RUNNING ON...

Running on...

There are sure signs that autumn has arrived but in our town it is not the colour of the trees, in fact most of them are still green. It's not the falling chestnuts, though there are plenty of them. No, its the sudden wave of joggers that hit the streets and parks. Many of them wearing suspiciously shiny shoes and gleaming new track suits. Yes, it's time for the annual half-marathon. Last Sunday more than 18,000 athletes and fun runners took part. About 2000 of them participating in the main event.

Although it had been raining for an hour or so the sun was shining as the leading athletes breezed past so smoothly and effortlessly I swear that their feet never actually touch the ground. That must be against the rules! After what seemed like an age the next competitors came into sight, and the next, and the next. Gradually there were fewer and shorter gaps between the runners. Where the tail end of the race merged with the best of the recreational runners there was noticeably a greater variation in style and body shape. It was also the beginning of a seemingly unending kaleidoscopic ribbon of head bobbing bodies. We were on a new part of the circuit, just a few hundred yards from our apartment. The runners approached along a footpath on one side of the river, crossed the bridge where we were standing and made their way back towards the city along the opposite bank. A picturesque, multi-coloured spectacle on both riverbanks.

In this jostling mass of runners it was difficult to pick out the few friends taking part – some of them saw us first – experienced, fit, trained, not quite as fast as they used to be but that didn't matter. Each one had a broad smile and a relaxed stride: fun runners, having fun.

Then it was time for the less trained, less talented, beginners and one-timers. For some this half marathon would be their ultimate physical achievement, for some an impulse for a healthier life...and some were almost certainly regretting a boast or a bet made after 'one or two beers' in the café.

As the field thinned out again and the gaps between the stragglers got longer my attention began to fade and my thoughts drifted..................

…...... back to London when I was about 18. It's difficult to believe now but joggers had not yet been invented! Just about anybody doing any running was a member of an athletics club, all events were run by the Athletics Association and one had to be a member to take part. There were few opportunities for all-rounders or recreational runners to participate in events. One possibility was 'business house' competitions where teams from the police, fire brigade, civil servants and some companies competed on the road and cross-country. It will, I think, surprise you to know that I was a member of the City of London Police team, an elite corps selected, among other things, for their representative appearance and height. I had long hair, a beard and was at least 10 cm too short. Later the local council where I worked formed its own team, yes, another surprise, once upon a time I did had a proper job! We entered several events organised by local athletic clubs , mostly cross-country and road relays which were popular at the time, maybe they still are. It was during one of these races that I experienced crossing the finishing line to the applause of the crowd... well..okay it was a mistake I was  almost a whole lap behind the actual winner who appeared a few seconds later!!!....... We were the only business team taking part and despite achieving, looking back, quite impressive times we were often so far behind the 'real' athletes that just about the only thing left when we got to the finish was the line!

The back markers, all shapes, sizes and ages were still straggling doggedly past us. Brave, determined, foolish, unprepared or unlucky many of them were suffering – and they still had 5km to go! These were the ones that really needed encouragement. Most of the spectators were beginning to lose interest and drift away. The rest cheered them on. A brief smile or a wave from the runners as they gratefully forgot their aching legs for a few meters before continuing their weary way for at least another half hour!! Remembering those lonely runs at the back of the field I felt a little guilty that we didn't wait for the very last participants but you know what? - standing on a windy bridge for more than 2½ hours with no beer in sight, that's tough too... and anyway it had started to rain again.

POLONAISE

POLONAISE
(A slow dance of Polish origin)

The smallest things can, and do,  influence my choice of travel or holiday destinations. Live cycle racing broadcasts on Belgian TV have led to new destinations and I once visited a city on the strength of a brief background shot in a detective film. Possibly due to our several Dutch friends with Polish origins Poland has always been on my list of places to visit but it somehow never made the number one spot - until this year!  A five week round tour through the eastern part of Germany and the south-west corner of Poland.   

As a prologue to a new season of columns/blogs here are a few impressions based on posts that appeared previously on Facebook:

A FENCE RAN THROUGH IT........

I grew up with there being two German nations, it was hard to imagine that it had ever been otherwise, now it is equally hard to believe that the country had ever been divided. However you don't have to look too hard to spot the differences and the imagination does the rest.
There is always a certain amount of randomness about our trips and our first stop turned out to be just on the western side of the now invisible borderline. Along with the progress of the national football team conversations frequently turned to the 'bad old days' which in turn led us to visit a windswept museum on a rainy day and a bike ride up the highest (and steepest) mountain in the region which was also the site of a former observation post...... 

TRABBI TOWN

The only reason we visited Zwickau was that, by chance, I noticed that one of my 'Kyrgyz connections' lived and worked there. I had never heard of the place and certainly had no idea of its historical significance for the German car industry and therefore for the automobile industry in general. A city where, among others, Ferdinand Porsche developed a whole string of famous cars Audi, Auto Union and Volkswagen. Less prestigious, maybe, it is also the birthplace of... the Trabant. The Trabant was a product of the German Democratic Republic, East Germany. It was made from plastic, looked like it had been designed by a seven year old and had an ignition key so large that I once asked a Trabant owner if he used it to wind the car up. Luckily he was more amused than offended! The actual power unit sounded like a lawn mower and each car came with its own personal cloud of pollution. After reunification many Trabants were abandoned as the population went in search of something better and in a different colour however this curious car has now achieved an almost cult status becoming something of a collectors item!
Zwickau now has a hi-tech, high status University and has regained some of its former importance.
The town centre has been renovated, several Art Nouveau buildings restored and even the old soviet-style buildings have been given a face-lift. But we didn't give Zwickau much of a chance, we had a brief but enjoyable visit, then we went on our way intending to return at the end of our trip. However, as so often happens, circumstances dictated otherwise.

 

Oh – and by the way, we didn't see one Trabant while we were there!

 

 

ON TOP OF OLD SNOWBALL

“You'll be climbing the Sniezka then? ” Marta mailed after I had mentioned that we were now in Karpach. I had no idea what the Sniezka was.
We had arrived that afternoon at Camp 66. It didn't look or sound very promising – an open field with no shelter from sun, wind or rain. However a covered terrace, a communal kitchen and dining room, a pleasant bar, a friendly greeting and an uninterrupted view of the mountains more than compensated for the lack of shadow. The campsite was new and fairly undiscovered, the trees will grow in time. The mountain at the centre of our daily panorama was, we discovered, the Sniezka. The highest peak in the Karkonosze (The Giant Mountains).
“Sounds like a good idea” I replied ”we'll do that, either on foot or on the mountain bike”.

The next morning we realised that Karpach was one great tourist trap. On our bikes we weaved our way through the multicoloured masses, tourist trains, car parks, hot dog and souvenir stands. There was a road shown on the map that led some way up the mountain but it was closed to traffic...it was unclear if mountain bikes were allowed but we'd had enough. It was too crowded, this was not for us! We sprinted back to our tent, had lunch and cycled off in the opposite direction.
Ah, but the Sniezka was still there when we got back, in full view.
“ How can we face Marta now if we haven't climbed it “ Yvonne said. We would be visiting Marta in a few days. “Maybe there is another, less crowded, route” she suggested. We consulted the map, it looked like there was. It involved a short drive and a longer hike taking in two smaller peaks on the way.

The following day it was raining, with nothing better to do we drove up to check out our chosen route, maybe take a short walk or just drink a coffee somewhere. We found the path easily, it was well marked and not too busy. The rain stopped and before we knew we'd already covered about a quarter of the route. “Ah- well, might as well carry on to the top then” we both thought. It was, we soon realised, the easiest part of the walk! Half way there was a mountain refuge we paused for goulash and coffee. The hut was Czech and so were all the other customers. We had crossed the border about 50 meters from our Polish car park. Luckily they accepted Polish currency.
It was a tough three hour walk up. As we approached the very top we encountered more and more people as various routes converged, many had taken the ski-lift, only walking the last 500m, some, judging by their gear had chosen more challenging routes.
On the way back we revisited the mountain hut before tackling the last stage with legs that were now beginning to protest. “You've trained us for cycling not for walking up and down mountains!” they screamed. However we reached the end, tired, aching a little but pleased and satisfied, and just as it started to rain again!

Later that evening,sitting in the one chair at the campsite where there was a good and constant wifi signal I discovered that not only had we climbed the highest mountain in this region of Poland (The Sniezka) but at the same time my very first steps ever in the Czech Republic involved climbing the highest mountain in that country (The Snezka), and I didn't even know I was doing it!


MARTA'S BACKYARD
They were not the main reason we decided to visit Poland this year, though they did provide an extra impulse. We met them last year in something resembling a café at the side of a dusty track in Bosnia. They were, however, the reason we visited Wroclaw.
“We're easy to find. We live in the zoo. You can't miss it “ were the somewhat surprising instructions.....and we didn't. Despite a few tram related adventures and diversions we eventually arrived at the service entrance as directed. There we were met by Marta, Mickey and their baby who was only 'work in progress' at our first meeting.
We were treated to a tour of the zoo.
They knew many of the animals personally, their names, origins and their background stories. For those who are uneasy about animals being kept in captivity, and I'm one of them, it was nice to know that many of the animals had been rescued from situations where they had been cruelly treated and were now able to spend their last days safely and in relative comfort. Generally the animals were provided with spacious and attractive environments many new or vastly improved over the last years.

Later Mickey took us into town to show us that there were also human beings living in the city....and for a beer!
In the evening we visited a multi media light show in the park across from the zoo before returning after hours and after dark to have one last conversation with two insomniac zebras and Zidane, the head – butting donkey.

 
We spent the weekend in Wroclaw and it was, indeed, full of people, most of them seemed to be under forty, except for the German tourists. This busy, bustling and very attractive city, is also inhabited by a large number of bronze gnomes, small and fairly inconspicuous. Subtly placed, they are amusing and entertaining rather than kitsch and they all look like a friend of mine!

 

THE BEST OF BAD DAYS:

 

To say that the weather in Poland is changeable is something of an understatement.... last weekend above thirty degrees... yesterday 14!
The forecast was heavy rain in the morning and light rain in the afternoon, fairly accurate except that the light rain turned into a storm! So what to do?... Well, much the same as other holiday makers - put on raincoats and head for the nearest town. The lady at the tourist information was friendly and enthousiastic, she made several suggestions but as a parting shot she mentioned a special place for coffee. Just around the corner, under a bridge, up some stairs, above an ice cream parlour. It was, as it happens, time for a coffee! Wow! The enthusiastic owner served us coffee with a selection of the best ice cream creations I have ever tasted - and I am not particularly fond of ice cream- each was an exotic delight and a surprise and the coffee was even better. Somehow a guitar appeared and I was persuaded to play.... for an hour or two the owner and I told stories, sang songs and entertained the other customers. ... and we were treated to a few more unique coffees. Back at the campsite the bad weather, as usual, resulted in good contact. Most campsites in the former communist countries have some sort of sheltered cooking facilites. On rainy days in these communial kitchens  new fellowships are formed. Now it seemed that some of our Polish fellow campers were able to speak a little English and several of them had family living or working in The Netherlands. A pleasant evening followed together with our Dutch neighbours and to complete the day I, at last, managed to work out how to transfer photos from my new camera to the tablet.

 

POLONAISE

 

It took us just over a year and a half to arrange our last get-together with Annabel, Hubert and David who live in Eindhoven, just 60 kilometres down the road from us. It took,  a few minutes, a couple of SMS texts and an E-mail to arrange a meeting in Bolkow, Poland!
But before that we stayed at two of the nicest campsites situated in beautiful mountainous surroundings. The weather remained, to say the least, changeable. We visited just about every small town in the area between sunny spells and took bike rides between showers. We took another short detour through the Czech Republic. We ate ice cream, sang songs, drank exotic coffee and in a mountain hut in the Owl Mountains two old ladies served us thick slices of bread and dripping accompanied by the largest gherkins you will ever see. (Do any of my English friends remember bread & dripping?). We tasted a variety of pierogies, sampled several local beers and tested a few vodkas. 

The campsite in Bolkow was bigger and busier than we had been led to believe and full of Dutch families. I should be used to it by now but it's only when I come across Dutch people in other countries that I realise just how LOUD they are.
A train used to run through the town, as in so many places the line was closed years ago, however although the train rails have long started disappearing into the undergrowth the traffic signs warning of its existence all seemed to be brand new!  Further there was a castle, a supermarket and a restaurant... oh and an ironmongers that luckily had a few bicycle wheels.  Despite the fact that I was sick, my bike was broken and I was bitten by a tick we had a good time!

It was time for us to leave Poland. While we moved slowly westwards via Thuringen Wald in former East Germany Annabel, Hubert and David headed further east trying to find their roots and avoid the Pope who, they learned just at the moment of departure, was visiting Warschau, their next planned stop. Warschau was expecting seven million extra visitors for the occassion! We left them disscussing plan-B. 

 

THE LAST DANCE

The last week of our trip/vacation  we were in the Thuringen Wald, at the end of a valley, not only without mobile internet but not even a telephone network. No TV, newspaper, radio and a guesthouse/ restaurant that had been closed for several years even though the tables were still laid! Together with just a handful of other campers on a beautiful but remote former DDR campsite.
It was time to go home.... but I wasn't at all sure why.  It is true that after being away from home for more than a few weeks I never want to go home but this time it was different: not much work and no plans.  If I have to hang around doing nothing I might just as well hang around here... and it might just of happened!
Our departure was delayed for a couple of hours... we couldn't find anybody to pay!
There was a telephone number pinned to the door of the reception but as we didn't have a network that didn't help much. Eventually we borrowed a telephone that did have a connection but, it turned out later, the managers telephone wasn't working AND when we did track her down she wasn't in the next town as we thought, no she had been in a neighbouring house the whole time! It was all annoying, irritating, amusing and refreshing at the same time.... although we did grumble a bit and maybe swore a little the fact was that in this tiny German backwater, rules, regulations and time were not priorities and, to be honest, like the people who lived there, we were in no real hurry.

 

Roast Beef and Three-Pinned Plugs

Roast beef and three-pinned plugs

Whoever came up with the word 'Brexit', or 'Grexit' for that matter, should have his or her keyboard confiscated, if not for life, at least for a very long time. Nonetheless it will not of escaped most of you that in Britain there was a referendum. The British public voted not to remain in the European Union.

While in the media most of the attention during the campagne was on the the economy and immigration, on the street many Brits are apparently still worried about losing their national identity.

The English have been worried about this since Britain joined the Common Market in 1973. The Scots, Welsh and Irish probably much longer, since they became part of the United Kingdom! The truth is, although many things have changed over the years most of the changes are the result of evolution or globalisation and have nothing to do with European legislation.

Anyway, judging by my recent visit to British Isles, the English are just about as English as they ever were.

Before crossing the Channel we had to change money, find an adapter plug,and mask our headlights with plastic stickers. Despite 42 years in Europe they still have their own currency and different power sockets. They still drive on the left and still measure distances in miles. A large portion of drivers still hog the centre lane on motorways.

They still drink tea with milk, in other countries that's only for small children and elderly ladies.

They still serve their beer flat and at room temperature.

They still have their pubs, although many have disappeared, most that have survived are fresher brighter, cleaner, offer more choice and serve good food, whilst retaining much of their traditional atmosphere.

Somehow they still manage to find cricket exciting

They won't walk on the grass if instructed not to and they stand in orderly lines when waiting for a bus.

They are still making the same old jokes about the French and still finding them funny.

Women in shops still call you 'love'.

They still eat fish and chips even if the 'chippies' are owned by Chinese,

They still love lawns, gardens, horses and puppies.

They still don't like to complain or 'make a fuss' .

They still like walks in the countryside, especially if there is a pub involved.

They still go on about beating the Germans, yes, in two world wars, but more importantly

in the 1966 football World Cup.

The British still laugh a lot, they still have a wonderful, ironic,sarcastic individual and self mocking humour. However, at the same time, they still secretly think Britain is best at everything and the British way of life the best there is.

A staggering 71% of the population, despite wall to wall cookery programmes on TV, still consider 'Sunday Lunch' to be the high point of the week... every week.

Sunday Lunch: Roast beef, roasted potatoes, vegetables and Yorkshire Pudding.

Yorkshire Pudding, by the way, is not a pudding. Made from batter, in less affluent times it would have been covered with gravy and served before the main meal to fill the stomach and thus save on more expensive ingredients. Now that meat and vegetables are plentiful and affordable the Yorkshire Pudding should be have become obsolete, I certainly wouldn't miss it , but instead it has become one of the most important parts of the Sunday culinary ritual.

In England many find it difficult to understand how inhabitants of other countries can live, or would even want to live, without Sunday Lunch.

Which brings me to a theory of mine: the English are not xenophobes, they do not, on the whole, fear or hate foreigners. They are simply confused by them and the whole concept of foreignness. What are foreigners for? Why would anybody want to be one? They are not sure if it is an affliction or a bad life-style choice. Is there a cure? Oh,and don't try to explain that the English are, in fact, foreigners when they are abroad – they will find the idea absurd!

.

Yes, Brexit  arguments have mostly been about the economy, immigration and independence but deep down the real problem with Europe, as far as the English are concerned, is that it is full of people who don't drink milk in their tea, don't appreciate the wonders of cricket and have never experienced a Yorkshire Pudding!

bob powers June 2016

 

 

This Old Sporting Life...

This old sporting life...

Those who read these columns regularly will know I spend a great deal of time riding around on bicycles. It will also not have gone unnoticed that not so long ago I had an hip operation.

It's spring and the cycling season has really started. For several weeks now I have been out in the forests or on the roads. Most weekends I have joined a group of cycling friends on their Sunday rides. Despite having to drop off the rear of the bunch a few times my teammates have been very complimentary about my progress and performance. Even my physiotherapist, who also happens to be one of the group, is impressed at the speed of my recovery.

My own feelings, however, are somewhat mixed!

I am pleased, and a little proud, that I was back on a bike just five weeks after the hip operation, a week ahead of schedule. A week later, six weeks earlier than most predictions, I'd already made a few trips on my mountain and road racing bikes. However, although it slipped by almost unnoticed, I can't avoid the fact that between the operation and my cycling come-back I had a birthday. It was my 70^th birthday. Seventy! How did that happen? It seems such a short time ago that I was pretending to be 18 so that I get into bars! Anyway, the point is, I have no idea what level of cycling performance I can reasonably expect at this age. Is there still room for improvement or is this as good as it gets? And what about all those sports related aches and pains? Which ones will eventually just go away, which ones can be treated and which ones are here to stay?

Yes I know, some of you will be thinking that at my age I should be sitting in an armchair watching sport on TV. That I should be down the pub sipping beer and grumbling about how things used to be better and that I should not be cycling around the countryside dressed in tight fitting cycling clothes. You may be right but my confusion is not restricted to my cycling activities.

Many of my friends are working less, will soon stop working or have already retired. That I have stopped  working as a  bike courier was inevitable, it was time, I don't miss it. Unfortunately, though, most of the clients and contacts for whom I provide cartoons and illustrations are also slowing down, stopping, moving on or changing direction. That leaves me both happily retired and desperately looking for work at the same time! My search for work is partly motivated by financial reasons (artists don't have pensions) but it has even more to do with fulfilment. Rest and relaxation is not for me. I need and want some stress, some challenges and some serious deadlines to stimulate my creativity. And I need an audience to create for. As for recreation, well, a whole lot of activities are no way near so much fun when you have all the time in the world to do them.

I am lucky enough to have many young real and virtual friends. A large proportion of these live in or come from Kyrgyzstan. I am pleased to say they they don't treat me with all the respect that they have been brought up to show their elders and in the same way I have always treated them as fully grown adults which means that we converse or communicate on fairly equal terms. Because I am older and therefore theoretically wiser, they do however at times ask my advice. Well I suppose I am wiser,  wise enough to know I shouldn't be giving advice to anyone.  However I am quite prepared to relate my experiences and share my opinions so that they can make their own mistakes! On the other hand, to be honest, I learn a lot from them, not just about their background and culture but as they progress up the educational ladder some of them are simply getting to be a whole lot smarter than me!

However it will be a long time before they are qualified or experienced enough to help me with my current dilemma: 
the birthday I mentioned was four months ago and I still don't know how to be seventy!

"That's Logical..."

“That's Logical.....”

On the face of it the amount of media coverage that one person dying from lung cancer has recently received is out of all proportion. Especially at a time when hundreds of innocent people are being killed by terrorists activities and state sanctioned air raids or are drowning while attempting to escape oppression and violence. However, this particular Dutch former chain-smoker, it must be said, was genuinely a legend in his own lifetime. In the furthest corners of the earth, even in places where they think Copenhagen is the capital of The Netherlands, just about anywhere, in fact, where a ball has ever been kicked people will know who Johan Cruyff is.

If by chance you haven't heard of him and you've managed to miss all the newspaper, radio and television coverage this last week there in plenty of information for you online. Take a look and you will discover his enormous contribution to football as player, manager, commentator and critic. You will discover that he is right at the top of the 'greatest Dutch person ever' list, along with Erasmus, Anne Frank, Rembrandt, and van Gogh and you will learn why he is considered a half-god in Catalonia! 

Along with lengthy accounts of his achievements, and conflicts, as footballer and trainer, there will also be a list of quotations. During his playing and management career and, even more so later, as a TV football analyst, he became increasingly famous, or notorious, for his unorthodox statements and unique use of language. His comments hovering somewhere between 'brilliant insight' and 'blatantly obvious' were formulated using a curious mixture of Amsterdam dialect, incorrect grammar, muddled syntax and an advanced vocabulary. The public reacted to his statements with a mixture of amusement and wonder while even his friends and colleagues at times found them incomprehensible. Nonetheless he would frequently finish his statements and seal his arguments with his trademark phrase “That's logical” !

The funny thing is that I had little trouble understanding most of his grammar, his pronouncements or the thoughts behind them. Which, I fear, may well say a lot about my own use of Dutch and the way I think.

His most famous quote: “Every disadvantage has its advantage”, often misquoted as “Every advantage has its disadvantage”, is basically Newton's third law of physics i.e. 'Every action has an equal and opposite reaction' a law that, as far as I am concerned, can be applied to all interactions including human ones. Personally I rather like his “If you're not in the right place at the right moment you are either too late or too early” simply because it manages to be meaningful and totally unnecessary at the same time! 
However my favourite may not be a Cruyff original at all but I heard him say it several times: “Don't look at the result, look at the causes”. For example, in football terms, if the last defender misses his tackle allowing an opponent to score a goal, don't blame the missed tackle, consider why the defender was put in the position of having to make the tackle. The real mistake was probably made several moves earlier. Or, here's another example for those of you who get bored with talk about football and footballers: most people who wake up with a sore head and a sick stomach after a night partying will say “I should never have had that last drink”. The truth is, it wasn't that last drink that did the damage, it was all the drinks you had before it that caused your hangover!

 

True Enough!

A couple of weeks ago, I am sorry to say, I came out with the tired old cliché about journalists never letting the facts get in the way of a good story. Not that there isn't an element of truth in this statement but I try to avoid using clichés and stereotypes. It was during a conversation with a journalist friend in which I was pointing out some of the inaccuracies in a piece he had recently written about me in our regional newspaper. This was not the first time an article has been written about me in a newspaper or magazine and it may well not be the last. I don' t appear often enough in the media to be nonchalant about it but on the other hand frequently enough that I am no longer seriously bothered about minor mistakes or misquotes. It was a good article, people in the street and supermarket are still stopping me to tell me so. The truth is, although some of the facts were strictly speaking inaccurate they were close enough to the truth to make no difference at all to the gist of the article while at the same time avoiding long-winded explanations that complete accuracy would have demanded.

At times, though, facts do get in the way of a good story. For example; listen to a group of people, specially couples, relating their vacation or travelling experiences they will constantly correct each other on the details. Yes, admit it, you do it, we all do it! Even though, as far as the content of the story is concerned, it probably doesn't matter if it happened last Tuesday or a year ago last Friday or what the precise name of the village in Outer Mongolia was where it took place!

I try to not to be specific about names, dates and places when writing these columns but when facts can't be avoided they often have to be shaped, shaved, bent and sometimes bullied to fit into the format. In order to maintain style and story some concessions have to be made. And I make mistakes! A friend twice pointed out mistakes I had made, I was grateful that he had spotted them and that he was reading the columns. At the same time I was annoyed that I hadn't noticed them myself. The thing is, though,  nobody else noticed! It is a matter of context, neither of these factual mistakes made any difference at all to the story I was telling or to the point I was trying to make. In another context, a different story, a different audience maybe, both could have been rather important and embarrassing errors while here they just didn't matter

I rarely watch television serials. However I made an exception for the BBC's dramatisation of Tolstoy's novel War and Peace. Half way through the six week period I came across a news item: the advisor on another TV historical drama had spotted that a French aristocrat was wearing an historically incorrect medal. This was apparently important enough to be reported in several newspapers and news sites. War and Peace was a stunning visual production but otherwise I found it disappointing which still made it a lot better than most things I see on television.  And at last I found out how the story ends, having, like most people, never got more than half way through the book. My opinion of the series was, however, in no way affected by one person in one of the many opulent ballroom scenes wearing the wrong medal. I wouldn't have noticed, or cared, if he had been wearing a medal from the American war of independence or the London Marathon! 

“You can argue that it doesn't matter....” he says. Well, yes I do and I'll go even further and point out to this expert that War and Peace is a novel, a story, a fiction, the characters are either made up or fictionalised. Despite the historical setting none of it, including the aristocrat with the wrong medal, is fact! 

SO, my advice to the advisers, specialists and other nit-pickers out there: by all means have a quiet laugh about the inaccuracies you have spotted, I do too, but don't bother other people with them. Leave them to relax in ignorance and enjoy the show!

These sticks are made for walking...

These sticks are made for walking...

We once had a dog to stay. We were looking after it for friends. When I took the dog out for walks all the dog owners in the neighbourhood, many I had never spoken to before, started talking to me. These new found friendships didn't last very long, when I returned the dog to it's owners the local dog-walkers instantly stopped talking to me! Walking with crutches had a similar effect.

Many of us, young or old, will at sometime become temporarily disabled while recovering from an accident, injury or operation. During this period you are not sick or ill but there are a whole lot of things you are not able to do and places you are not able to go. As you progress on the way to full recovery the restrictions become increasingly irritating and frustrating. Even the most patient people begin to get restless! On the positive side the news gets around and because you aren't actually ill, you will have a string of visitors including friends you haven't seen for ages. And you will learn how to overcome a large number of obstacles and deal with a whole lot of situations you never knew existed.

Some years ago Yvonne was confined to a wheel chair for several weeks due to an Achilles tendon operation. We learned how difficult some buildings were to access and how difficult it was to move around in some of them once we were inside. We learned how badly some roads and footpaths are maintained. How cold it gets sitting in a wheel chair and how hot it gets pushing it and a lot of other things. In a relatively short time we gained an insights into the lives of people with a handicap and their helpers, safe in the knowledge that our situation was not permanent.

Now it was my turn! Just a day or two after a hip operation my first solo walk with crutches was through the gardens of a nearby nursing home and after that I passed that home daily on the way to and from the supermarket. There are always elderly residents with wheel chairs, crutches, walking frames or rollators strolling around our neighbourhood. Now they greeted me cheerily and stopped to chat about the weather, my sticks and my progress. Walking to the shops was my daily exercise, part of my therapy.

Walking with crutches is much like having four legs,no big deal you may think, horses manage quite well without tripping over. However horses don't have to do the shopping! My first days at the supermarket were a complete shambles as I tried to deal with two sticks, a shopping basket and products on low shelves, high shelves, behind glass doors or under sliding tops. It took me a while to realise that it was easier to use a shopping trolley. Throwing the crutches into the trolley and then holding onto it I could delay most problems until the check out. At which point I would get into a complete muddle involving the shopping, my wallet, the trolley, the change, left and right crutches, yes they are different, and the backpack I used to carry the shopping. During this scramble I would invariably drop one or both of the crutches. I was under strict instructions from the doctors not to bend down so, it goes without saying,I suddenly seemed incapable of doing anything without dropping something! Not wanting to ask for help I developed a few interesting techniques for picking things up without bending, including using the crutches as giant chop sticks. I need not have bothered though, my sticks seemed to have some magical properties, on seeing the crutches unfit and overweight men, elderly ladies, school children, young mothers, hippies and hoodlums would go out of their way to help. It didn't stop there, walking through the crowded city centre just before Christmas people would move aside leaving me a clear passage. Even when I progressed to using just one crutch I had no trouble crossing roads, hells angels, lorry drivers, wannabe racers, hoodies on tuned up scooters and drivers of unmarked white vans would stop for me. I think even bank robbers in their getaways cars or James Bond with just four minutes to save the world would have stopped! All the time I was using crutches people of all ages, shapes,sizes and types were attentive, helpful and polite while much of the time I felt something of a fraud. I could, in fact, after quite a short time walk quite well unaided but it was not 'allowed'. A sudden movement, slip or fall, I was told, could have set back the healing process or even have dislocated the hip. 

Ah well – that's all behind me! I have been walking without crutches for a few weeks now and I certainly don't miss them. But people no longer hold doors open for me or pick up things I've dropped, crowds don't part for me and car drivers and motorcycle riders deliberately ignore me.

Yes, and all those old ladies with wheel chairs and walking frames have completely lost interest.