Dying wish.

                                    

I hope I've got the facts right with this story; if I haven't, please forgive me.

Very recently, a gentleman in Tennessee USA heard that a 5 year old boy was very ill in hospital, and that he wanted, above all, to see Santa.

The gentleman contacted the parents, put on his Santa suit, jumped in his car, and drove as quickly as he could to the hospital.

He asked the parents to wait outside in the corridor, then surprised the small boy with a few gifts and a big hug.

The poor little boy then died in his arms; one can only hope that with his wish fulfilled, he died happy.

I'm not ashamed to admit that when I heard this story on the radio recently, Cro's eyes were seriously moist.

Our friends in red.

                                       

So, who will be making your Christmas memorable?

If you live in the south it will be Southern Rail. They will be on strike until 2018 (or longer).

If you intend to send cards or gifts through the post, then The Post office will definitely make your Christmas merry. At their busiest time of year they will possibly be 'sacks down' to ensure your post doesn't arrive until somewhere in 2017.

If you live in Derby, your rubbish will not be collected for around a month, ensuring those wonderful piles of rat infested, rotting, Turkey remains will be littered along their pavements. Other areas might well follow their example.

If you live in London, I wouldn't rely on the Tube running. Those drivers like a quiet and peaceful holiday just like everyone else.

If the Bernard Matthews factory was to go on strike, it would be the cherry on the cake.

If your Christmas will be unaffected by some Trade Union or other, think yourself very very lucky.

Like the back of my hand...

I reckon I know the local woods as well as anyone; even better than most. But a few days ago my friend José took me to see the above.

We live right on the cusp of 3 departments (counties). The Dordogne, The Lot, and The Lot et Garonne; the latter being just a couple of hundred metres away from my front door.

Amazingly, this small concrete borne, with a cross on top, represents the highest point in the whole department of The Lot et Garonne, something I was quite shocked to discover as it is just a short leap inside their boundary. It doesn't mention the height, nor is it a nicely fashioned piece of stone. Just a lump of concrete with a X marking the spot.  

I can stand on it, look south, and see the whole department beneath me (if it wasn't for the trees in between).

That same afternoon I came across yet another strange concrete object that I'd never seen before. This time slightly less interesting.

Under this circular concrete cover is some type of pressure valve, which releases air from a very comprehensive system of pipes that deliver water to our local farmers. Although it is just a hundred metres from our house, I had no idea it was there.

One never ceases to discover; and I hope that continues.

JohnD's End of Days.

Certain bloggers, and certain of their blogs, touch us much more than others. This below (entitled 'End of Days') was JohnD's final posting, and all who read it were devastated.

I didn't know John personally, nor did I know much about him, but his comments were always filled with wisdom, and he was without question the sort of person you'd love to have met. He mentions in his final paragraph that his daughter Kat would let us know of his demise but I'm afraid she never did. This is not to blame her; she may not even have known how to do such a thing.

The power of this his final farewell, posted on Dec 4th 2012, is still etched into my memory. Here are his final words.

END OF DAYS .....

Hi All! Finally feeling well enough to put up a post even if it is not a pleasant one.

I am definitely unwell - Sarcoidosis effecting both lungs has resulted in complete respiratory collapse, congestive cardiac failure, pneumonia and advanced asthma. Just had 3 weeks in Calvary Hospital, Canberra, and now back home on "Home Oxygen" 24/7. Specialist says to sort out my affairs and make an appt. to see him in 3 months (nice way of giving you a 'time-line'!)

Cannot eat - have lost 15kg (over 2 stone) in 3 weeks - Rhonda and I are making 'Life adjustments with a spirit of inevitable denial - we know what is coming. Grandsons coming down Saturday to see "Pa!" - guess that'll be their last Christmas with "Pa"!

Guess you won't see many more posts on here from me but when up to it I'll try to manage a few words. When the day arrives I'll have my daughter, Kat, put up a final message.

I really don't know what else to say this afternoon - we are going to fight this 'thing' for every hour and day we can claw back from it.

Must go for now, too tired to write more today but will post again. Have arranged for our daughter, Kat, to put up the eventual final post! Pain hurting, must go!


That was it; the end of JohnD. It was posted on the 4th, so he probably died about 4 years ago, this last week. Not forgotten; RIP.

20 years ago.

I apologise in advance for the quality of these photos; they are photos of photos that I've just found at the back of a cupboard.

It was my, and my life-long friend Michael's, 50th, and we decided to go 'all out'.

I bought a whole Lamb, booked 'Jean' the local expert Lamb roaster, and we invited just about everyone we knew. It was to be a feast not to be forgotten.

Jean had instructed us to light the huge fire (a cubic metre of Oak) at mid-day, then just as Michael and I returned from the vineyard (with several hundred litres of wine), the heavens opened in infernal proportions, and we feared that it would be a total wash-out. As it happened it stayed alight, and Jean arrived at about 4 pm to start the actual cooking.

He turned and basted, and at about 8 pm it was declared cooked, the guests had arrived, and the feast began.

                            

Jean commandeered the help of our frightfully aristocratic chum The Count Malvinski (nearest) to carve the beast, then we all settled down to one of the most delicious meals ever served chez nous (honestly).

We were eating Lamb for the next week or so, but no-one complained. People still speak of the feast today, and we have threatened to do it all again one day. Somehow I don't think we will, but there's no harm in dreaming.

Bugger 'facts'.

I like journalism to be factual and informative. Not much to ask.

Lady Magnon was given the above newspaper on boarding her return flight from London recently, and before using it as fire-lighting material I had a quick look at the several days old financial pages. I was really quite stunned to see how much inaccurate reporting it contained. I had not previously heard of Victoria Ibitoye, but I suggest she might like to continue Day 2 at whatever Journalism School she attended.

As most already know, George Osborne was not educated at Eton, nor is The Bullingdon Club anything to do with Eton. Osborne attended St Paul's, and the Bullingdon is an Oxford University club.

If Ms Ibitoye's first two paragraphs are anything to go by, I wouldn't bother reading anything by her again. If you know little of a subject it's probably best not to write about it; or maybe just check on Google first.

What do editors do these days; especially Daily Mail editors? Twiddle thumbs I suppose!

The secret life of a parcel.

One has to wonder if the inventors of 'Parcel Tracking' are now doubting its usefulness!

We recently (25th of October) sent a small parcel to Kellogg's mum in SWEDEN.

On the 4th of November we were informed that it had reached its country of destination; IRELAND.

One month later (4th of December) after considerable scratching of heads, the Irish have worked-out that the word 'SWEDEN' is not spelt the same as the word 'IRELAND', and they forwarded it to where it should have gone in the first place. 

We are now very pleased to see that it is finally near to delivery, although we are yet to receive confirmation of it actually having arrived.

I'd love to know what happened to it during its month long sejour in IRELAND. What's the betting that there's a tiny Irish village called SUEDE.