Troll In A Storm

I recently received a delightful surprise in the post. Our friend Barrie Haynes does not rate himself as a poet, but in 2021 he published a small selection entitled When I Was Of This Earth, in aid of Wessex Cancer trust in memory of his son who died in 2006. Under the imprint of Hat Gate Books this self-published little volume is marketed by Amazon.

Barrie’s simple, well crafted, poems use rhythm and rhyme to describe nature and places in an intelligible manner. They are evidence of close observation, his rounded vocabulary, and his knowledge of the country. Straightforward language includes some profound thoughts on life and death. I think he underplays himself.

I have chosen to reproduce this spare, elegantly simple, example. Unfortunately, this piece on Mevagissey bears a typo in the title. Nevertheless the poem is one of my favourites. It is one of two such titular misprints that mar the production – the other being Stanger for Stranger.

Several readers pointed out the similarity in yesterday’s header picture between my brother Joseph and me and our father.

Some will recognise this one of me with Chris and Jacqueline from 1947.

None will have seen this one of Dad probably taken in 1925 when he was 8.

We are continuing with rehanging our pictures.

Becky’s “Troll in a Storm”, produced aged 6, now hangs above my sitting room chair.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s Ferndene Farm Shop Lincolnshire sausages in red wine; creamy mashed potatoes; crunchy carrots and cauliflower; firm Brussels sprouts and peas, with which I drank Barossa Valley Shiraz 2017.

Joint Executors

This was another dreary day outside so we stayed in and I read more of “Great Expectations” and scanned a further 7 of Charles Keeping’s outstanding illustrations.

‘Mrs Pocket falling into discussion with Drummle’

‘Wemmick’s House’

‘The weather was miserably raw, and the two convicts cursed the cold’

‘She held her dress in one hand, and with the other lightly touched my shoulder as we walked’

‘The prisoners were buying beer, and talking to friends’

‘Rattling up Newgate-street’

‘The six bearers shuffled and blundered along under the guidance of two keepers’

Although I have completed the probate forms and presented them to Mum’s other joint executor for signature, I realised this afternoon that we probably had the seniority in this instance the wrong way round.

Eighteen years my junior, my brother Joseph is the acknowledged best mathematician among the siblings. He has now demonstrated a superior ability to decipher probate forms and worked out what is required to prepare another set. We will deal with this next Saturday.

This evening we dined on succulent Hunter’s chicken served with crisp chips and plump garden peas. Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I finished the Chianti.

Along The Lanes To The West

I cannot be bothered to detail the problem that has developed with my probate application, except to say that I have received an e-mail rejecting my completed form for a reason that doesn’t make sense and asking me to submit a new one. Without sending a duplicate form I replied and received a standard automated response. This will involve a further 8 weeks delay.

Today was dry, dull, and cold. After a Tesco shop this afternoon we took a drive into the lanes to the west of the forest.

Despite the ice remaining in the ruts and puddles along the verges and in the fields,

daffodils bloomed on the green at Neacroft.

Crows seemed to be playing musical chairs from oak to oak and from wire to wire, of which there were a few in evidence along

Bockhampton Lane, where we thought it must be draughty in this

dilapidated building.

The golden glow we noticed on the horizon did not live up to its promise of some sort of sunset.

This evening we dined on more of Jackie’s spicy chilli con carne and rice, with which she drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the chianti.

Standing Out

On another cool, crisp, bright morning of full sunshine we drove to Milford Supplies to buy more picture nails, and continued into the forest.

Looking into the valley below and across to a distant, hazy, Bournemouth from Picket’s Post, I watched foraging ponies warming on the moorland.

Greys also stood out on the hillside along

Forest Road, where,

Jackie parked the Modus beside a forded stream

and I walked back to make the acquaintance of a be-rugged field horse.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s spicy Chilli con Carne and boiled rice, with which she drank Hoegaarden and I drank Medici Riccardi Chianti Rufina 2018

A Knight’s Tale (94: The Stepping Stone Community)

As an Area Manager of the inner city Social Services Department of Westminster, I was continually frustrated at the lack of provision for the care of older adolescents for whom we were responsible.  One of my own clients went to live in the establishment Ann Eland (then Urquhart), was managing in Chelsea.  It had been her ambition to set up a community of her model for just the group of young people we could not adequately accommodate.  Through my visiting my client I realised that, in Ann, we had a gem who should be encouraged.  I therefore chaired a committee, assembled by Ann, which set up The Stepping Stone Community in Finsbury Park.  We rented three houses from a Housing Association; staffed it with suitable carers, and opened it to young people aged 16-plus in their last two years in care.  This voluntary work was additional to my employed occupation.  The unique element was the ‘normal adult’, one attached to each house.  The idea was that these adults, all in work, were to provide a model for the young people.  Adults and adolescents alike each had a bedsit.  In exchange for their accommodation the adults were contracted to attend a house meal once a week.  They and the other residents took turns in producing the fare. This organisation thrived for more than twenty years in the ’70s, ’80s and ’90s.  Unfortunately, because of the growing  reluctance of Local Authorities to fund such agencies, we began to struggle financially.  For our last five years our treasurer and I kept us afloat with personal bank guarantees.  This was beginning to worry us.  We therefore approached another child care agency, The Thomas Coram Foundation, seeking a merger.  The Foundation had an infrastructure we couldn’t match, having benefitted from the legacy of a wealthy eighteenth century merchant.  This included many valuable works of art. They welcomed our suggestion.  I chaired the merger group, and eventually the long-established agency took over our project with a promise to honour its values. 

 “CaptainThomas Coram (c. 1668 – 29 March 1751) was a philanthropist who created the London Foundling Hospital in Lamb’s Conduit Fields, Bloomsbury to look after abandoned children. It is said to be the world’s first incorporated charity.” (Wikipedia) I first ventured into the Foundling Museum (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Foundling_Museum) in Brunswick Square when, as an Assistant Child Care Officer in 1967, I attended a London Boroughs Training course there. I spent much of my time gazing at the art works on the walls. Little did I then know that three decades later I would chair a committee bringing together this foundation and our own Community.

The original setting up committee meetings for Stepping Stone took place in the office of Ann’s own personal bank manager in the centre of Westminster. One evening, on the way to one such a gathering, I was driving down a very congested Park Lane. On this stop and start trip I periodically, when stationary, bent down towards my empty front passenger seat. This prompted intermittent flashing from the car behind. Minutes after my arrival at the bank, Ann arrived and greeted me with: “Did you finish the crossword?” She knew exactly what I would have been up to.

Today, of course, Ann would never have been able to enjoy face to face contact with her bank manager, even if there had been an existing branch.

It is greatly to Ann’s credit that members of all sections of Stepping Stone travelled to Bungay to attend her funeral in 2011, paying tribute to how she had changed their lives. I gave the eulogy, including tales from the long term friendship that developed with Ann and her husband, Don.

Released From Classroom

Today we made a start on rehanging those of our pictures we have room for.

We began with drawings of and by family members spanning some 40 years.

Jackie photographed the long and short views of the wall above the white sofa. Each of these images carries a story.

Let us start with the 1965 pencil portrait the sixteen year old Jackie made of her mother. When my new girlfriend showed me this in 1966 I asked her why she had not told me she could draw.

Chronologically the next is this now very foxed pencil portrait I made of Jackie in 1966. The story of its presumed loss and recovery is told in https://derrickjknight.com/2012/07/15/portrait-of-a-lady/

I made this quick charcoal sketch of Michael reading to Matthew at 76 Amity Grove in October 1973. It appears to contain a few spatters of white paint.

I completed this pastel portrait of my father in the early hours of 25th December 1988, a year to the day after he died. It had been a present for my mother who kept it on her bedroom wall until she died on 15th September 2021. The story of its creation is featured in https://derrickjknight.com/2012/08/07/would-you-believe-it/

Florence was eight when she produced this drawing in 2004 in response to a school prompt to draw something that made her feel warm and cozy, or words to that effect. It stayed on her school hall wall until the end of the year, when it was presented to me.

We collected the Modus from the garage just in time to nip down to Barton on Sea to catch

the sunset with its peach and indigo cloudscapes.

Suddenly, joyfully tripping, frolicking, gambolling; gleefully, excitedly, shrieking, like schoolchildren released from the classroom, came three exuberant young men toting mobiles and bottles to dance along the cliff edge where they

focussed on the splendid scenery as they lapped it up. We were soon in pleasant conversation. A team of roofers from Sheffield, they were carrying out a job locally which required them to stay in a local caravan site during the week with weekends at home. They were taking in as much of these unfamiliar pleasant sights as they could as soon as they had finished work. I was happy to give them pointers to places of interest and nourishment.

This evening we dined on chicken Kiev, chips, and baked beans, with which Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I finished the Fleurie.

A Knight’s Tale (93: The Writing Was On The Wall)

The 1980s was the decade in which, as in every other walk of life, the concept of service in UK Social Care suffered a lingering death. This was subtly subordinated to profit.

During the first five of these years the purchaser/provider system began to dominate and convert the task of Social Workers to shoppers for facilities which their departments had once managed themselves.

Until then field workers who needed a provision, such as a placement for children, would negotiate with another section of their agency, to find a residential placement for them. We in the Area Teams would now, through use of budgets, be required to buy the facility from the residential department.

With the increasing trend towards outsourcing across the board Local authorities’ own provisions were slowly reduced as we saw the advance of private agencies treating what were still called Social Services as profit making businesses. In Newark during the 1990s I met at a dinner party a man who had set up a group of care homes for people with learning disabilities. This was the flavour of the month at the time. The gentleman, amenable enough, had neither knowledge of nor real interest in the residents, but was openly taking advantage of government financial incentives.

Because of the shortage of available accommodation for teenagers leaving care homes in the early 1980s I had, in my own time, chaired a group setting up a voluntary agency to provide some of what was needed. This was the Stepping Stone Community, about which more will follow in time.

I was beginning to feel that the writing was on the wall as far as I and Social Services were concerned. This was compounded when yet another reorganisation was set in motion. The Area Managers were to lose their Deputies and another layer of management was created between the Director and the Head of Fieldwork. He and I would be effectively demoted.

The Director told me not to apply for the new post. When I asked him why not he replied that I was not in the forefront of change. I could have spoken about the Stepping Stone Community or I could have mentioned the Summer Sports Project, but I saw no point, and replied: “Someone’s got to do the nurturing, Bill”. This project had been an imaginative use of a fund to help keep vulnerable children out of care. Once again the administrative staff were fully involved. In our area there were numerous sports facilities such as the Jubilee Hall Sports Centre, various parks, and football fields. We bought the necessary equipment for a range of activities. Each staff member was allocated an arena and a group of children, depending on interest and skills. This was so successful that we had to abandon it after a year or two because the older child members were being sent with too young siblings in their charge.

Home Helps were a team, under my wing, who visited elderly and disabled clients in their homes and carried out a range of tasks involving cooking, cleaning, and personal care. After I left these, too, were outsourced, their services radically reduced.

Jackie, who worked in Merton until the first years of the current millennium, first as a Carer, which is what Home Helps are now called, and latterly as a Care Manager, which is a current term for Social Workers, was told by her senior manager that a carer spending time listening or talking with clients was a waste of resource. She was required to explain why helping an elderly person to shower would take more than a quarter of an hour. Sometimes it would take that long for the client to answer the door.

These services are all now farmed out to private agencies who pay minimum wages, use often untrained and inexperienced staff, expect the carers to provide their own transport, do not pay for time travelling from one job to another, and cut considerable corners in time allocation. Consistency of carer is a thing of the past. My own mother was subject to the consequences of all these aspects, until she transferred to a care home. The amounts Local Authorities can contribute to such are woefully inadequate. At least half the cost has to be funded by the family, which generally means, as in our case, that the resident’s house has to be sold to pay for it. The National Health Service can only fund Nursing Care – without medical need it is the responsibility of the Local Authority with its own limited budget.

Hospital beds are being blocked because otherwise well patients have no available residential provision. This is now being seen as a crisis in Social Care. It cannot be resolved without changes in attitude and training.

The above factors all contributed to my giving my Director six months notice of my departure. I used this time to build up a freelance practice, and was amazed when I was given a day a week contract by my boss to be available for consultation to all sections of the department. I was left to manage this myself, and did not go short of referrals.

It is indicative of the changes in technology that when asked what I would like as a leaving present I opted for an electronic typewriter. Today’s widespread use of personal computers had not yet arrived.

Some two decades later, John Munt, Jackie’s manager, when leaving his post, presented each of his staff members with a calculator, informing them that they would need them.

Atmospheric

Early this morning Jackie wandered around the garden photographing

the overnight frost

and misty garden views.

Later we shopped at both Tesco and Lidl, by which time the mist and intermittent periods of sunshine had both lessened. We continued into the forest in search of more atmospheric scenes.

Grey ponies dotted the hazy moorland landscapes flanking Burley Road, where

skeletal trees were silhouetted against the rapidly changing cloudscapes.

The ancient steep viridescent verges alongside the hollowed out Charles’s Lane gathered bright green moss and ivy. Tall trees slipped into the

periodically descending mist, and the sun was once more a graven orb.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s spicy paprika pork and savoury rice with which she drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Fleurie.

Piet Mondrian’s Pigments

Just as the sun was thinking about sinking into Mudeford Quay today,

gulls circled the Wolf Moon,

or basked in the bay,

in which a man stood on the sandbank and another walked his dog along the reddened shingle.

Easier to focus on the reflected sunlight bouncing off glowing windows

It took me a while to regain my vision from the first picture in this post, and from others that followed.

Until the golden orb dropped behind the Sailing Club window Piet Mondrian’s pigments plastered the single pane.

One more dog walker took advantage of the low tide.

This evening we dined at Lal Quilla. My main course was chicken Jaljala, Jackie’s, chicken Korma. We shared egg fried rice, egg paratha, and sag bhaji; and both drank Cobra. The food and service was as good as always..

Late Afternoon In Ran’s Wood

Many hours of my life have been spent tramping the streets of London. These consequently appear on many of my blog posts, although one series has been particularly dedicated to them From 2004 to 2008 inclusive I made hundreds of photographs with the constraint that the road name must be included in the picture. They featured from Streets Of London posted 21st May 2015 to Tyburnia And Other Parts Of West London on 30th January 2021.

Having recently been alerted to the reader-friendly possibility of creating new categories, such as that of “A Knight’s Tale” I spent much of today converting the above-mentioned series from “Uncategorised” to “Streets of London”.

Towards the later part of this afternoon we took a forest drive.

Driving down Furzey Lane to Ran’s Wood Jackie was able to stop the car and photograph a plethora of pheasants through her window.

She parked up and I wandered the woodland, with its soggy terrain; its browsing ponies; its lichen covered trees; its burnished bracken; and just one pair of walkers.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s spicy pork paprika and savoury vegetable rice. She drank Carlsberg and I drank Patrick Chodot Fleurie 2019.