Thursday 30 August 2012

Dartmoor. Poem-y post.


Granite

Wild moors give us Granite.
Defying nature's cycle, underfoot predates time.
Breeze bringing rain, hail and snow
send hikers and ponies scattering as Autumn winds blow.

But the tors are different.
Giant soldiers raise up refusing to be beaten.
Granite glories in sunshine, exhaling exhaustive heat - 
in frost, icicles march to mirror the rock's own beat.

They are part of a rhythm - unending.
This battalion has winking eyes and is warm to touch.
A steady Oak encourages life with protective branches but doesn't withstand the storm;
posthumously proffering scarred roots for spring growth is all.

Graceful soldiers abandoned by ancient Gods never fail.

Hound Tor in the snow.

Tuesday 28 August 2012

A Blog About Blood.

Last week I donated blood for the first time. I realise that a lot of people donate blood all the time and that I shouldn't really be "showing off" about it. I shall endeavour not to come across as worthy in this post. I certainly don't want to give you all ins and outs of blood donation from a sciency medical point of view. For all those details see the wonderful PR and Comms on the blood people's website. Team GB. Team Give Blood. Oh, that is clever. I like that. See? They can market themselves wonderfully without me getting all lyrical about it.

However, I wanted to tell you about my experience. There is no getting away from the fact that giving blood is a bit worthy and that it is hugely worthwhile. Those that can give blood, should.

Yes, yes, but actually going about it provides a million excuses for the everyday sort of procrastinator, much less the sort who has a fear of all things Hospital. I get nervous just sitting in the Dr's surgery. I don't get on well with hospitals and have had some nasty times in them. Aside from the smells, noises and trapped souls I think the actual architecture doesn't help. Hospitals, like hotels, are a maze of corridors lined with large bins of dirty linen, with windows that don't open and false, eerie lighting. Prone to sensory overload and a rising panic it is best that I don't frequent hospital environs.

I decided though, for personal reasons, that I would like to try and give blood. What is the worst that could happen?

I could faint. Yes, I could. I nearly passed out having a blood test once. It was fine. In the end.

It would hurt. I don't actually have a problem with needles but surely it would hurt.

It would be the opposite of the wonderful sensation of the anesthetic flowing, coldly, into your veins... And?

So Mr Me and I went off on a Friday evening to give blood. It did help that it was in a Primary School Hall so it didn't feel like a hospital. Also, the double doors were thrown open so there was lots of air. The machines do make a noise but there is a gentle chit chat of people who haven't seen each other for a while, nurses chatting while people eat their biscuits and drink themselves strong enough to go home. The team have a clear system so that you don't feel that you are lost or out of place. They are reassuring. They can read people. They can sense a nervous patient or a donor virgin. They smile, reassure and gauge whether you need longer lying down or not.

An info card to take home 


There have also been changes made since I went and saw my sister give blood a few years ago. Now you have to drink a pint of water before you start and you are given exercises to do throughout the process to prevent your blood pressure going all over the place. Ultimately to reduce the sense of wooziness or fainting. I lay there staring at the comforting art of primary school children that adorned the walls. I crossed and uncrossed my legs. I nearly gave myself the giggles in trying to clench my bum cheeks and thigh muscles as per the exercise suggestions. I looked at other donors and wondered, briefly, if they were doing the exercises. I am a bleeder so about four minutes later my donation was complete. I'd done it. NOT SO FAST. You've not tried standing up yet and surely the relief might, in itself, make you collapse. A nurse appeared with the nicest little cup of lemon squash I've ever tasted. She sat me up and saw the blood drain from my face. So we chatted. We chatted about the local area, the school, her grown up son. I was laughing. She was laughing. Then she helped me stand and sent me to the corner for biscuits/crisps and more drinks - hot or cold. I had done it. I felt fine.

A sticker to prove to myself that I really had done it!


And, there was barely a mark on me. By the time I got home I was exhausted and I did sleep well that night but I think that is allowed, under the circumstances.

I would urge anyone reading this (if, indeed, such people are) to donate blood. Don't assume that because you are scared, busy, or "going to do that tomorrow" that you can't. The team are great. It's easier than you think and yes, it does leave you feeling just that little bit worthy.

Tuesday 21 August 2012

Recession Rant. Or, Blackbirds and Whales.

Apparently there is a recession on. I'm no economist, so I cannot comment on the verisimilitude of that, but "double dip" "economic downturn" and "austerity" are still the keywords of the political and economic arena. On Sunday, Chris Packham (of Really Wild Show fame) said something on Radio4 about weather versus climate. To paraphrase, he said: "The blackbirds will be okay, they are evolved to withstand a bad weather year. I can't comment on the whales. Whale behaviour is to do with climate, not weather. Climate is long term."

Knitted blackbirds aren't concerned with weather.


Why am I linking weather and the recession? Because everyone else is. Politicians, journalists, economists and commentators keep telling us about the current economic "climate". Which, according to Chris Packham and the whales, is long term.

People are tightening their belts. Are they? Even ignoring vast olympian spending and poor unsuspecting couples winning £148 million on the lottery, I still fail to see people curbing their spending. Facebook, twitter and overheard conversations lead me to firm evidence that holidays are still being booked, gigs/theatre still attended and cars still being upgraded. Whether this is weather or climate, I still have no spare change. Guilt ridden that I don't pay farmers the correct sum of money for milk, or even buy their veg if I can source it for free from other people's gardens, I continue to get by the best I can on the least amount of money.

Save every penny

Maybe it's just all relative. Maybe those going on holiday are now staying in the UK to save money. Maybe those upgrading their cars are just refreshing rather than buying. If you had five pots of money and you now only have three I suppose you do adjust your spending. But what happens if you only had one pot in the first place?

Maybe those with money are "riding the storm" but not accepting climate change? Or, maybe some of us are blackbirds and some are whales. I fear I am a whale.




Thursday 16 August 2012

Meteors, Bats and Devon's most overpriced Rabbit Pie?

I haven't actually done ANY formal research into the price of Rabbit pie in and around Devon - or, more specifically, Dartmoor. However, I'm willing to bet that £11.50 for Rabbit Pie, Chips and Veg is over the odds. Aptly named "warreners pie" at The Warren House Inn, you don't need much imagination to assume that this home made pie has little in the way of overheads. The mark up must be huge. Word to the wise - if you are heading out that way for lunch then stick with the lovely £7.50 ploughmans. I'm not really meant to be reviewing the pub. It's a fine pub. Check it out for yourself. The views are fantastic - when it's clear - and it's geared up for the tourist who loves a good ghostly story of the Devil and his card playing ways. Not to mention the magic of an everlasting peat fire...

I said this *wasn't* a review. We didn't even go. That is the point.

Last weekend it was Mr Me's Thirtieth birthday. Each year his birthday coincides with the Perseid Meteor shower and Mr Me is a geek. A real geek. The genuine article. Not a geek a la mode. One untouched by the charm of Prof Brian Cox and his beautiful hair and playful eyes.

Wonderfully wistful
Sorry, distracted.

YES. It was Mr Me's birthday. He has more beautiful eyes than even Brian Cox AND he is my own personal geek. I got him some awesome gifts including a rather nice pair of binoculars to watch said meteor shower. I planned it all down the last detail. It was going to amazingly romantic. A tent, the open moor, fantastic skies, malbec, pie - we wouldn't eat overpriced Rabbit Pie but instead munch on these:

Perfectly priced pie
There was even salami, chorizo, tiger bread and apple juice for the most middle class of picnic breakfasts. I know Dartmoor. It's in my blood. I know it, I love it and I respect it. Driving through the Wray valley the rain came in. I reassured Mr Me that it was thin mizzly rain and would be low cloud-y sort of rain. Up high it would be clear. Up we went. And it was clear-er. It wasn't raining at least. But from Cosdon Beacon way North the storm clouds were looming. In fact, the only clear sky was back down towards Hound Tor.

Determined NOT to let the trip be a complete waste of time I said a little prayer to Mother Earth to let the skies be clear. She responded with the echoes of thunder. Not before we were able to sit out near Hound Tor and have a few sips of wine and our pies though:

Time for a pie before the rain...

Pieminister clearly know pie. I don't know if the taste was enhanced by the fresh air, the wine or the good company but it was a fine supper. In spite of the clouds.

Embarrassingly, only hours after packing the car we were unpacking and taking the camping chairs to sit on the patio. "We'll still see some meteors, it's clear here." Ever the optimist. For an hour we sat there with me pretending very hard that it was open moorland and not the back garden. It should have been an evening with delighted cries of "oooh, there's one" as the dusty debris burnt up on collision with our atmosphere. Instead the evening was punctuated with "bat!" every time another bat swooped over the garden. This was soon followed up with "bat... lightning... bat... bat... lightning... THUNDER". And a move to have an early night while the massive thunderstorm raged from coast to moor and back again.

The Perseid Meteor shower went unseen. Displays of great shooting light across the sky was reserved only for the tops of angry clouds. Bats came down to feast on the midges that had earlier been feasting on me. And we ate cured meat under a sleeping bag on the patio. We can see shooting stars next year perhaps but for Mr Me's 31st I don't think it will hold the same sense of romance...

Friday 3 August 2012

Wheelie Bins

Mr and Mrs Retired Opposite pay someone to clean their recycling wheelie bin. That is, the green bin. The one that says "no hot ashes" like the council think we don't realise that plastic melts or that fires burn people.


Bemusing though it seems this recycling bin is not the bin that, in fact, say "Waste for Recycling". That bin, black in colour, is actually for landfill. Like the council are making it hard on purpose. Looking for ways to jump up from behind hedgerows and lecture people on waste management.


The recycling bin is for garden waste, "thin" cardboard (the cardboard equivalent of Topshop if you will) and leaky, moist, rancid biodegradable bags for compostibles. Ibles? Ables? Who cares.

Anyway, Mr and Mrs Retired Opposite pay the imaginatively named "Wheelie Bin Cleaning Company" to come and, well, clean their wheelie bin. I watched them do it. Two uncomfortable looking teenagers with a squirty wheelie bin wash and mobile hosepipe van moved, opened, sprayed, hosed and closed the bin leaving without so much as an "eww, this is well gross". Mr and Mrs Retired Opposite obviously have enough disposable income to keep even their waste disposal system squeaky clean. They are just that type. I am not judging them, merely observing. They hang their hosepipe neatly, water their hanging baskets regularly and have the cleanest wheelie bin in the cul-de-sac.

I can't say that I know the bin habits of the other residents in our collection of miniature executive homes, as geography prevents me from observing them. However, like Mr and Mrs RO I have little private names for them all and feel that we could be perfectly personified in a Lloyds TSB or British Gas advert. Although I am not convinced that our bin is nearly clean enough...