This is a view of Scarth Gardens in Morley, with Morley Hall behind, now a private residence. The gardens were also known as the Maternity Hall Gardens as many Morleians were born in the hall for over fifty years.  (I was once told that the hall was gifted to the people of the town in perpetuity but that the NHS flogged it off when it was no longer required.)

Note that the flag of England is now past its best, with most of the white flowers gone. (Here is what it looked like just before St. Georges day)

I’m in a four way email conversation with some notable Morleians, putting the world to rights. (Well, it started off serious but now we are just larking about…) There was a reference to Widecombe fair at one point which rang a very quiet bell but I never got round to googling it. Then when it started mentioning Tom Pearce and borrowing horses, I tracked it down. This is a song I haven’t heard for at least thirty years but it was instantly familiar.

Tom Pearce, Tom Pearce, lend me your grey mare.
All along, down along, out along lee.
For I want for to go to Widecombe Fair,
With Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney,
Peter Davy, Dan’l Whiddon, Harry Hawke,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.

And when shall I see again my grey mare?
All along, down along, out along lee.
By Friday soon, or Saturday noon,
With Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney,
Peter Davy, Dan’l Whiddon, Harry Hawke,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.

So they harnessed and bridled the old grey mare.
All along, down along, out along lee.
And off they drove to Widecombe fair,
With Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney,
Peter Davy, Dan’l Whiddon, Harry Hawke,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.

Then Friday came, and Saturday noon.
All along, down along, out along lee.
But Tom Pearce’s old mare hath not trotted home,
With Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney,
Peter Davy, Dan’l Whiddon, Harry Hawke,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.

So Tom Pearce he got up to the top o’ the hill.
All along, down along, out along lee.
And he seed his old mare down a-making her will,
With Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney,
Peter Davy, Dan’l Whiddon, Harry Hawke,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.

So Tom Pearce’s old mare, her took sick and died.
All along, down along, out along lee.
And Tom he sat down on a stone, and he cried
With Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney,
Peter Davy, Dan’l Whiddon, Harry Hawke,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.

But this isn’t the end o’ this shocking affair.
All along, down along, out along lee.
Nor, though they be dead, of the horrid career
Of Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney,
Peter Davy, Dan’l Whiddon, Harry Hawke,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.

When the wind whistles cold on the moor of the night.
All along, down along, out along lee.
Tom Pearce’s old mare doth appear ghastly white,
With Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney,
Peter Davy, Dan’l Whiddon, Harry Hawke,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.

And all the long night be heard skirling and groans.
All along, down along, out along lee.
From Tom Pearce’s old mare in her rattling bones,
With Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney,
Peter Davy, Dan’l Whiddon, Harry Hawke,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.

(There is still a Widecombe fair, by the way).

When I was working in Norway back in 1981, my desk was initially in a former shop premises near the Harbour in Stavanger. It had blinds at the windows so it was fairly private, although my desk was closest to the shop door.

One early evening, I was working a little late and was the only one left in the office. As it was still early in the year, the sun had already set. I was suddenly startled to hear a huge bang and looking up, saw a hole in the window above the door. The air was acrid with a gunpowder small and on the carpet near my desk was a shell case.

F*ck me! I thought, someone is using us as target practice. I immediately picked up my phone and rang 2222, the emergency number that rang in the switchboard room on the red phone. It was quickly answered by Gro, the switchboard supervisor who I knew fairly well, having had a few meetings with her about the new phone system (which was my reason for being there in the first place). I told her what happened and her first reaction was to assume I was joking. I assured her it was not and she contacted the authorities.

The police were there very quickly and took stock of the situation. They then scoured the wall opposite the doorway, looking for the bullet. It eventually transpired that there was no bullet- the shell case had been hurled against the window, or possibly fired by a catapult. The property manager (who was a Scot but married to a Norwegian) told me that they had been having a bit of trouble from some scratters that lived in some sort of flophouse nearby and that it was probably just some childish retaliation.

Afterwards, it occurred to me that remaining at my desk to ring the emergency number probably wasn’t the best course of action, perhaps I should have locked the door or even taken cover elsewhere!

That has been my only confrontation with firearms in the first fifty years, apart from clay pigeon shooting, which doesn’t really count.

Well, I had to get round to it sooner or later.

Six of our new fence panels are now forest oak, to match the older fencing. It is hard to keep the stuff off the fence posts (especially using the spray!) but I protected the concrete plinths (by lifting the panels up and slipping newspaper underneath) and kept the stuff off the upright fronts. Peeking over, I’m pleased to see that my painting results are no worse than the neighbours who have used a coppery colour.

One other house in the street has used a blue colour to do their fence & shed, it is both striking and refreshing. We have a builders restrictive covenant that we are meant to keep our paintwork the same colour as originally provided. Not something they enforce, fortunately (although our doors were red and remain so).

Why six panels, I (don’t) hear you ask? That was a full one of these I had left over from last year…

That title probably made one or two of you do a double-take on RSS. It seems that David was swapped by aliens on Thursday, when we went to pick him up from school we found a babalabalubian instead. They are characterised by red dreadlocks, red & yellow facial spots (one day a year) and a taste for FAB ice lollies.

The alien also liked science abuse, investing £15 of his pocket money in a Brainiac Tee shirt. The best bit of the show was the microwave being blown up at the end, he tells me.

I liked it when the Brainiacs were experimenting with the electric fence, personally, although the bursting of a hot water bottle (although somewhat lengthly) was rather dramatic.

Brainiac is on tour, catch it somewhere while you can, dates here.