KISS ME GOODNIGHT, SERGEANT MAJOR

Today would have been my father`s birthday.  Well, I guess in a sense it still is, even though, had he lived, he would now have been well over 100 years old.  Now, what I don`t want to do is drift into over-sentimentality but each year, when 16th January comes around, my mind goes back to him.

He was born `of an age` when things were tough and when it was decided for him that the family business could not sustain another, he was packed off to the army apprenticeship school in Chepstow and thus began a long military career.  He did well enough, gained distinctive trade qualifications and achieved a number of promotions.  I guess it was hard enough being in the army in those pre-war days but it became infinitely harder once he was captured at Dunkirk and consigned to five years as a prisoner of war in Stalag V!!!B at Lamsdorf.   Towards the end of the war, he was on `the long march` and somehow survived until liberation finally brought him home.

And when he resumed civilian life, the experiences he had been through meant that he lived the rest of his days on his nerve ends, jumping whenever the phone or the doorbell rang. Not long after he finally retired from a working life, he dropped down dead in the bathroom at just 62.

My own life has had its moments.  Whilst my father was enduring his unrelenting Stalag, I was sleeping in a cupboard under the stairs every night in a relative`s house where my mother and I had been given refuge and I still recall the sound of bombs exploding along the shore of Southampton Water and hoping one would not drop on us.   And later on, I too endured my own taste of good order and military discipline, having been conscripted to do my National Service.

But nothing in my life has come close to the traumas suffered by my father and I wonder what he would have made of life today with all of its rampant liberalism and gimpy snowflakes being seduced into the army with the promise of being kissed goodnight and encouraged to reveal their gender preferences and their innermost emotions.   I think I know the answer.

A PILGRIMAGE..

And so the responsibility falls to those who are left. And there are only a couple of us who can carry it out. I suppose it happens to families all the time - loved ones pass away and their places of rest are tended to by living relatives.   

And so yesterday my recently retired eldest son and I made the pilgrimage from here in deepest Kent to a seriously remote churchyard in the depths of the Berkshire countryside.   We found the family grave, where the remains of my grandparents, aunts and my father`s ashes rest in peace;  we tidied up as best we could and left some flowers, promising to do a more thorough job next time.

We then drove further down south to my boyhood village of Hythe on the western shore of Southampton Water and visited the spot where my mother`s ashes were scattered in a place where she spent her happiest years.  Again, we left some spring flowers and paused, as we had done earlier in the day, in memory of loved ones, lost but never forgotten.

I think we both felt the responsibility, the urge even, to honour the memory of our forebears but we did so not out of any sense of duty or compulsion, but simply because we wanted to, because it seems the right thing to do and maybe because we ourselves might wish to be remembered in the same way.   It was a good `father and son`day, which included an excellent lunch but perhaps for me in particular, each location seemed to engender a kind of inner peace - I felt at ease with myself in those surroundings, recalling the memories of well over half a century made so very special by those dearly departed.

Had he lived, tomorrow my father would have been 102.   As it is, he passed away at the age of just 62 and each year when his birthday comes around, I get to think about his life and the difference between his and my own.  We all live in our own time and in our own circumstances, of course, which makes it impossible to compare a life in today`s world with one in a former age.   And I`m not quite sure why I feel the need to write this at all - it might be a sentimental reflection on years gone by;  it might be that I feel an urge to say things about my father that might make me feel better;  or maybe it`s a way of expressing regrets and missed opportunities.

Anyway, I won`t bore you with all the details of my father`s life, but the main chapters in his story included being sent off to become a boy soldier at the age of 15, as the family bakery business would not sustain another family `employee;  spending 18 years in the army, five of which were spent in a Prisoner of War Camp (Stalag V111B at Lamsdorf in Silesia); surviving (just) the `death march` before repatriation;  being discharged from the army as his physical condition no longer `met the requirements`; working hard before a premature retirement and living constantly with the effects of his wartime experiences which contributed to his sudden and untimely passing.

Not a lot of joy there and I compare it all to my own experiences which were always coloured by the fact that I really didn`t see and meet my father until I was nearly six, when he staggered up the road from the bus stop in his demob suit with a kit bag over his shoulder.  For me, the sudden appearance of this stranger in my life changed everything and I`m not sure either he or I ever came to terms with that change.  

Maybe I can best sum it up by suggesting that my own life has, with one or two notable exceptions, been a series of crossroads leading to choices as to which journey to take, whereas my father seemed always to be confronted with a series of one-way streets or roads with `No Entry` signs barring the way until eventually he settled for a cul-de-sac which resulted only in his anxieties becoming more and more acute.

And it leaves me thankful that my own life has been more blessed than my father`s ever was, that I have had the crossroads of choice and the good fortune of living a life more full and secure than he ever knew. I sometimes worry about getting older but I have already outlived my father by almost 13 years and I hope to carry on for a good while yet. As someone once said, "Do not regret growing older.  It`s a privilege denied to so many."  

To my boyhood village of Hythe on the western shore of Southampton Water yesterday to pay my respects to my late mother`s resting place and reconnect with the place and days of my happy youth and childhood.   There were a couple of things to lift the spirit on what might otherwise have been a solitary melancholy journey as well as a sentimental one.   

One was the pleasure of having my recently retired eldest son for company - we are now able to do things that elderly retired gentlefolk do; another was the enjoyment of a good lunch at the excellent Boathouse restaurant at Hythe Marina; then there was the excitement of seeing not only Saints captain Adam Lallana being interviewed by a media crew on the Boathouse balcony, but also seeing his car - a very smart white Porsche with a distinctive registration number (I won`t disclose it here for security reasons) and inside a Saints shirt with LALLANA written on the back which gave us a bit of a clue as to the car`s owner.  Nice one ADZ!

We then continued our journey home to Kent via the Hampshire/Berkshire border country, to the peace, solitude and Norman splendour of Padworth`s thousand year old church where, in the churchyard, is the grave of my paternal grandparents, along with my father`s ashes and those of two maiden aunts.   It needed a little attention, which we were happy to provide and again we paid our respects to our forebears.  

Of course, visits like this can bring all kinds of emotions to the fore but perhaps my feelings yesterday are best summed up by Felice Mancini`s poem, which is here with a little minor poetic adjustment:-

"Sometimes, not often enough, we reflect upon the good things
And those thoughts always centre around those we love
And I think about those people who meant so much to me
And for so many years had made me so very happy
And I count the times I had forgotten to say "thank you"
And just how much I loved them."

Somehow it seems it`s never too late to say `sorry,` but it can be too late to say `thank you?`

THE SONG IS ENDED...

I don`t know what it is about me and buildings.   Maybe it happens to everyone that, over the course of a lifetime, places you have known, lived in, worked in, disappear under the relentless inevitability of change.  The picture above is a case in point and just the latest in a series of places I have known in a trail of destruction lasting over 70 years.

A few quick examples.   After the war, my first permanent boyhood home was a cottage, circa 1735, in the Waterside village of Hythe on the western shore of Southampton Water.   After we moved out, the cottage was demolished and for some years the site formed part of the test facility for Sir Christopher Cockerill`s hovercraft development.   It`s now a small residential close named Sir Christopher Court.

After we left Hythe, my parents decided to enter the `licensed trade` - the pub business -  and they learnt the trade in a big South London pub, the Dover Patrol, at Kidbrooke.   It`s now a small residential close named, err...The Dover Patrol.   We then moved to an Off Licence in Engleheart Road, Catford - not one of south London`s more agreeable areas - and I recall coughing my way through the London Smog of 1953 and watching the Coronation and the Matthews Final on a small black and white television with a magnifying glass stuck on the front.   What was the site of the Off Licence has been a small residential development for years now.

Work wise I have occupied offices too that are now given over to residential development and the latest in this saga of demolition, conversion and development is the pub shown in the picture above.   It`s in the hamlet of Padworth Common right on the Hampshire/Berkshire border and it`s where my licensed trade parents made their final move, keeping the pub for some years before finally retiring.   As you can see, it`s now boarded up, on the market and, surprise surprise, has planning permission to be converted to residential use.

My parents were happy there.   The pub did pretty well and I recall many an evening in the convivial company of local regular customers who were also customers of my grandparents` bakery just up the road and my aunt`s village shop.   So I have many happy memories of Padworth Common and my family`s businesses there and it`s more than a shame that the Round Oak has become the latest in the series of buildings to suffer from the dead hand of my occupancy.

For the Round Oak, the song may have ended, but the melody lingers on.

Had he lived, today my father would have been 99.   As it turned out for him, he died of a massive heart attack whilst having a shave in the bathroom at the age of just 62.  It`s all of 37 years ago now but something else that makes today one to remember is that my mother always used to say that, when my father`s birthday comes around, we can begin to see the evenings reappearing.   And it`s true - the daylight hangs around for a while longer and each day we can see a difference.

But I also reflect on the life my father had and it wasn`t easy.   He was the second son of parents who ran a small local bakery and village shop in a hamlet on the Berkshire/Hampshire border.   He had done well at school but the family business was so small that it couldn`t sustain another son being brought into it.

So my father either volunteered or it was volunteered for him that he should go off to become a boy soldier and join up at the Chepstow army training school.   The army became his life - he served for almost 20 years, five of which were spent in the notorious German Prisoner of War Camp Stalag V111B at Lamsdorf in the Silesia area Poland.   He didn`t talk about it much, as old soldiers seldom do, but I know it was pretty brutal. 

In January 1945, as the Soviet armies resumed their offensive and advanced into Germany, many of the prisoners were marched westward in groups of 200 to 300 in what became known as the death march.  Many of them died from the bitter cold and exhaustion. The lucky ones got far enough to the west to be liberated by the American army.   My father was one of the `lucky ones.`

He was discharged from the army in October 1945 "ceasing to fulfill army physical requirements," as his Certificate of Discharge records.   Hardly surprising and he was forever after left with constant nervousness, unable to relax, living on his nerves and the proverbial knife edge and it was this wartime legacy, I`m sure, that led to his early and untimely passing.

It seems to me that, for all the grumbles I may have, my life has been pretty much plain sailing compared to the trials, tribulations and life changing experiences my father suffered, mostly in silence.  And so I look back on this day and remember my old Dad and wish more than anything that his life could have been half as blessed as my own has been and that the light might have shone on him for a little longer.

50 years ago tomorrow, Mrs. Snopper and I boarded a long haul flight.  We had booked our seats quite a long time in advance, done a bit of organising and arrived at the terminal with time to spare.   There were a lot of friends, family and well wishers to see us off and, after the usual formalities, we felt ourselves revving up the runway, gathering speed and finally taking off.   Trouble was it was an unknown destination, and neither of us really had any idea where we might end up.

It has indeed been a long haul but one which has literally flown by and although we may have experienced a little turbulance along the way, as happens on long journeys, by and large it has been a smooth flight and we found that, as we travelled on, so we felt more and more relaxed and secure.   We`re still on the journey, possibly circling around, high above it all, waiting to be called down from the waiting stack to that final unknown destination.

You never know how long haul flights might end, but we both hope for a smooth descent and a quiet, almost unknowing touchdown.   I`m not at all sure what the arrivals lounge will be like as we reach our destination although I hope it will be a while yet before I have to find out.

We were married 50 years ago tomorrow on a flight of fancy.....and we`re still enjoying the journey.

A TRIP TO THE SEASIDE..

We have the real pleasure of our youngest son and our two grandsons staying with us for a few days from their home in Hamburg, so we thought they might like a visit to the seaside.

On Monday, we drove down to Camber Sands and took Barney with us as he likes nothing better than a romp on the beach. The late September weather was perfect and the tide was going out which left a vast expanse of sand to be explored. The boys managed an impressive collection of seashells, which they want to take back to Germany and the rest of us just enjoyed the bracing fresh air and the almost indulgent feeling of being at a place like that on a Monday whilst the rest of the world were at school or at work.

Anyway, I`ve stuck some photos on my FlickR page, which I hope you might be able to see here:-

http://www.flickr.com/photos/snopperpics/sets/72157625009613986/

FULL CIRCLE..

I`m pretty sure it was the Spring of 1978 when I went on a journey with the local Primary School my sons attended. I had been asked to go on the week long school visit to either Swanage or the Isle of Wight and `take charge` of about a dozen 11-year olds so they could experience being away from home for the first time and explore the wider world beyond our village. I took my car which was a lumbering Morris 2200 with even a hint of lavender in its paintwork and I had about five of the children in the car throughout the journey home to relieve congestion on the even more lumbering school minibus.

On the way home, the girls in the back got a bit noisy, as they do, so I turned on the radio and that was the first time I heard Dire Straits` Sultans of Swing - 32 years ago now. I remember it began as we drove up the A31 near Ringwood and kept going until we reached the other side of the New Forest heathland at Stony Cross about 12 minutes later. I was hooked and so it seemed were the girls in the back, whose relentless cackling gave way to what passed as some kind of juvenlie appreciation for Mark Knopfler and the rest of the then Dire Straits lineup.

Last night I went to the Royal Albert Hall for the first time in my life, to see Mark Knopfler and his current band and heard again all the old favourites - Sultans of Swing, Romeo and Juliet, Brothers in Arms and the incomparable Telegraph Road - as well as some of the newer stuff. My eldest son was kind enough to drive me up there and act as my carer for the evening and we both enjoyed a spectacular concert by the sainted Mark and the master musicians on stage with him. We went courtesy of my middle son, who is Production Manager for the Get Lucky world tour, which is almost half-way through having toured the USA and Canada, doing some gigs here in the UK before heading off to Europe at the end of the week.

It occurred to me that yet another circle of life seemed to have been completed, which began with me ferrying children around to the sound of Dire Straits 32 years ago until now, when in the wide eyed innocence of my own second childhood, between them, two of my own sons ferried me around and presented me with the new experience of the Albert Hall and a reunion with the Sultans of Swing. Mark Knopfler is 60 now and like the Royal Albert Hall, has matured deliciously over the years. I just hope I`m doing the same, even though I never could `play the honky tonk like anything.`

AN ILL WIND...

The Icelandic volcanic ash cloud continues to wreak havoc with air travellers with no end in sight as to when flights might be resumed. Even when (if?) they do, it will take time for things to get back to `normal.`

But for me at least the ill wind is bringing some good news and some bad news. The bad news first. My eldest son, his wife and one of our grandaughters flew to Portugal about a week ago for a short break during the Easter school holidays. They`re still there! Mum and Dad have jobs to get back to and grandaughter is due back at school tomorrow morning. Our last contact with them revealed that they had re-booked their return flights with a different operater and held out some hope that they might get home on Tuesday, although that might prove optimistic. (I wonder if they mind the delay too much - after all, there are worse places to be stranded than the Algarve.)

The good news dawned on me this morning. I had an hour`s walk through the Kent orchards with Barney on what is a beautiful Spring day and the sound of silence from the absent aircraft was tangible. It really did seem quieter than usual and had a kind of eerie feeling about it. On our ramble which was away from the noise of traffic, there seemed to be just me, Barney, the occasional rabbit and only the birds in the sky above us. It was almost deafeningly peaceful and perhaps gave a glimpse of how it must have been before the invention of the motor car and aircraft. But for all of that, it will be a relief to have our family home again.

THE HUNGRY YEARS...

I was at a function last night and met a chap who had just sold his business and retired. He had a small chain of shops mainly along the north Kent coastal towns, one of which was at Birchington. We got chatting and he said he was retiring to Minnis Bay (pictured,) which is very close to Birchington.

Minnis Bay was where we had our first family summer holiday, well over 40 years ago now. Our eldest son was about three, our middle son was about one and our third son was simmering nicely in the oven from whence he would emerge as the following Christmas drew near. In those days, we had very little money, no car, but we thought we deserved a week away by the seaside, as much for the boys as for ourselves. So off we went, changing trains a couple of times and walking with two and a half children and all our luggage for the week piled in the pushchair from Birchington station down to Minnis Bay to find our holiday flat.

On the drive home from last night`s function, I got to remembering that first holiday and the real pleasure of being in Minnis Bay in a week of unbroken sunshine, just enjoying the beach, the sea, the sand and being together as a family. They were difficult times financially; one month I had to cash in my £7 worth of Premium Bonds to see us through, but it didn`t seem to matter and I looked back on that week with immense satisfaction, with much joy but also some regrets that those times that went by so quickly are now gone forever. I guess I miss those happy family times when we were just us and getting on with life, oblivious to the difficulties but content with just being and being with each other. The words of Neil Sedaka`s song came to mind:-

"I miss the hungry years

The once upon a time,

Those days of me and you,

We didn`t have a dime

Looking through my tears,

I miss the hungry years."

Such a shame we`ve all got to grow up. One day, I just might.

GUILT ENGINEERING...

So, Childrens Secretary, Ed Balls, has condemned the Tories` plan to reintroduce tax breaks for married couples as `social engineering.` Now, I`m not talking politics here - I have no allegience to any poltical party - but his assertion has come across to me at least as an attack on the `institution` of marriage. And that`s beginning to make me feel a bit guilty.

I was born just before the outbreak of World War II and my father was a prisoner of war for five years, having been captured at Dunkirk. This meant that I really didn`t see him until he finally came home, by which time I was getting on for six years old. But for all that time, during those difficult and dangerous years, I had the benefit of a `family` around me - uncles, aunts, grandparents, each of whom seemed to take it in turns to give a home to my mother and me and provide the support we needed to see us through. After the war was over, we finally became a `proper` family and I spent a happy boyhood in a loving, caring, safe environment.

Fast forward to 1961 and to a marriage which, despite the ups and downs that all marriages have, is still going after 49 years. We had three sons (we still have) and we now have four grandchildren. We are still a family, but I have not once ever felt `socially engineered.` I don`t care about tax breaks and I don`t apologise for subscribing to the notion of a close, strong family environment being best placed to provide children with a good start in life. And equally, I don`t apologise for seeing marriage as the most likely way of providing that environment.

So Mr. Balls has succeeded in making me feel a bit guilty about being married for all these years and for providing my own children with a stable background from which to launch their lives. Not only that, but he has also succeeded in making me angry that what might be a genuine attempt by the Tories to acknowledge the value of marriage as an institution has been condemned as nothing more than an election bribe. Balls by name, balls by nature, it seems.

BARBECUE ANYONE ?

The tension is rising in chez Snopper as the BIG DAY is now only 48 hours away. Middle son`s marriage on Friday promises to be a glamourous occasion with plenty of his show-biz friends expected to turn up for the evening reception. Yesterday I had my hair styled by the indomitable Chris of Larkfield, who said I should just have it `sharpened up a bit,` so it has been. I`m not quite sure what the coreography for Friday might be, so I`ll just go with the flow and hope that`s ok. What troubles me slightly, however, are the `catering` arrangements.

Now, as you may recall, I enjoy plain food - nothing fancy, nothing `messed about with` and most definitely nothing foreign. So it`s with some trepidation that I notice the introduction of a barbecue after the wedding ceremony. The hotel have produced a barbecue menu, which might turn out to be a bit fancy, a bit `messed about with` and possibly a bit foreign. They are quoting £56 a head for said barbecue - I might leave a note in the `comments book` to invite them to rearrange the words `off` and `rip,` but I suppose I had better wait and see how it turns out.

Also, it seems that no breakfast is provided for those, like us, who are staying at the hotel overnight. Breakfast is extra - anything up to about £20 a head - so I may be forced into an alternative strategy, which could consist of taking some barbecue avoiding sandwiches in my Oxo tin, along with one of those small packets of cereals you can get, a small flask of milk, some sugar, a bowl and spoon and a can of coke.

Of course, for middle son and his betrothed, I`m sure it will be a day to remember, with everything going as they would wish. So in all the mayhem and merriment I doubt for one moment that an elderly gentleman with a sharpened up haircut sneaking off for the occasional nibble will even be noticed.

FINGER AT THE READY

This time next week we will be on our way to Richmond for the wedding of our middle son, Kevin, (43!) and the lovely Claudine. Of course, there is much to think about and much to do but already I have made some excellent progress with my advance preparations.

I have bought a smart new shirt and a fetching tie, which of itself presents something of a challenge, for ever since I have been retired, I have stopped wearing ties and I just hope I remember how to do them up. On Tuesday (I think) I have an appointment with my stylist, Chris of Larkfield, for my wedding `coiffure.` I have left it for Chris to decide what to do in her quest to equip me with a fitting style for the occasion for, like fashion, hairstyles are something that have passed me by, leaving me with just the gratitude that I have any hair left to style. After that, I should be ready for the big day - chuck a few bits in a bag, head for the hotel and let the event unfold.

For others, however, it is becoming a tad more `challenging.` So many details to be attended to. Not just hairstyles, shirts and ties but whole wardrobes, worries about every detail, concern what others may think and all that. I frankly don`t care what others think any more - there will be people there I have never met before and am very unlikely ever to meet again, so for most it will be little more than a fleeting encounter. Now, all around me I detect a rising tension in the air - a distinct feeling of apprehension - and whilst I`m more than happy to play the part on my son`s big day, I am able to face it as yet another event, special though it is, in life`s rich pageant. These days, I`m happy for others to have their finger on the panic button whilst I sit in my corner and watch it all go by. I think it`s called `comfortably numb.`.

DIFFERENT STROKES...

The phrase means, of course, that different people do things in different ways that suit them. And never was it better illustrated than on Sunday, when we were invited to an event at the Duke of Wellington in the village of Ryarsh not far from where we live. It`s a good old fashioned village pub which, as you can see from the picture, was built around a quarter past three one afternoon. The event was to celebrate the 70th birthday of my brother-in-law, who thought it would be a good idea to gather as many of the family together, so that long lost cousins could meet long lost cousins and generally invite people from both `sides` of his family who might not even have met before.

It was a very successful and enjoyable occasion. There were people I didn`t know and others who I hadn`t seen for years so we were all grateful not only for the invitations but also for the chance to get together. But it got me thinking about the different way in which I will be marking my own 70th birthday in a couple of weeks. Now, I don`t like surprises and I don`t like `fuss,` so I decided the best thing to do would be to be anywhere else but at home and `available` on that day.

The result is that we will be in a remote corner of Devon, far from civilisation, with only the surrounding countryside of Tarka the Otter and the nearby coastline to while the week away. It suits me to do things quietly....and I`ve been thinking about what becoming 70 means for me. It`s the biblical end of the line, of course, the stargate to dotage and so the prospect of advancing years does not sit happily on my pretend 39-year old shoulders or with my continuing mental age of twelve.

There is the odd compensation along the way - I believe that once the age of 70 is reached then you will no longer be called upon for jury service. Whilst that may appear to be an overtly ageist decree, I think it will come as a relief to me and an even bigger relief for the justice system in this country. That apart, I confess that I can see little to celebrate in reaching this particular milestone. And so I will spend it in quiet contemplation, giving thanks for the years I`ve had and hoping like crazy that there are many more to come. I guess my strokes are just different.

FAITH RESTORED...

Sarah and I had a long day yesterday for our round trip of 440 miles or so to go to Exeter University`s Open Day. We left a bit early and got there in good time to have a look around, check out the halls of residence, pick up loads of information and Sarah went off to her pre-booked talk about the history courses run by the university. I would have liked to listen in on that but grandfathers were not allowed in, as priority was quite rightly given to prospective students.

We came away having been thoroughly impressed - inspired, even - by all that we saw and heard and I think Sarah`s hopes have risen along with her determination to get the necessary grades to give her a chance of going there. An open mind must still be kept, though, as she still has visits to make to Southampton, Norwich, Nottingham and Exeter`s very tempting Campus at Penryn near Falmouth in Cornwall. I think we both got a lot out of yesterday.

As for me, as I dropped Sarah off back at her home, I had a couple of my own reflections on the day. The first was that I am only now beginning to realise what I missed by not going to university myself. Half a century ago, the chances of going on to places like that were limited in the extreme and I had to settle for the university of National Service - a two year course leading to a degree in advanced self-preservation and applied cynicism. My other emotion was just what a joy it was to be able to enjoy my grandaughter`s company for a whole day. Just the kind of thing to keep me young at heart.

Gourmet Corner

Following the KFC debacle on our way back from Reading last week, my reputation as a connoisseur of good food and my faith in the excellence of gourmet English dishes were restored when we visited the Little Chef at Chicklade in Wiltshire on the way home. After studying the exhaustive menu, we both plumped for their "pieces of chicken breast in a light crispy coating with bacon served on a bed of mixed leaves and ripe tomatoes, served with vinaigrette and a light crusty white roll." Washed down with a chilled coke straight from the cooler. Cordon this time tending towards the blue end of the gourmet spectrum. Who could ask for anything more to round off a memorable day?

FIRST AND LAST...

Our visit to Reading University yesterday was `interesting.` Nice campus, good facilities, appealing history programme but dodgy `halls.`

As for Reading itself, it`s a long walk from the beach and is one of those characterless towns that just seems to be there. It has a history of biscuit making - one of the buildings at the Uni is named the Palmer Building - I suspect after the Palmer half of the Huntley and Palmer`s Biscuit Empire which used to be the town`s main employer. No sign of a Huntley Building though.

Anyway, we`ll see what Exeter has to offer on Tuesday.

On the way home, my grandaughters (yes, 15-years old Emma also came along for the ride - I think the visit may have opened her eyes to University life and encouraged her to have a go herself) got a bit peckish, so we stopped at a service station, where they expressed a desire for some KFC.

Now, in all my nearly 70 years, I have so far managed to avoid KFC but, in a desperate attempt to appear at least mildly `cool,` I said I would have some too. Big mistake, for not even the 17 herbs and spices could disguise the fact that this was cordon noir at its very blackest. Grease in abundance and not even a proper knife and fork to eat it with. And the tea was awful too, as it had cream in it instead of milk.

And so my first KFC `experience` was truly dreadful and whilst I may have been quite pleased with my coolness for at least giving it a go, it was most certainly also my last. In future, I will be more than happy to forego any semblence of coolness for the sake of maintaining a healthy digestive transit. Finger lickin` good? I don`t think so. But then perhaps I should have known, for being American, it comes under the heading of `foreign food,` which is something I just don`t do.

There are some things that come along in life to remind me just how time is ticking by. Here I am exactly one month away from my 70th birthday and I have been asked to help with a mission. The mission is to take eldest grandaughter Sarah (17) around various Universities so she can check them out before making up her mind where she might like to spend a few years of `study.`

As Sarah`s Dad - our eldest son - can`t get away from work to fit in with all her visits, I`ve been asked to do one or two and tomorrow we are off to Reading to see what we make of their university. Next Tuesday, it`s Exeter, which involves a full day with an early start, a late finish and a 420 miles round trip, despite all of which I am really looking forward to the days out with Sarah and to seeing what are the competing attractions of Reading and Exeter.

David gets to go to some other places with Sarah - Southampton, Norwich and some others I have forgotten, but the whole experience will be interesting on all sorts of levels, not least the reminder that although I kid myself that I have the body of a 39-year old and the mind and attitude to life of someone aged about twelve, time actually is slipping by. Too quickly.

More on that story in our next bulletin.

SOMETIMES...

I guess blogging is something very self-indulgent and I make no apology for what will be a very self-indulgent post this time. If I drift into sentimentality, then you might blame the Carpenters - Richard and Karen - for one of their songs, `Sometimes,` is all about looking back to people "who mean so very much to me and for so many years have made me so very happy. And I count the times I have forgotten to say, `thank you` and just how much I miss you."

You see, I went on one of my periodic pilgrimages yesterday to the 12th century church at Padworth (pictured) in the very depths of the Berkshire countryside, where the gravestone of my more recent forebears stands proudly in the churchyard - my grandparents, my father`s ashes and two of my aunts. I stood over the grave, left some flowers and recalled the song. I listened to the silence in that timeless place, which was broken only by the March breeze and the chatter of the local rooks and the early lambs in the nearby field.

I then went on to revisit my boyhood village of Hythe on the shores of Southampton Water, to leave some flowers where my mother`s ashes were scattered, to visit an old friend and to relive those childhood days once more. Over the years, the village has grown and grown, what was once described as undesirable ribbon development has been overtaken by Stepford-esque housing estates, but the core of the village, it`s heart and its feeling of home, remains.

I went back to the shoreline where I spent so much time as a boy and I picked up a shell which has joined the collection in my car. I walked past my old primary school, which again has grown but its heart remains untouched; I bought the local paper, took in the air from the Solent and wondered where 60 years had gone and why the memories of all those years ago are still so strong.

It was a long drive home, but my self indulgent day had been worth it. Sometimes, it does no harm to indulge in things, people and places that mean so much. And somehow I can`t see myself forgetting to say `thank you` for the blessings I have had for so many years.

LESSONS IN LIFE...

This picture of a local boys football club conjures up memories of years ago when my three sons played junior football and Mrs. Snopper and I were heavily involved in helping out with the club. They were happy days and, of course, there were ups and downs for the young players who played in the local league. The league was structured on ages - Under 10s, Under 12s, Under i4s and Under 16s - which meant that in any one season there were teams at the top end of the age range playing other teams in the lower end. This produced some remarkable scorelines and I recall one snowy afternoon when one of my sons suffered a 36-0 hammering from a team who were bigger, stronger, faster and, allegedly, still within the age range for the division.

I see today that there is a move afoot to stop that kind of thing happening. There`s a proposal that, once a score in a game reaches 9-0, then the game is brought to an end. This appears to be in order to prevent the kind of stuffing that my lad endured all those years ago. It seems to me like introducing yet another namby-pamby nanny-state restriction in the misguided belief that it prevents psychological harm being done to the losers. But it might also deny access to an important rite of passage.

In late Spring 2003, we were on holiday in North Devon. It was the week before Southampton played Arsenal in the FA Cup Final at Cardiff`s Milennium Stadium. It was a lovely day, so we took our much missed retriever, Henry, for a walk up on Hangman Hill, above the village of Combe Martin. It`s a strenuous climb, so we were grateful for a seat near the top of the hill. Soon, we were joined by a walker who had come the other way and he asked if he could share the seat with us. We got chatting, as you do, and it turned out that he was a keen Arsenal fan and he had a ticket for the final. I suggested that Arsenal had already won quite enough trophies and that it might be Southampton`s turn to add to their solitary FA Cup victory in 1976.

"Ah," said our newfound friend, "you`ve got to learn how to lose before you can enjoy the winning." How true. I`ve had my own share of humiliating defeats. I once played in a cricket team that was all out for eight! But I went on to enjoy scoring 50 and taking five for nine in another game.

Hangman Hill, Combe Martin

My three sons survived their early sporting setbacks and went on to enjoy their sport and life itself with no visible psychological damage - having me as a parent may have been enough. So I view with some concern the proposal to impose a limit on football scores. What about cricket scores, rugby and all the other games where a good thrashing is possible so that defeat can be turned into victory? And why should the winners be denied their own rite of passage?