Round the houses and jumping through hoops – just to get a vote

Life wasn’t meant to be easy and when I look back I can see many rocky patches on my path through life so far. Some are little potholes others are yawning chasms, yet somehow I passed them all.

Some of the big ones I have described elsewhere, or they may still be to come, but some of them are just annoying little things and I know I shouldn’t let them get to me.

The most recent is a political niggle, but not to do with Westminster, or the strained politics we see throughout the world at present.

No this was to do with more local government.

Not the really niggly, inconsequential actions of a parish council.

What niggled me was the way the local district council, in my case Rushmoor, made such a rigmarole about getting a change made in a registration for voting to allow a person a postal vote.

There are three people in our household and all have been registered to vote since we moved here 12 years ago.

At the time of Covid we all registered for a postal vote, and it was simple.

Every year since we have received a form checking that our details remain the same. If there is no change it goes to the fallback situation – if you don’t contact them the details remain the same for the next year.

All was fine, until last year.

The usual letter arrived but one member of the family was listed as voting at a polling station.

No problem, just go online fill in the details and all sorted.

Which I believed it had been until this week when the annual letter arrived and again showed two of us had a postal vote but the third person was registered to vote at a polling station.

This time I went back to basics and went to the appropriate area of the Rushmoor website and checked if the person not listed as having a postal vote was actually registered (I know that sounds silly if the person is shown as voting at a polling station then that person must be registered, but I don’t like accepting things at face value).

I went through all the hoops, first name, middle name, surname, date of birth, current address, email address etc. etc.

At the end of this procedure it was confirmed that the person identified was properly registered but for voting at a polling station not by postal vote.

All well and good – now register that person for a postal vote.

Not quite as simple as you might think. I had to go right back to the beginning and fill in all the details yet again, at which point I was directed to another area of the website which then required virtually the same information yet again plus National Insurance details as well.

Finally I was close to completion and the last thing needed was an image of the signature. This was duly signed, photographed and then uploaded to the site. One press of the button and it was winging its way to Rushmoor. A few minutes later an email noting receipt was received with a letter code to be used if any queries arose.

All done, time for a cuppa and lunch.

A few hours later, an email arrives stating that the application was in abeyance because the image of the signature was not appropriate – it was on a lined piece of paper and it should have been plain.

Find a piece of plain paper, (actually it was the back of the envelope the original letter arrived in) get it signed, photograph it, upload it and send it off, hoping this time it was enough.

That was at the beginning of the week.

Today I received an email from Rushmoor saying everything had gone through and all three occupants are now listed as having postal votes.

Do I believe them?

Do I hell.

I’ll believe it when all three postal votes arrive for the local elections.

A Prouder Man Than You

by Henry Lawson

If you fancy that your people come from better stock than mine,
If you hint of higher breeding by a word or by sign,
If you're proud because of fortune or the clever things you do -
Then I'll play no second fiddle: I'm a better man than you!

If you think that your profession has the more gentility,
And that you are condescending to be seen along with me;
If you notice that I'm shabby while your clothes are spruce and new -
You have only got to hint it: I'm a prouder man than you!

If you have a swell companion when you see me on the street,
And you think that I'm too common for your toney friend to meet,
So that I, in passing closely, fail to come within your view,
Then be blind to me forever: I'm a prouder man than you!

If your character be blameless, if your outward past be clean,
While 'tis known my antecedents are not what they should have been,
Do not risk contamination, save your name what e'er you do -
'Birds o' feather fly together;' I'm a better bird than you!

Keep your patronage for others! Gold and station cannot hide
Friendship that can laugh at fortune, friendship that can conquer pride!
Offer this as to an equal - let me see that you are true,
And my wall of pride is shattered: I am not so proud as you!





On Death

by Anne Killigrew

Tell me thou safest end of all our woe,
Why wretched mortals do avoid thee so.
Thou gentle drier o'th' afflicted's tears
Thou noble ender of the coward's fears.
Thou sweet repose to lovers sad dispaire,
Thou calm t'ambitions rough tempestuous care.
If in regard of bliss thou wert a curse,
And then the joys of Paradise art worse,
Yet after Man from his first Station fell,
And God from Eden Adam did expel,
Thou wert no more an evil but relief,
The balm and cure to ev'ry human grief
Through thee (what man had forfeited before)
He now enjoys, and ne'er can loose it more.

No subtle serpents in the grave betray,
Worms on the body there, not soul do prey,
No vice there tempts, no terrors there afright,
No coze'ning affords a false delight.
No vain contentions do that peace annoy,
No fierce alarms break the lasting joy.

Ah since from thee so many blessings flow,
Such real good as life can never know,
Come when thou wilt, in they afrightning'st best
Thy shape shall never make thy welcome less,
Thou mayst to joy, but ne'er to fear give birth
Thou best, as well as certain'st on Earth
Fly thee? May travellers then fly their rest,
And hungry infants fly the prof'rd brest.
No, those that faint and tremble at thy Name,
Fly from their good on a mistaken fame.
Thus childish fear did Israel of old
From Plenty and the Promis'd Land with-hold 
They fancy'd Giants, and refus'd to go'
When Canaan did with milk and honey flow.

One And Twenty

by Samuel Johnson

Long-expected one and twenty
Ling'ring year at last has flown
Pomp and pleasure, pride and plenty
Great Sir John, are all your own.

Loosen'd from the minor's tether,
Free to mortgage or to sell,
Wild as wind, light as feather
Bid the slaves of thrift farewell.

Call the Bettys, Kates and Jenneys
Ev'ry name that laughs at care.
Lavish of your Grandsire's guineas
Show the spirit of an heir.

All that prey on vice and folly
Joy to see their quarry fly.
Here the gamester light and jolly
There the lender grave and sly.

Wealth, Sir John, was made to wander
Let it wander as it will,
See the jocky, see the pander
Bid them come and take their fill.

When the bonny blade carouses,
Pockets full, and spirits high,
What are acres? What are houses?
Only dirt or wet or dry.

If the Guardian or the Mother
Tell the woes of wilful waste.
Scorn their counsel and their pother,
You can hang or drown at last



Thou Shalt Not Suffer a Sorceress to Live

by Helen Ivory

Exodus 7:11
For her neighbour's sickness
was more than merely unnatural;
for he sang perfectly without moving his lips.

For she is intemperate in her desires
and pilfers apples from the orchard;
for she hitches her skirts to clamber the fence.

For her womb is a wandering beast;
for she is husbandless, and at candle time
brazenly trades with the Devil.

For she spoke razors to her brother;
who has looked upon her witches pap
and the odious suckling imp.

For the corn is foul teeth.
For the horse is bedlam in its stable.

For the black cow and the white cow are dead.

The Man He Killed

by Thomas Hardy

Had he and I but met
By some old ancient inn,
We should have set us down to wet
Right many a nipperkin!

But ranged as infantry,
And staring face to face,
I shot at him as he at me,
And killed him in his place.

I shot him dead because -
Because he was my foe,
Just so my foe he was of course,
That's clear enough, although

He thought he'd 'list perhaps'
Off-hand like - just as I -
Was out of work - had sold his traps -
No other reason why.

Yes, quaint and curious war is!
You shoot a fellow down
You'd treat, if met where any bar is,
Or help to half a crown.

I’ve seen them at their best and at their worst but I still love Wales XV

It’s quarter to five, it’s Saturday, 3 February 2024, and I have just watched the kick-off in the third Six Nations championship of the weekend as my beloved Wales host my second favourite XV, Scotland.

I have supported Wales as far back as I can remember and often sat with my father in our lounge at 14 Water Street, Rhyl urging on Barry and JPR, JJ and Gareth, heroes every one.

I am not going to kid you and claim I remember those early matches, and even the scorers. I do know now that the last match of the 1955 season, the year we moved to Rhyl from Chesham was on 26 March and it was between Wales and France.

By the time of that final match of the season France was unbeaten and the game was in Paris. France were expected to win both game and Grand Slam. Wales had other ideas and won the match making them equal champions with France.

I would have loved to have been at that game.

As it happens the first half of today’s match has just ended.

It hurts me to say that it is 0 -20 to Scotland.

I am not going to make excuses and say they are a young team who have much to learn. This is the team Warren Gatland has chosen and they are from the squad he has selected for this season

I am sure Warren will have words in the dressing room but I think those words will be inspiring. I can only hope they will come out for the second half and catch their opponents out.

Meanwhile, back in my past, when I got to Rhyl Grammar School rugby was one of the main sports and I threw myself into it. I also had hockey to enjoy, another game in which I was inspired by my father.

He used to play hockey during the 39-45 war when he was posted in the Middle East. I remember him telling me that the old hands, he had been out there from 1941 to 1945, had soon got acclimatised and they felt cold when the weather turned.

He loved to see the faces of the newly-arrived troops when they went to see a hockey match attired in shorts and vests only to see the players arrive in greatcoats and even when they took those off they still had long-sleeved khaki shirts and long shorts.

One sport that was my own choice for participation was the javelin. I might not have been a county champion but I could have done well as a Roman soldier, When I threw my javelin in my mind’s eye I saw the enemy.

In later years I dropped from javelin to darts.

Rugby has been my passion for nearly 70 years.

It has been a while since I have watched my beloved Wales live but I have many happy memories of games in Cardiff against Scotland, England, Ireland and even the All Blacks.

At times I travelled to South Wales with my good friend Roger Steele and I can remember games against Scotland and Wales when after, on the streets of Cardiff, all rivalry was forgotten as fans mingled and drank together having watched a good game.

My son David and I have been to Cardiff together as well and enjoyed being there, even if at times the view was blocked.

Well, now the game is over.

Warren had new young blood in the side and in the first half it looked bad. Scotland was taking full advantage of their experience against a raw side leaving us 20-0 down at the half. A score which initially went to 27-0.

Gatland must have had some good words for them (not necessarily nice ones) because after the half they came storming back.

We may have lost, 27-26 but we got a bonus point for the four tries and as second bonus for being within seven points of the winner at the whistle.

For a young team I reckon earning two bonus points is good going.

Now for England.

Give me a notepad and a typewriter and I’ll be as happy as a sandboy

Precisely four weeks after calling Tom Roberts, a director with newspaper publishers NWN, based at Oswestry but covering border counties and North Wales, I was sitting in a room which had a cupboard, desk and chair and on the desk was a typewriter, a telephone, – I could have been back in the Holywell office, a teenage reporter.

This time, however, I had a new family to go home to at lunchtime and in the evening.

HAPPY FAMILIES: me, carrying Sarah, and Marion with Jacqueline outside our bungalow in Valley.

The bungalow was in Valley, on the mainland of Anglesey, and I had to cross the causeway to reach the town of Holyhead itself.

At this point I was carless again so on the first few days I would walk to the end of our road to catch a bus which would drop me off almost right outside my office.

On that first morning I felt immediately at home and my first action was to make a mug of tea before sitting at my desk and going through the previous week’s newspaper.

After that I called the Chronicle main office in Bangor and spoke to my latest editor, Ray Bower.

He told me the editorial diary was in one of the desk drawers and it alco contained a list of all the major contacts in Holyhead.

The best comment he made to me was: “I know you’ll quickly find your way round. Peter and Brian both give you excellent references.”

He wanted me to go down to the Bangor office that afternoon and told me to catch the 2pm bus. In the meantime he suggested I check last week’s paper (already done) and maybe have a walk round town to find out where everything was and then have an early lunch.

If your boss tells you to take an early break you take it and after a good lunch I caught the bus to Bangor and met my new boss.

After a general chat, a bit like inductions I had had at other offices, Ray told me that copy was to be left in the basket in reception and the admin staff would add it to the noon package or the 5pm package, both of which were then taken to the local bus depot for onward transmission.

The only other thing he had to tell me was that I would find all the stationery I needed at reception, including expense forms, which had to be at the Bangor office by Friday lunchtime.

The bus back to Holyhead would get there by 5pm but as that was my time to knock off, unless there was a meeting, I hopped off the bus just before the causeway at Valley and went home for a well-earned rest.

A good end to the day, and far better than getting home after midnight having done an afternoon/evening shift at the cinema.

It was good to be back

Hear, ye Ladies

by John Fletcher

Hear, ye ladies that despise
What the mighty Love has done;
Fear examples and be wise:
Fair Callisto was a nun;
Leda, sailing on the stream
To deceive the hopes of man,
Love accounting but a dream,
Doted on a silver swan;
Danae, in a brazen tower,
Where no love was, loved a shower.

Hear, ye ladies that are coy,
What the mighty Love can do;
Fear the fierceness of the boy:
The chaste Moon he makes to woo;
Vesta, kindling holy fires,
Circling round about with spies,
Never dreaming loose desires,
Doting at the altar dies;
Ilion, in a short hour, higher
He can build and once more fire.