Retrospective.

Retrospective

I have taken the easy way out with today’s choice of word retrospective as I assume this will be our last chance to blog with the daily word prompt and have taken the word literally and gone back to the beginning of my word prompt blogs in January 2018, although it seems so much longer. Should any of my readers find these snippets vaguely amusing, there are more on this site or you can visit my other blog on http://www.joewellsofwhomithasbeensaid.com/

I therefore present my brief retrospective and say goodnight Vienna.

Rush.
Posted on 09/04/2018by The Diary of a Country Bumpkin
Rush

I never like to rush when I’m blogging, for I have noticed that when my fingers on the keyboard get ahead of my brain, it becomes ever harder to follow the story because what I am typing is absolute gobbledegoop.
Perhaps I should at this stage, slow down and wait for my brain to catch up, this I’m afraid, may take some time as I’m currently suffering from the ill effects of the strange chest infection which is currently going round and am in a minor state of shock as I had to replace my computer, both very traumatic events for any man to have to cope with.
On the subject of the former I was coughing up so much gunge I was forced to inquire from my wife who in her youth was a nurse, whether she thought I was suffering from pneumonia, but she just laughed and left the room, which left me with two possible conclusions. Either she was a hard faced woman who had no feeling for my well-being and I was indeed at death’s door, or there was nothing major wrong with me and I was just being a hypochondriac, I plumped for the more optimistic diagnosis.
However with the scenario of the computer I knew I was definitely in a genuine state of shock, for I had paid for all my files to be retrieved from my old computer and placed on the new one together with new security and other clever stuff and to my utter amazement, having rushed home and set the thing up, it worked. It all worked, straight away, I just had to put in the passwords it didn’t know and away I went without the need for any shouting on my behalf whatsoever, quite extraordinary.
I love to drive fast but I hate to rush, for there is a distinct difference between travelling quickly with plenty of time available for the completion of your journey and rushing like a mad person with no hope whatsoever of meeting your expected time of arrival. I always allow too much time to get anywhere, unlike much of the youth of today who never allow enough time and always seem to have to rush, then when they are late they blame anyone bar themselves for their late arrival.
It’s an age thing, another of which is the realisation that your grandparents have died and your parents have died and when looking round to see, who’s next it is your generations names that are appearing in the frame. I am lucky that I am in good health, contrary to my little jest earlier about pneumonia and am in no way ready to rush to meet my maker, which reminded me of the splendid poem by Dylan Thomas, Do not go gentle into that good night, which I shall leave you with.
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

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Identical.
Posted on 20/03/2018by The Diary of a Country Bumpkin
Identical

At first I thought I’d written on the subject, identical but then realised it was in fact similar which I had written previously about and although they are words that are almost the same, they are not identical.
I have two grandchildren who are twins and to all extents and purposes are identical, except they came from two separate eggs which means they are not identical, apparently. Unfortunately, they are so similar, I cannot tell one from the other, although my wife has absolutely no trouble identifying which one is which, this may say more about my lack of deeper involvement with them, than be a comment on my eyesight.
As often happens with brothers and I imagine with all offspring there is a “good” one and a “not so good” one and in the case of my grandchildren this is also the case. There are many modern fashions and habits that I am not greatly in favour of and both of the twins know this,
I very much favour when meeting a chap to extend my hand in the old fashioned manner with a view to clasping the other fellow firmly by his hand and shaking vigorously and not the more modern fashion for engaging in an arm wrestle followed by a man hug, or even worse just slapping each other in the manner known as a high five.
Due to my inability to identify which of the twins are greeting me, I usually extend my hand hoping for the “good” twin who is fairly well educated in the art of manners and gentlemanly conduct and will grap my hand in the proper manner and utter a cheery greeting such as, “what ho, old boy,” and all is well with the world. Unfortunately should it be the other twin, who seems to find pleasure in impersonating his brother, I am at first met with his outstretched hand in the manner of a gentleman but at the last minute he changes tack and slaps me on the hand, which seems to amuse him more than somewhat.
I know they are not identical, but I’m dammed if I can spot the differences, it used to be easy when they were younger and only one of them wore glasses and I’m still not entirely certain that the other fellow actually needs spectacles, I think it’s all part of his cunning ruse.
They won’t be able to hoodwink me in this fashion for ever, as eventually they will develop a little more and start to want to have more of an identity of their own, then all I will have to do is remember which one it is that has the full beard and which has his arm tattooed. Obviously the chap with the tattoo could make my life considerably easier if he were to have his name tattooed on his arm in bright coloured ink, not attractive I know, but from my point of view damnably useful.

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Grasp.
Posted on 13/03/2018by The Diary of a Country Bumpkin
Grasp

I was unsure whether to take on the challenge of today’s daily prompt word as I was not certain I had a proper grasp of the meaning of the word grasp but I persevered and although gripped with trepidation finally came up with an opening sentence.
“Very good,” I thought, but where to go from there, I felt a little like a drowning man, who faced with imminent death would grasp at straws in a vain attempt to save his life. Somewhat like the poor souls on the Titanic who threw themselves into the freezing icy waters clutching nothing more than a flimsy wooden deckchair, unable to quite grasp the seriousness of the situation. Although I rather suspect they would have been more than a little aware of the futility of the situation upon entering the water and being grasped by it’s icy tentacles.
From being distressed in freezing waters my mind was led inexplicably to being in trouble facing a rampaging bull where the only course of action left to save one’s life was to grasp the animal by the horns and presumably cling on for dear life. Whether one might manage to mount the bull whilst still grasping his horns and ride the animal in the finest traditions of rodeo, I have no idea and I hope I never get the opportunity to find out if such acrobatics would be feasible under the circumstances.
My previous topics seem to have inadvertently contained nothing but fear, distress and death, so I shall change tack and comment on the slightly safer subject of grasping the nettle. I imagine this expression has come into common usage from the experience of gently rubbing ones hand on a stinging nettle to be left with a rather sore hand and a nasty rash. Conversely should one grasp the nettle firmly one is allegedly not stung although I have to admit I have never tried the technique, only in a metaphorical manner when dealing with a subject like grasp, for example.
Well, that’s my blog finished, although I’m not sure whether I really got to grips with the subject but I’m hoping you, my dear reader, found it sufficiently gripping to read to the end.

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Suddenly.
Posted on 10/03/2018by The Diary of a Country Bumpkin
Suddenly

I was reading an article recently which started,”Boater suddenly falls from boat,” and my first reaction was one of surprise as I didn’t think a story of a fellow loosing his boater hat was much of a news item, much as I can sympathise with him as I would be fairly upset if I lost my boater whilst on a boating trip. Continuing to the end it seems I had got the wrong end of the stick and the story was indeed newsworthy, as the truth of the matter was the tragic death of a fellow who had fallen from his boat and drowned. I have no idea though whether he was wearing a hat.

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Dim.
Posted on 28/02/2018by The Diary of a Country Bumpkin
Dim

Many, many years ago I used to go to school, so long ago that it was in the era when only the cleverest two percent of pupils went to university, unlike today where everyone goes.
It’s so long ago I have no idea how we were assessed but I seem to remember, certainly at the end of each term, although it may have been on a much more often basis, we were given our position in class. When receiving our results the form teacher would offer congratulations to those at the top of the class but was somewhat less congratulatory to the poor fellows unfortunate enough to find themselves at the bottom.
“You boy, are dim, yes young man, you are a dimwit, a pusillanimous, procrastinating, sybaritic, idiot,” a phrase often metered out to some poor spotty faced youth, for in my schooldays the masters didn’t pull their punches.
It’s fairly safe to say that, we as pupils also didn’t pull our punches either as boxing was a compulsory sport during my school career. This was an opportunity for the less academically minded pupils to come to the fore, although quite how two boys beating each other about the head was going to improve anyone’s mental ability, I’m not sure.
Myself I was always in the middle of the class as I was, I have to admit, a bit of a daydreamer, often paying too much attention to what was going on out of the window, although the teacher usually gained your attention with a swift blow to the head, by the judicious throwing of the board rubber. Sometimes their accuracy was uncanny and from some distance away too, usually accompanied by, “pay attention, dimwit.”
It never ceases to amaze me how much knowledge I managed to acquire during my school career, perhaps when our heads were knocked together by the teachers using the phrase, “this will help knock some sense into you,” there may have been some truth in what they said.
We had a much more structured system in my day, whereby the pupils in the local state school really were dim, whilst in my private school we were adequate, leaving the upper class to go to Eton and Harrow and a very small minority to go to Oxford and Cambridge.
There were many more manual jobs in the old days which was ideal for the less academically minded pupils who whilst excelling at sports, boxing and the like were then fully trained for a manual job. Even those who felt more at home with a life of crime were equipped with the ability to fight with opposing gang members and to flee like a gazelle when accosted by the rozzers.
Well, it’s time to finish for today as I can feel my mind getting a little dim, hopefully you will enjoy this blog and come back again for whatever is tomorrow’s word choice.
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Terrible blizzard in the South East.
Posted on 28/02/2018by The Diary of a Country Bumpkin

Terrible blizzard this morning in the South East, at least two inches of snow.
No breakfast this morning, Oates ran out.
We’re all going to die.
For God’s sake look after our people

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Inkling.
Posted on 28/01/2018by The Diary of a Country Bumpkin
Inkling

I came across a page which was encouraging bloggers to blog on a daily basis and to take part in writing whereby a topic was suggested and one merely had to write on the subject supplied, all very easy it would appear.
However as with most things to do with computers and the interweb I had an inkling that it was going to be a tad more complicated and as it turned out I was correct.
I am of an age when we had no computer training at school, I don’t think we even had access to a typewriter, let alone a computer, so my knowledge of such things has been gained by trial and error, mostly error!
There are quite a few pages as to how to take part with instructions to set up pingbacks on your blog which seemed to involve going up your back passage to set these things up, needless to say having searched for some considerable time I could find no information of any use with regard to pingbacks whatsoever.
It seemed I would be encouraged to create a link to another blog and I know this will sound ridiculous to those of you who are computer literate but I’m having a devils own job of being able to find the blogs of other people, let alone connect with them.
Whilst I know I come across as a complete Luddite this is not the case, I am only to happy to embrace modern technology, however here is a suggestion for the clever clogs who write the computer programs. When you click on a subject in an article, pingbacks for example, it might be of more use for the next page which appears to say briefly,”do you wish to enable pingbacks, if so click here”. This to me would make considerably more sense than reams of gobbledegook which mean absolutely nothing to the likes of myself and I suspect quite a few other interweb users of a certain age.
I have copied and pasted a piece of text which I came across before starting my blog which seemed relevant to the task in hand but wouldn’t stake my life on it being of any use whatsoever. As I stated at the beginning of this blog, I had an inkling that this was not going to be easy and I am just about to find out as I press the publish button, more in hope than expectation.
Should I by some miracle have managed to connect with anyone out there please don’t hesitate to contact me with the good news, I wait with bated breath.

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About The Diary of a Country Bumpkin

I am a retired actor, although to be honest I only retired because I wasn't getting any work and the option of becoming an unemployed actor/waiter at my age was ludicrous, especially as my waiting skills are non-existent. Having said I’m retired, I don’t think there really is such a thing as a retired actor for I am still available for work, I just don’t have an agent or any connections with regards to obtaining any worthwhile work. I have over the years done student films when there is nothing else available, always low paid (if at all) the only incentive was always the promised copy of the finished film for your show reel which nine times out of ten always failed to materialise. I spent many years looking after my aged mother who had dementia, hence the lack of acting work but shortly after her death I was lucky enough to run into an ex-girlfriend of many years ago and our romance blossomed once again, resulting in us getting married in 2013. My move to the countryside inspired me to write The Diary of a Country Bumpkin which tells of my continuing dilemmas in dealing with the rigors of the countryside from the unexpectedly large number of pollens, fungal moulds and hay products waiting to attack the unsuspecting townie. I enjoy writing, see my play Dulce Et Decorum Est Pro Patria Mori on The Wireless Theatre Company, The Plays Wot I Wrote and The Battle of Barking Creek both available on Amazon.co.uk and am very fond of classic cars so my ideal occupation would be acting in a film I had written set in the 1930s/40s, we live in hopes. I am delighted to say that since venturing to the countryside where space is not quite the premium it is in town, I have due to the availability of two double garages acquired more classic cars to form a small collection the pride of which are a 1947 Bentley Mk VI and a 2000 Bentley Arnage. My various blogs and websites are continually evolving and I’m sure that by following the appropriate links you will find something which will edify or amuse.
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