During the last warm spell we had, I think it was the last week in May, I decided to go for a walk in the local park. I sat on the bench you see in the left picture and started to eat an apple. Because I don’t like the skin I used my pocket knife to peel it, and laid the knife on the bench next to me.

Note from the picture that there is a children’s play area about 100yds in front of the bench.

After about ten minutes two young women with a “gaggle of brats” (my collective term for a group of children), about 6 of them I think, came into the park and entered the fenced off area and closed the gate, presumably to keep the kids from escaping, although the authorities tell us the fence is to stop the local dogs from using it as a crapping area.

All pretty harmless until now, you think.

After another ten minutes or so I noticed a police car pull up on the car park to my right (see second picture). Two police persons got out, a man and a woman, and walked up the path towards me. I thought “Wonder what they want?”. I soon found out . Me!

They stopped in front of me and the female officer asked me what I thought I was doing? I answered that I was sitting on a bench eating an apple. This explanation apparently upset her, so the male then said “We have had a complaint from one of the ladies(?) in charge of the children over there”, he indicated the play area and continued “that you are watching the children, and they find it very disturbing”.

“I was here before they even turned up, and I’m not the slightest bit interested in the kids; in fact I hate children!” I replied.

“Nevertheless we would prefer it if you moved away, so as not to cause any unpleasantness. You must understand that this is just a polite request and will not be put on record if you comply with it”. (Wow! An educated policeman, he can use big words).

So I picked up my penknife to put it away and his eyes opened wide. “Is that on offensive weapon you have?” “No”, I replied, “It’s a tool and has a blade less than three inches, it’s not a lock-knife and it has a ‘drop-point’ so it is excempt from the knife laws”. I know this because I checked the law before I bought it. He obviously didn’t know about this exception clause, so he turned and walked a few paces and talked into his mic.

He had already written my name and adress into his little black book (Wow! He could write too! I was impressed!) so he was probably checking up to see whether I was on the Sex Offenders Register, or on the knife laws; or both.

He returned and asked me to go again, so rather than make a fuss, I went. Now I am wary about going in the park when there are children about. I never felt uneasy befrore, but I do now.

Afterthought: What a sick country this has become where the politically correct seem to rule over us, and all elderly men are looked on as potential child molesters and paedophiles!

Following a conversation in the local about the standard of education now, a businessman friend told me that because there will be a lot of school-leavers at the end of this academic year, who will in all probability finish up in the dole queue, he decided to set on two to train in his IT business.

This is because one of his staff is due to retire at the end of the year. He said that if he could find two youngsters who were interested in IT it would give them time to at least gain some knowledge of what’s involved from the person retiring soon.

He placed an advert in the local paper and insisted that applicants should apply in writing in the first instance, and to included a résumé of their knowledge of the subject and what, if any, training they had in school.

To his amazement he received nearly 200 applications, of which he had to throw out almost half of them for various reasons. 83 were obviously done on word processor like “Word” although he had stated “in writing” in the advert. The reason he wanted the applications in writing is because there is no spellchecker in a pen and you can basically judge a person by the handwriting and layout of the letter. Others were thrown out because the handwriting was virtually unreadable and untidily laid out.

Another type of applicant he rejected was the kind of youngster who saw themselves as trendy and streetwise, and used “modern English” to impress which fell flat with my friend. You know the type, they use 4 instead of “for”, 2 instead of “to” or “too” and write the personal “I” as “i”. The latest idea now is to put the period “.” at the beginning of the following sentence i.e., “The cat sat on the mat .the dog barked madly ,and the cat ran away”, if you see wot i mean, innit?

Rejecting all the above type of letters eliminated having to interview a lot of people who were obviously unsuitable.

He was left with 48 applications that were worth at least a first interview. Most of those turned up scruffily dressed, or reeking of fag smoke, or both, and had no idea how to handle themselves during an interview.

In the end he finished up with two girls who dressed nice, spoke “proper English like wot i do” and seemed very keen on the work involved. He told me he is looking forward to setting them on soon.

This weeks photograph is of me as a wee lad in my last year at Junior School.

As you can see this picture is dated 1947 when I was 10 years old. The occasion was the local Church Garden Fete, and our class had to perform some country dances to please our doting parents.

I am the handsome boy in the middle of the picture dancing with the girl with the big ribbons in her hair. I fact she always wore enormous ribbons every day at school.

Ann Colkin, that was her name, was my first love. I absolutely adored her and I always endeavoured to sit next to her in class, stand near to her at playtime and assembly in the mornings. That is until I was challenged to a “duel to the death” by Stuart, the school creep and teachers pet, who also fancied his chances with Ann. Stuart is the boy at the front of the dancing team.

Being the challengee it was my right to choose the weapons and the place for the duel. (No, it was not behind the bikesheds with stun-guns, they weren’t invented then, mores the pity!). I chose marbles and the place was the playground at first break the next day.

The next day dawned bright and clear, ideal weather for the most important game of my life! We agreed that the winner would take the fair maid Ann for his own, and also the loser would forfeit his entire collection of marbles, his castle and estates, his livestock, weapons, et al!

The word got around the school and at playtime there were crowds waiting to see who would win the hand of Lady Ann.  The pitch was drawn up with chalk stolen from the teachers desk,  consisting of a “shooting line” and some distance away, a circle.  We each had a certain number of marbles and the idea was to get more in the circle than your opponent.

I lost! I was devastated, but I kept my composure and with the traditional British ’Stiff Upper Lip’ I shook hands with the victor and marched away head held high. For two nights after that I cried myself to sleep; that is until I met my new love, Pamela! She is in the picture, but I wont say where. . .

Now 63 years later, after a gap of more years that I can remember, I have met Ann again and we very often stop to chat, but sadly our dancing days are over now. Ann married and was divorced, as I was. We are both alone now. I often wonder what happened to all the others in the photo and how they fared in life.

To see other bloggers Sepia Saturday posts click here.

Last week I went to my friends sons birthday party at their house in a select area of Coventry. Athurs son and his wife are in their mid-40′s, and are a typical English couple inasmuch they are a bit overweight; well, obese if you must know.

Their home is a very nice detached house in the suburbs with a beautiful garden. Two cars on the drive. His, a Mercedes, and hers, a convertable BMW. First impressions give one the idea that they are well to do, with well paid jobs.

The party was well under way when I began to suspect that all was not as it seemed. Ken, Arthurs son, was a little bit pissed even before we arrived and it seemed that during the evening he wanted to confide in me for some reason (because of my kindly face?). He told me that he had lost his job because the boss didn’t understand him, his wife was also unemployed and had several lovers on the side; as he had! It turned out that the cars weren’t paid for, he had a big mortgage and was behind with the payments, and the truths just kept pouring out of his drunken mouth all evening. The highlight of the evening was when the “grass” came out and almost everybody lay around puffing the filthy stuff and telling dirty jokes in a high pitched voice.

It was at this point I left in disgust. I had to drive Arthurs car back to Earl Shilton because he was in a drunken stupor in the back. Some bloody party that was!

No, I didn’t indulge in the drinking, smoking and, I suspect, the group sex going on upstairs. I do have morals, which is more than some of the present generation seem to have anymore.

Athur did ask me the next day not to breathe a word about the goings on the night before, so to respect his wishes I promised that I wouldn’t blog about it. This is why I have changed all the names and location to protect the guilty.

Forty years ago (Shit! Is it that long?) we, that is my generation, would never dream of behaving like that at a party. Well, maybe just a tinsy-winsy bit, but at least we weren’t fat, unemployed, up to our neck in debt, drinking to excess, taking drugs and groping every girl in sight.

Looking back now I think my generation missed out on a lot of things, damn it! In my younger days being gay was against the law, now it is accepted and condoned, and with our new Government I suspect it won’t be long before it’s compulsory.

We’re all doomed I tell you, this lot are going to be running the country soon.

. . . posted on Friday because I can’t be bothered to switch the computer on on Saturdays.

This weeks picture is of my Uncle Maurice’s shotgun wedding. As I stated in a previous post my father had to get married because he got my mother “into trouble”, and I was the result! People seem to forget that it takes two to get a bundle of trouble!

I say “shotgun wedding” because that apparently was what it was. I suspect that his father-in-law was just out of camera shot holding a 12 bore aimed at poor Maurice. Maurice was my fathers younger brother and was devoted to my Dad, who was his role-model, so he probably thought that what was good enough for brother Joe was good enough for him.

My Aunt Mary was “with child” as it were, and everybody who attended to wedding knew it. Well, it was as bloody obvious as the nose on her face as my Grandad put it when he gave me the old family photographs. The poor old sod died of constipation shortly after my wedding in 1959. (Not Uncle Maurice, My Grandad!)

Bearing in mind that having sex and getting pregnant before marriage in 1936 was considered a crime almost on a par with murder and to show the bulge on the wedding photos was unheard of, hence the rather large bouquet of posies held in a strategic position!

And before you ask; No, I didn’t have to get married, and I bloody well wish I hadn’t now.

To see other bloggers Sepia Saturday posts click here.

This morning I found an official looking letter in a plain white evelope with no gaudily printed words like “Open NOW!“, or “Special Offer!” amongst the usual pile of junk-mail on the doormat.

In fact it looked more like the the usual local Council’s   “. . pay your council tax IMMEDIATELY or you will be sent to prison!”  type of letter that I usually get, but I have aready paid this month so it could be a rebate? I thought “Wow, the bastards have finally decided to help me out of my poverty”.  I tore it open only to find a brightly coloured letter with loads of print and pictures, showing Old Age Pensioners smiling happily and posing by their new central heating boilers, cookers and the like.

I won’t bore you with the all the details but it all boiled down to “You MAY be entitled to a Gov Grant, you COULD get as much as £3,000. Send us all your personal details together with loads of money and we will investigate your case to see which grants you MAY qualify for”.  I’ve bolded the important words.

Now isn’t that nice of them? Along comes some complete strangers who are so concerned about my financial postion that they feel compelled to go out of their way to help a poor old age pensioner. I find that very touching, but they are not touching my wallet, that’s for sure.