368261770713249.post-10041079006509118172018-06-26T11:21:00.000-07:002018-06-26T11:21:40.641-07:00Anthony Beale<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">FAMILY
STORY<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">If
I should need to write a novel in a hurry<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">It
would have to be about my ancestor, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Captain
Anthony Beale, adventurer and rogue,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">slaver,
seaman, pioneer. He was<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">an
officer, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>but not a gentleman. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
BEIC sent him to St Helena island <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">soon
after it was colonised, his task,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">to
subdue the rabble that had collected there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Other
governors had failed, but Beale<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">no
stranger to the lash, soon<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">whipped
the ruffians into shape.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">There
weren’t too many of them anyway.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">But
then the Dutch attacked, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He
tried to chase them off<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">by
rolling rocks down on them from the heights.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
Dutch retreated but returned in force.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He
thought it best to flee. He took a ship,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">went
to Brazil, hired a sloop and set out<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">to
warn all British ships that St Helena <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">had
been captured by the Dutch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">By
chance he met some naval ships, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">and
with their help reclaimed the island for the Crown. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
Company were not amused. They cut his salary;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>demoted him from Governor to storeman. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He
took this opportunity to cook the books, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">got
caught and got the sack,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Now
Beale was forced to till the soil and<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">sell
his house, ( I’m sure <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">it
wasn’t <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>at a loss.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">It
wasn’t long before this little isle,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">in
mid-Atlantic was again the scene <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">of
strife and battle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some malcontents, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Beale
among them, started an insurrection.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
rebellion was soon put down, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">the
instigators executed, most of them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">but
Beale, although condemned to death,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>contrived to talk his way into a milder
sentence, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Instead
of being hanged, he would be exiled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He
was never to go back to England.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">And
that is how our family came to be<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">settlers
and have remained settlers to this day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">(As
for Anthony, he came to a sticky end,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">poisoned
by one of his slaves,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">an
early victim of <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>decolonisation.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
This is a not very successful attempt to write a poem about my ancestor Anthony Beale. I found his story in an account of the history of St Helena. All the happenings in the early years were meticulously recorded in the records kept by the BEIC. Re-reading the account of the events and writing the poem made me wonder how much it might have affected the history of South Africa, if Anthony Beale had not chanced to meet that British Naval vessel when he was trying to warn ships not to stop at St Helena while he was on his way back to England.<br />
<br />
At that time the Dutch East India Company were not very happy with the station they had established at Table Bay. They had found that the harbour was not at all safe. The weather was inclined to be very stormy. There was always the danger of shipwreck when rounding the Cape. The indigenous population were unfriendly; livestock was always being stolen and then fighting would break out. That is why an expedition was sent to St Helena. The intention was to drive the British out and establish an alternative station there. Perhaps they even intended to move Van Riebeeck and co.to St Helena. After successfully capturing the island the Dutch force returned to the Cape leaving just a weakened garrison to defend it. They didn't expect to lose it again so soon. If the Dutch had established themselves there, it would have had a profound effect on the BEIC. They might have been squeezed out of the Spice trade and lost much of their wealth. It would have had an even more profound effect on development of the Cape Colony. Fewer Dutch ships would have stopped there. The settlement might have been abandoned. It would certainly not have grown the way it did. The Portuguese might even have taken over in the Cape.<br />
<br />
In school, we learnt all about Simon van der Stel, Ryk Tulbagh,Wolrade Woltemade and so on, but nobody is ever taught about Anthony Beale and the naval captain who chased off the Dutch and recaptured St Helena.<br />
<br />margaret cloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15393457266517145153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7670368261770713249.post-65206109003989987752018-06-19T12:40:00.001-07:002018-06-26T11:48:24.148-07:00Seeing the past differentlyLast night I was suffering from a bout of insomnia. Lying awake, I started to muse on the past. I had been reading a book about a woman teaching young college students and how she became involved in their development towards maturity and independence, This made me think of the time when I was the same age as those students. I remembered, particularly, the year when I lived in a flat with three friends I knew from University. How I looked up to the other girls! They seemed so sophisticated and confident, especially two of them, Shirley and Erica, who were close friends and had known each other from schooldays. They always seemed to know exactly how they wanted everything to be. They always knew what was the latest trend in books, films or pop music. Their clothes were always stylish. The two of them together set the tone and took the lead. They made the rules about meals, shopping, shared expenses,who was invited to our flat etc. etc. The other girl and I simply did what they wanted. Looking back I see that I was treated rather like a younger sibling, someone not quite competent. I wasn't bullied exactly, but my wishes and opinions were not much taken into account.<br />
<br />
Now, so many years later, I suddenly perceive the four of us in a different way. I think of the behaviour of the other girls and see them as bossy and self-centred rather than clever and confident, somewhat immature, not particularly so for their age, but certainly more so than I. After leaving University I had found a job, so I was the only one earning my own living. Though I could always depend on my parents to help me if necessary, I was, already, almost financially independent. The others were still completing their studies and had well-off parents who paid all their expenses, I had always had holiday jobs and while studying, did part-time tutoring for pocket money. I was the one in a stable relationship, was contemplating marriage and was more sexually experienced. I also came from a very literary family and was better informed and better read than most of my contemporaries. Now looking back I can't understand why I felt at all inferior. I see myself now as the more grown-up one and the other girls as less mature. How interesting to find that the past is not fixed and that although our memories may not change in themselves they can take on quite different aspects when we revisit them in old age.<br />
<br />margaret cloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15393457266517145153noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7670368261770713249.post-28101575268654671282018-05-29T11:55:00.001-07:002018-06-26T11:49:42.358-07:00Wilderness WeekendWhat a lovely interlude. to stay<br />
in a "Bushcamp" that was really a mansion,<br />
surrounded by wild forest, looking down on<br />
a stretched-out golden-sanded beach,<br />
<br />
with sons and daughters and grandchildren,<br />
who have come from all over the country,<br />
and even from across the world.<br />
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margaret cloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15393457266517145153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7670368261770713249.post-31798573713167843262018-04-14T01:29:00.000-07:002018-04-14T01:29:48.388-07:00DECOLONISATIONI have just been reading a newspaper article about a newly appointed academic who is very eager to transform and decolonise her university department. As an ex-colonial, I know I am prejudiced, but I found the article painful to read. Not only was it full of worn-out socialist cliches, but the writing was very poor too. I thought that the standard of English in the local papers had improved slightly lately, but it seems I was mistaken. However, that is beside the point. What was interesting to me was the rise of anti-colonist sentiment (which in this country means being against colonisation by Whites) at the same time as immigrants from Africa are flooding into Europe. Just as, two centuries ago, Europeans escaping poverty and wars in their own countries, settled in Africa, now North Africans and Middle Eastern people try to escape poverty and wars, by settling in Europe. In many countries there has been resistance to this new form of colonisation. Not all Western Governments have been as welcoming to refugees as Angela Morkel's has. Ironically for a country that was once a great colonial power and whose citizens spread all over the world, there has been a lot of anti-immigrant sentiment in Britain. Yesterday I read a moving poem explaining how wrong this is and how the influx of migrants enriches the country in which they have chosen to settle. not only financially and culturally, but also by bringing in new ideas. I am sure this is true. but it is also true that they cause changes that are not welcome.<br />
<br />
All through the ages, populations have spread from one part of the world to another and a mixing of races and cultures has taken place. Sometimes this has been through conquest sometimes simply by entering and taking over. In some parts of the UK and some parts of France, I believe, natives are now in the minority. Soon this may be the case all over Europe. Perhaps, instead of trying to eradicate European culture from our universities, we should be preserving it. It may not be around for much longer. It could soon be colonised out of existence.margaret cloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15393457266517145153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7670368261770713249.post-23199434524833726422018-03-23T11:37:00.000-07:002018-04-14T01:35:07.219-07:00Vegan PoemI have just been reading, on Twitter, a poem written by a vegan mother for her daughter. The gist of it was how glad the child should be that what she eats does not harm any animal. I am sure people who refuse to eat any animal products feel good about themselves. (Is it mean of me to think that feeling good and believing that you are better, more moral and more compassionate than other people are their reasons for doing so?) It is true that I sometimes feel bad about enjoying meat when it means an animal has had to die to give me that enjoyment. I do understand and sympathise with those who have opted to become vegetarians. It's a humane and civilised choice, but, on the other hand, were we not created omnivorous and so meant to be predators? Is it not rather presumptuous of us to know better than our Maker? Vegans who do not use any animal products so as not to exploit animals, are another matter. I do not believe that they have thought through all the consequences of their choices. The mother seems to encourage her child to play with ducks, chickens, cows etc. but not to use the produce from these forms of livestock. That mother was obviously not brought up in the country as I was or she would know that poultry like chickens and ducks if they are regularly well fed and cared for don't seem to mind us collecting their eggs, but they simply hate being played with. They are not pets like cats and dogs. The same goes for cows and sheep who put up with being milked and shorn but are not happy with kids running around in their fields and paddocks. Interestingly, some of the happiest animals are working animals, like shepherd dogs, and riding horses. In other words animals that are"exploited." Then there is the question of soy milk. Soy milk is a good substitute for those who are allergic to milk protein or are lactose intolerant but not the only possible substitute. If it is locally produced it is probably safe to drink it, although soy does contain phytic acid which reduces the absorption of minerals, and phytoestrogens which should not be taken in large quantities by children, but most soy products are imported so using soy milk instead of cow's milk or eating soy as a meat substitute can put local farmers out of business. Also imported soy is GM and contains glycophosphate which is possibly carcinogenic. So the milk you choose to drink because of your concern for animals may not be as good for you or your child as you think.margaret cloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15393457266517145153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7670368261770713249.post-51854286098577598192018-03-22T07:29:00.001-07:002018-03-22T07:29:59.834-07:00BlogspotWhy is it that today I was unable to access my blog? The password that is in my list was rejected. I know that the last time I did any blogging I didn't log in with gmail but this time I had to log in and change my password before I could do any writing. I see that Yolande's name.came up. Perhaps she used the computer for gmail or perhaps for her own blog. Yolande is often here but previously it was only once that I found any interference. Last time she house-sat her sister Bronwyn came with her. I wouldn't be surprised if it was something Bronwyn did that excluded me from my own Blog. I have now reset the password and am able to use this blog again.<br />
<br />
The weekend before last, Danielle and I did our long awaited road-trip. It turned out to be a more extensive one than we had planned and we were together in my little car much longer than we had meant to be.<br />
Several kilometres of road-works made our eastward journey much longer than expected and then trying to avoid said road-works we took the wrong turning and landed up going very far out of our way.'Lots of time to bond" as Danielle pointed out.<br />
<br />
It was a very pleasant weekend. I am not surprised Luke is happy at having relocated to George. From being a rural backwater that all young people fled from as soon as they had left school, it has become a vibrant, rapidly developing hub of commerce and industry with gated complexes and huge shopping malls springing up everywhere. I hardly recognised the place. It was great being with my old neighbours Kathy and Lesley and also nice seeing the pub "the Blind Pig" that Luke has an interest in and where his beers are sold.<br />
<br />
Our journey home included four mountain passes. See the pictures below.<br />
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<br />margaret cloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15393457266517145153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7670368261770713249.post-89206709506409152292018-01-24T12:16:00.002-08:002018-05-29T12:11:36.814-07:00Losing itLast week was not the best week for me. First, on Monday, I lost a dog lead when taking the dogs for a walk at the vlei. It was one of those special ones with a clasp at each end and not easy to replace. I have lost things there before and was sure I would not see the lead again, but I did tell a few fellow walkers about it, just in case. Then on Tuesday, I completely forgot to go to the Exercise class probably because Gairo, my domestic worker, had swopped her Tuesday workday for Wednesday and this put me out. The next thing to go wrong was a booking for a course at Summer School. My friend Julie had asked me if I would go to a poetry course with her. She was going to do the booking. On Wednesday morning she turned up at my house having been unable to book on her computer. We had no success on mine either so decided to drive up to the University Centre for Extramural Studies and sort out the booking in person. We found the building which houses this Centre without taking more than three or four wrong turnings, but the drive had taken longer than expected and we had arrived just when most of the staff were on their lunch break. After a battle to find the information we needed and after filling out a very long and involved form, we registered for the course. Then came the problem of payment. The office that dealt with fees was closed for lunch. I didn't want to stay until after two because Gairo, (the one who had changed her work day ) was waiting to be taken home as she had to fetch her child from school. Eventually the lady behind the counter was persuaded to accept credit cards. Then all we had to do was check on venue and time.<br />
"Short Form Poetry? But that's this week not next week. The course started two days ago."<br />
Horrors!<br />
Julie and I were devastated, We could have sworn that the dates were 22nd to 26th not 15th to 19th, How could we have made such a mistake. We must have been looking at the dates for another course. We had to cancel at once. What a disaster! But just then the course co-ordinator, who happened to be an old friend, appeared.<br />
'Why don't you attend the remaining two, sessions. We'll sort out the fees later."<br />
So that's what we did.<br />
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Wednesday is always a busy day. I had been to a U3A meeting in the morning. The trip up to UCT had taken several hours and I had just enough time to pick up my notes for our Evergreen poetry club meeting which started at three that afternoon. I also had a church meeting at 6 and I just had enough time to feed the dogs before rushing off to that. That is why I only got to the vlei the next day. I was a bit later than usual after the "short form poetry" too. One of my dog walking friends gave me some good news<br />
"Paul has your dog's lead. He's gone home already, but you can get it from him tomorrow."<br />
I knew just who she meant. Everybody living near the vlei knows Paul. He is the one who owns no fewer than six rescue dogs and takes them to the vlei every morning and evening without fail. I would be sure to see him the next time I walked my dogs. But, somehow,what with one thing and another, I kept on missing Paul. I finally caught up with him.<br />
"Oh no!"he exclaimed. "I brought the lead with me every day, but finally I gave up and today I left it at home. Be sure to come tomorrow and I will bring it tomorrow"<br />
The next day, I discovered that I had lost my watch. It was one of Gairo's workdays so I asked her to look for it when she was cleaning the house. Unfortunately she failed to find it. It was one of the hottest days this month and I when I got the dogs ready to go for their walk, I realised that the heat of the afternoon had made me think it earlier than it actually was. When I got to the vlei I could see no sign of Paul.<br />
"He must have gone home already," I thought<br />
If only I could have sent him a message, but all that week( I did say it was a bad week, didn't I ) my phone would only send messages in Spanish.<br />
I gave the dogs a quick run and then drove to Paul's house. He has no bell at the gate, so I shouted for him, but there was no reply and no dog barking either.<br />
So it was back to the vlei and sure enough, there was Paul, just about to walk his dogs home. I called out to him and he reluctantly turned back.<br />
"When I didn't see you ,I'm afraid I gave the lead to Hazel" he said. "She lives in the house two houses from the corner."<br />
So I proceeded to a house which I thought was the one he meant.<br />
"No, There is no Hazel here, but I think the chairlady of the Neighbourhood Watch is called Hazel. I'll give you her number."<br />
"Is she a a tall person who has a limp?"<br />
"I don't think so, but I'll try her anyway."<br />
But the chairlady was not there.<br />
I took the number and rang later.<br />
"Have you a dog lead that belongs to me?"<br />
To my amazement , the answer was "Yes" and soon I had my lead back. "Thank you Hazel" Although Hazel was not the Hazel I thought she was. but a quite different Hazel.<br />
However, in spite of everything, there were some good things about last week. The two poetry sessions were really worthwhile, and somehow the fees seem to have been forgotten. The lead did come back and since then I have managed to get someone to fix my phone so it speaks English again.<br />
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<br />margaret cloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15393457266517145153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7670368261770713249.post-32127454283408013862018-01-07T04:57:00.000-08:002018-01-07T05:02:55.546-08:00Modern PoetryI have not been writing much lately. This is partly because .I have started a course on Modern American Poetry. Not the famous Modpo, but a course run by Illinois university. I don't think it as good as Modpo, but I like the way it does include a number of poems(and poets) that are not part of Modpo. Poms covered so far are of the kind that I can relate to. These all fall in the period that is known as "Modern" and not "Post Modern" and date back to the early 20th century. But I have recently read some poems which were highly praised by prestigious American critics and these I am afraid I cannot relate to at all. It is not just that they are difficult to understand. Of course I am old-fashioned enough to prefer poems that make sense to me, but I can often enjoy teasing out the meaning from a poem that seems obscure at first reading. I don't really like poems that are made up of numbers of seemingly unrelated images like those of Ashbery's later work., but I can get enjoyment from the vivid description in the word-pictures Ashbery paints. I can also enjoy the music of many modern poems though I may not understand what they are about.<br />
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I think it was in the <i>New Yorker</i>, (sometimes pages of this journal get sent to me) that I read about some young American poets who had all received prizes for their poetry. I instituted a Google search and that is when I decided that Twenty-first Century Poetry/Contemporary Poetry/ or perhaps Post-Modern Poetry had past me by. I have experienced various set-backs recently. I was rejected at the MacGregor festival.The new on-line literary journal, the name of which I can never remember, informed me that the poems I had submitted were not of a high enough standard and the poem I thought had been accepted by the journal, <i>Stanzas </i>was not included in its latest issue.<i>. </i> I read these prizewinning poems carefully several times, but I could make neither head nor tail of any of them. It was not just a case of a series of unrelated statements or unrelated images, they seemed to me to be just a number of unrelated words set haphazard on a page. I read them aloud because I have found many poems come to life only when read aloud. Some of Gertrude Stein's work which looks at first glance like the "word-salad" of a schizophrenic, trips delightfully off the tongue and makes its own kind of sense when you hear it. But this was not the case with this poetry. It is true that American speech has its own cadences and rhythm so perhaps I am missing something by reading the poems in my clipped South African English, but I don't think it is that. It must be I who is not in tune with the literature of the New Century. Perhaps I should consider retirement. At Eighty-three it is not surprising to find oneself a has-been.margaret cloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15393457266517145153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7670368261770713249.post-42015389066020924862017-11-28T02:33:00.000-08:002017-11-28T02:33:53.882-08:00Vegetarians and VegansOn Saturday I was at a party. It was the end of year party of our poetry group and one of the most enjoyable I have been to. The food was great, the company was excellent and the poems were of a very high standard too. While surveying the most wonderfully varied choice of snacks, the subject of Vegetarianism came up and with it the idea of the exploitation of animals. Somebody saying how poor cows were forced to produce more milk than was natural and chicken kept to lay eggs etc. Now, I am against animals suffering, but I am not sure that the exploitation of animals is the evil that some animal lovers believe. Think of all the animals we share our world with. There are those we use for our own purposes, and those we compete with for living space and food. The first multipy and thrive, the others are pushed towards extinction, unless preserved in game parks and reserves and there, of course exploited too, to make money as tourist attractions.<br />
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Animals do have feelings, but are we right when we equate their emotions with ours. I am reminded of friends from our dog club who asked me to sign a petition against using animals in circuses. "These creatures, " they said. " are put in cages, taken all round the country and made to perform tricks." I said that I thought it a bit hypocritical of us to condemn the practice, because it was exactly what we were doing with our dogs. We train them to run Agility courses, take them to events in different places and keep them in cages at shows when not competing. I am not just trying to justify it when I insist that the dogs simply love it. You just have to see my terrier's excited reaction when he is taken to a show. Just because animals are made to work, doesn't mean that they are unhappy or badly treated. We may prize freedom, but do animals feel the same way? An animal in a well-run Zoo, kept safe and fed regularly is probably happier than the same creature in the wild, often hungry and in constant danger of predators or if a predator itself, in competition with other dangerous animals. We may get sentimental about the natural life in the great wide open spaces, but given the choice, we nearly all opt for a safe suburbia ourselves.margaret cloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15393457266517145153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7670368261770713249.post-21924083356916109192017-11-05T06:55:00.002-08:002017-11-19T07:34:38.318-08:00All Souls Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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All Saint's, All Soul's and Halloween all come at the same tine of year and I get them muddled. I am also confused about "the Day of the Dead. " Is this the same as All Soul's Day? At the churches where I worshiped previously neither All Saint's nor All Soul's was celebrated. I always knew that the name Halloween meant Saint's Eve, so presumably it is the day before All Saint's day, but because of all the skulls and skeletons you see at Halloween, I thought it had something to do with the dead and so I thought the day on which one remembered the dead was the day before the day you remembered the saints. I believed that All Soul's day came before All Saint's Day. I was very surprised to read the instructions in our latest pew leaflet. We were told, last week, to go to church on Wednesday evening as it was All Saint's Day and again on Thursday evening for All Soul's day. So I must remember Nov 1 all Saints, Nov 2 All Souls. First remember the goodies and then all the other dead people.<br />
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Now that I am a member of All Saint's parish , Muizenberg I am very aware of the date of our patronal festival. So I know that the actual day was Wednesday. But because not everyone can attend church in the week, there was just a short service on Wednesday and we waited until today for the proper celebration. We had a simply glorious service for this special day. The church was shining clean and full of flowers, the Youth band produced most joyful music and we had a scrumptious tea afterwards.<br />
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I had intended to go to the evening service on Wednesday. I even told Luke, who was to spend the night here, that I would leave his supper for him in the oven, if I was not there when he came. I had been very busy all day making marmalade for the Evergreen Craft market which was to take place on Friday and just did not make it to church. I got everything ready. I put the meat and veg in the oven, sat down for a few minutes and fell fast asleep, only waking when Luke arrived. The pork rashers were a little overcooked, but thankfully not burnt. he was ravenous and didn't mind.<br />
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So having missed out on All Saint's, I attended the All Soul's service the next day. . It was quite a moving service. After the prayers when we remembered those that had died, we went up to the altar and lit candles for them. There were not very many of us in the congregation. The Parish council had catered for a larger group and there were enough candles for each of us to light more than one. I thought of all those dear to me who had died. So many of my family, so many of my friends.<br />
I made a mental list as I went up and lit candles. First, my Grandmother, who died when I was still at school. My aunt Bobby who lived with us died when I was at university, my father I lost when I was in my twenties, married and living in Zambia, my father-in-law died the same year. My mother-in-law died many years later when we were living in George, my other aunt Dorothy died at much the same time, but I don't remember exactly when. My husband died seventeen years ago. My eldest Daughter died eight years ago. After my husband's<br />
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death I moved to Cape Town to be near my grandson and my youngest daughter(who have both since moved away, of course) . When I moved I had family living here as well as a number of old friends. almost none of them are left. I have out-lived them all. I was one of the youngest of my generation and had numerous older cousins. Of these I was very close to Jerry and Brian .Both died a few years ago. Closest of my friends were Poelie, Liz, Catherine and Helen Of them only Liz is still alive and she is senile and bedridden. Why am I still around? I ask myself.<br />
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Yesterday I went to a wedding. It was a delightful occasion. I found myself becoming tearful. Why after all these deaths, do I cry at a wedding.Perhaps because it was such a welcome change from all the funerals and wakes or ("celebrations of a life") that I have been to lately.<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">ALL SOULS DAY</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">Today I remember:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">my Granny, who showed me how to sew,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">and knit and darn my father’s woollen socks,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">my Dad who didn’t say too much, but taught me<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">some Maths and some </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">basic carpentry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">my Aunt, who gave me lessons in the pruning<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">of bougainvillea creepers, fruit trees and rose bushes,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">my Mother who introduced me to books,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">my daughter Dot, who taught me patience among other things<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">my friends, Catherine, Poelie, Helen<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">with whom, I spent so many pleasant hours.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">And last, I light a candle for my husband .Mike.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">My hand shakes and the hot wax burns my palm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">”Butterfingers” he would have said. “Let me do that for you.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">It's still hard to live without him.</span><br />
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margaret cloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15393457266517145153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7670368261770713249.post-32269550039302863202017-10-13T07:01:00.000-07:002018-03-22T07:42:33.500-07:00Being in the MinorityIs it unusual, or do other people like me also increasingly find themselves the only Christian at a social gathering. Of course, here, at Evergreen, so many of the residents are ex-Zimbabweans and probably originally from the UK, so it is not surprising to find a lot of non-believers. Church-going is not very popular in England these days. But apart from my friends from All Saints and St Martins so many of the people I spend time with are atheists.<br />
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The other evening my friend, Joy, held a dinner party as a Farewell for Ruth and her son who had been staying with her. When we were all seated, the little boy, Luca, offered to say Grace. Joy accepted, and he did it very nicely. But Joy's friend and neighbour, Fabienne, was horrified at how the child had been "indoctrinated". She was particularly perturbed by the short span of time in which this indoctrination had taken place. She kept on exclaiming that he had only been at a South African School for such a short time and yet been so thoroughly indoctrinated. All the other adults except me(or should it be I) distanced themselves from this embarrassing evidence of religious belief. I remarked on the experience of being so often in the minority and said that it seemed that Atheism was very trendy. Fabienne took exception to the word "trendy. I'm not quite sure why. Perhaps she felt I was not taking her seriously enough. I am not sorry that I was prepared to stand up for my faith, but I think I must learn to be more tactful. In my experience, atheists are inclined to be very touchy.<br />
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All through my life most of my friends have been non-believers or at least not church-goers, but it is only in the last few years that I have noticed many being so vocal about their lack of belief. There are numerous prosetelising atheists around too. and on Social media anti-Christian sentiment is common.<br />
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I am not sure what the cause of this upsurge of atheism might be. Perhaps it is the interest generated by the work on the human Genome which has made writings on Evolution popular. I know Richard Dawkins has been very influential. His books on evolution have been best sellers, although I'm not sure <i>The extended Genotype </i>(if I have remembered the title correctly) was as widely read as the earlier book, <i>The Selfish Gene.</i> It is <i>the God Delusion</i> that everyone has read and which I think may have been a large influence in the drift towards Atheism in the English-speaking world, though other popular writers like Sam Harris and Christopher Hitchens. have contributed too. On another level, Dan Brown's books, which I always considered just light entertainment, have been surprisingly influential. So many readers seem to have taken seriously the mishmash of old (and mostly discredited )myths and legends which form the background of the plots of his rather trashy novels.<br />
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Twenty years or so ago, remarks like those Fabienne made about "indoctrination" and "believing such silly stories" would have been considered very bad manners. Now, although it is not at all PC to insult Mohammed or belittle Islam, it is quite all right to say anything you like about Christians or the Christian faith. I suppose we are expected accept this criticism meekly and to turn the other cheek.<br />
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And on the subject of silly fairy tales, why do people like Fabienne think modern day Christians take the stories in Genesis absolutely literally. Surely even when they were first written, they were meant as allegories. The very names, Adam and Eve, meaning Man and Woman (or mother) are clues to show us how we are to understand their story.margaret cloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15393457266517145153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7670368261770713249.post-76095017778677125182017-09-05T03:46:00.001-07:002017-10-14T11:01:17.112-07:00The Elusive Grand MarigoldTwo weeks ago, my daughter, Shirley and I went off for a weekend together. We had been planning this excursion for a long time. I have attended the annual McGregor Poetry Festival every year, but it was the first time for Shirley. Granny, the old hand, was to organise everything. This turned out to be a mistake. First of all I found it impossible to book events online. I had to ask Shirley to do so. I told her which ones I wanted, but somehow we managed to double book and acquire tickets for two events in one slot. I did manage to do the airline bookings successfully after spending most of one frustrating morning at it and Shirley was able to arrive and depart at the right times and on the right days. The accommodation, however was a different matter.<br />
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I found what seemed to be the ideal Bed and Breakfast place online. It was the exotic name.the Grand Marigold, that appealed to me. I duly booked two nights and received an E-mail confirming my booking. I did not make a note of the street address or the phone number, but printed out the e-mail and put it in my bag. Unfortunately, I decided at the last moment to take a smaller handbag with me and the e-mail got left behind.<br />
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When we arrived in McGregor, early in the afternoon. I realised that I did not know where to find our accommodation, so we decided to go first to Temenos where the booking office was situated and where we would be able to get directions to the various venues. We were sure that the organisers would know the Grand Marigold. To our amazement, nobody there had ever heard of it! Never, mind, we would go to the Tourist Office. The people working there would be bound to know where it was. No, they had never heard of it either. they had a list of places offering accommodation and a large board on which B and Bs and 'Self-catering rooms" were advertised. but the Grand Marigold did not appear on either. Booking sites on the Internet were consulted, lots of places found, but no Grand Marigold to be seen.<br />
"Are you sure it is in Mcgregor and not in Robertson or Greyton?"<br />
by this time I was not sure of anything except that we had come all the way to McGregor and now had nowhere to lay our heads.<br />
The kindly lady in the tourist office offered to find us a room. At this late date it was an almost impossible task, but somebody appeared at the door just as we were about to give up with the news of a cancellation. A small cottage and we would have to<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span> share a bed, but we took it. It was quite close being situated in Darling Street, which we thought was also the Street where the Grand Marigold was hiding, but though we drove up and down that street several times we found no sign indicating anything grand or Marigold. We saw someone coming out of a house and inquired of them where the Grand marigold might be."Never heard of it" was the answer."<br />
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On Sunday, about to leave, we were in the Booking office again. We told the lady behind the counter about our fruitless search for the Grand Marigold. She had never heard of it either, but she did a more comprehensive search on the Internet and found it advertised there. There was even a picture of its front gates.<br />
"I know those gates," she said. "It isn't the Grand Marigold. It is a place called the Loft"<br />
It must have changed its name, but kept it a secret.<br />
Back at home I received an E-mail asking why we had not arrived at the Grand Marigold.<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">THE
GRAND MARIGOLD<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
room we booked had two big beds,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">a
kettle and TV<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">We
could have watched the breakfast show <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">while
we drank our morning tea.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">But
though we searched McGregor <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">and
everywhere around.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">This
most elusive B and B<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">was
nowhere to be found.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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margaret cloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15393457266517145153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7670368261770713249.post-28107094369464723182017-09-05T02:39:00.000-07:002017-09-05T02:39:09.633-07:00McGregor Poetry Festival 2017<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This year's Poetry Festival, the fifth one, was, I think, the best one for me. Because I was not doing a presentation, I was able to relax and attend more of the events. Best of all, I had the joy of introducing my daughter, Shirley, to McGregor and to the fun of hearing poetry and of writing it too. At the last event, an "Open Mic" she even took part and read a poem of her own!<br />
One of the best things about the festival is the opportunity of meeting old friends, all writers or readers of poetry. For the first time, I was able to visit the donkey sanctuary. Unfortunately they were not doing tours as it was too late in the day, but we were able to see the donkeys from the other side of the fence. We also visited some art galleries and took home a wooden"sculpture".<br />
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Highlights of our weekend were the presentations of John Maythem and Finuala Dowling and the "Beat Poets" read by Chris Marais and co. <br />
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We had an unusual. adventure as well. we couldn't find the B and B in which we had booked a room and had to stay elsewhere, not quite as convenient but adequate.<br />
<br />margaret cloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15393457266517145153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7670368261770713249.post-53237041185618804612017-08-02T12:03:00.002-07:002017-08-02T12:03:29.889-07:00Back HomeI am back home from the hospital where I spent a comparatively short stay, although it seemed quite long to me. Two days later, I am still high on all the attention and loving concern poured over me. I thank God today for my recovery and more than that, for the love that has been shown me in such great measure. From the hospital staff who cared for me so well, to all the many friends who sent caring messages and offers of assistance. Most of all I am thankful for my family. I am so blessed to have them. My daughter Shirley as soon as she heard,( and that must have been in the early hours,) caught a plane and was at my side the same morning. My grand-daughter-in-law came to see me before going to her work to let me know that she had looked after my dogs and fed them and that she would fetch Shirley from the airport. My grandson who was in California on holiday at the time at once organised a changed return flight and was in Cape Town two days later. All the others were constantly on the phone or e-mailing to find out how I was. I was especially touched by the cards and goodies that were sent by friends from the dog club. All Saints, my church family, all sent good wishes and told me they were praying for me and dear Father Stafford Moses came to visit to pray with me and to cheer me up.<br />
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I was in the new hospital, Melomed,very new, very lavish and very high-tech. I think they must have all the facilities there, because it seemed to me that (except for a major operation) I must have been subjected to every medical procedure and test known to medical science. I lay in a bed in ICU attached to machines on both sides which monitored all my vital signs. All the figures the machines generated were filled in on a huge sheet. I felt as though I was being turned from a human being into a bundle of statistics. But whatever these procedures may have been like, eventually everything that was wrong with me was discovered and I am now more or less fixed. Except, of course, for a bucket full of pills which I have to take religiously for some weeks.still. <br />
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After all this excitement, life goes on as usual-- quite an anticlimax.<br />
<br />margaret cloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15393457266517145153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7670368261770713249.post-40229802829675837562017-07-23T13:04:00.001-07:002017-07-24T11:56:24.630-07:00DEPENDENCEIn the old days before the microchip, we would be out of touch with one another all the time. Now we expect to be able to speak to friends and family on our cell phones at any time day or night. Have we become too dependent on these admittedly useful devices. Several years ago my charlady told me. "This little thing is your friend. Keep it close to you always" That was good advice and so I now never buy any item of clothing (except for panties and bras of course) that doesn't have a pocket that can hold my Samsung.and I carry it everywhere I go. But lately my "friend " has been letting me down. The battery doesn't hold charge for more than a few hours so I keep on missing calls and messages. Usually this doesn't matter much but yesterday it had disastrous consequences. <br />
<br />
I had offered to fetch Luke's girlfriend and her son at the airport. Nicole and I had been sending text messages to one another about it and had agreed to meet at the pick-up zone. The plane was due at 12,15 so allowing for luggage collection etc. I planned to be at the aforesaid zone at 12 45. "Wait for me if I'm not there when you arrive" I told her. I remembered to take my phone so we could get in touch as soon as the plane landed. I didn't remember to charge the silly thing in advance, but when I checked it before I left thought it's juice would last out. How wrong I was!<br />
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Having cancelled my Saturday Beginner Agility session, I duly set out for the airport just before 12. There was a bit more traffic on the road than I had expected so I arrived at Cape Town International a little later than I had intended, but still well before 1 pm. I took the turn-off signposted "Pick-up Zone" collected my parking ticket and found a bay, a rather narrow one, quite near the entrance. I noted that the plane had been delayed, but had landed a few minutes before. There was no sign of Nicole and Lucas at the pick-up Zone so I sat down to wait in a position from which I could see the stream of people emerging from the arrivals hall.<br />
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After waiting about twenty minutes, which is the longest I have had to wait for luggage collection myself, I thought it would be a good idea to get in touch with Nicole and tried to ring her number. My phone simply refused to do anything but tell me to recharge the battery. Nothing for it" I told myself. I'll just have to sit and wait until they appear. " But when more than half an hour had gone by I thought Nicole must missed the plane or have gone home some other way. She had no doubt sent a message to tell me about it and I had not received it. My free parking time had now run out. I went to the information desk and got them to page her, but there was no response. I couldn't find a way to charge my phone so decided to leave a message and go home.<br />
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Meantime Nicole was standing outside the arrivals building in the drop-off zone. She was becoming frantic. Sure that I had been hijacked or had met with an accident she rang Luke who became a bit worried too and then Danielle who started ringing hospitals and police. Finally Nicole got an uber. She stopped off at Evergreen only to find that I had left hours before and was nowhere to be found. I drove home, not in the best of moods I must admit,and was told that Nicole had been looking for me. She wasn't in the best of moods either. I am glad to say that a plate of fish and chips each later, peace has been restored.<br />
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It struck me later that the advent of the cell phone has put paid to a whole genre of stories. So many love stories and romantic films produced in my youth centred round lovers failing to meet.. In those days this sort of thing happened all the time. I can't count how many times my husband and I made arrangements to meet which didn't come off because one of us went to the wrong meeting place. Nowadays it only happens to old grannies like me.<br />
<br />
<br />margaret cloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15393457266517145153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7670368261770713249.post-52530170148098110592017-06-15T12:17:00.000-07:002017-06-15T12:17:52.858-07:00KnysnaWhile we had a storm here, a storm which was not nearly as bad as we had been led to expect, Knysna was burning. It is one of the worst tragedies I have ever known. Twenty years or so ago I used to know Knysna well. We would visit often. We had many friends there. We would take the train and spend an hour or so. there whenever we had visitors. We would go there for squash matches or meetings of one sort or another, or just for an outing. I did a lot of work in the surrounding forests when I was employed at Saasveld. Forestry Research station. This was a beautiful little town. now it seems to have been quite destroyed. Hundreds of houses burnt, hectares of forest and plantation gone for ever.<br />
Of course, the drought and the windstorms were very largely to blame for the excessive destruction, but if the Forestry Department had functioned as it did when I worked there, I am sure the fires could have been contained before they did so much damage. In those days, there were towers in strategic positions which were manned day and night and fires could be quickly spotted. Then there were many more permanently-employed forestry workers. Most of these were trained in fire-fighting, so there was a large pool of fire-fighters to be called on when needed. Now most of the plantations are privately owned and the owners find it more cost-effective to out-source labour and employ temporary workers, and this has increased the risk of destructive fires.<br />
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I remember Willem, the forestry worker who had been seconded to the lSaasveld laboratory when I was in charge of it. He was such nice happy soul and such a good reliable guy. He was known for being the first to volunteer when there was a call for help in putting out a fire. "Always the first to jump on the lorry," the foreman told me. I thought of him when I read of the 67 year-old fire-fighter who died of burns and smoke inhalation. That old man must have been somebody like Willem. I wrote this for him.<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">FIRE
-FIGHTER<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“You
again!” they said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Always
the first to jump on the lorry.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Why
don’t you give it a break? they said<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Why
don’t you leave it to the younger guys?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Stay
home this time,” they said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Don’t
you remember the heat and the dirt?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Ash,
soot and sweat on your hands and your face<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">the
smell of charred hair and blistering skin,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">and
the small, burnt animals on the forest floor.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">It’s
a nasty job,” they said</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Don’t
you remember how a blaze from the ground <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">can
flicker up tree-trunks and fly to the
sky?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Don’t
you remember how sparks shower down,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">and
how smoke sears your eyes and grabs at your breath.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Aren’t
you afraid?” they said<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“But
they need me there,” he said<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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margaret cloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15393457266517145153noreply@blogger.com0