The Beetley Meadows Wasps

The long dry summer has brought a new hazard to our regular dog-walks. Underground wasp nests.

A couple of weeks ago, Toby the Jack Russell Terrier was chasing his ball into the long grass when he screamed in pain and ran back onto the path. He seemed agitated and unwell, so his owners took him straight to the Vet, concerned he may have been bitten by an Adder, a poisonous snake. However, it turned out he had been stung several times by wasps. He was given some treatment, and made a good recovery.

His owners went back to check the area where he had been stung, and found a series of holes covered in wasps entering and leaving. They notified the Parish Council, who arranged for a pest controller to come and destroy the nest.

Then yesterday, in a completely different area of Beetley Meadows, a family group were making their way down to the river when they were attacked by a large number of wasps close to the main path. The wasps appeared from holes in the ground inside the long grass nearby, and a child and her mother were stung. The mother was stung 12 times as she attempted to shield her child.

Today, a sign has been erected warning people to avoid the area. Hopefully, someone will advise the Parish Council tomorrow.

I know they are valuable pollinators, but we can’t have openly aggressive wasps stinging small children and dogs on a family-friendly recreation area.

Not Ukraine

When there are photos or videos of civilians and children being bombed and killed in Ukraine, the world is horrified.

‘Horrific’. ‘Inhuman’. ‘Criminal’. ‘War crime’. ‘Unjustified’. Just some of the headlines.

But when Israel attacks Gaza today, bombing civilian targets, killing civilians including children, and terrorising others in their homes, the media is completely silent.

Not a word. Not a single news report so far.

So do Palestinian children not matter? Are they not white enough? Is it because Russia is not bombing them?

Look at the photos, and decide for yourself.

Israel is no better than Russia, but you won’t hear that on the BBC.

Why Picture Books Are So Important For Children

Great new kid’s book project from Nicholas Rossis. Check out the illustrations in his preview.

Nicholas C. Rossis

I have been quietly working on a pet project, a picture book for toddlers, in collaboration with the very talented Thanasis Psaros. Here is a sneak preview:

Saxlamari | From the blog of Nicholas C. Rossis, author of science fiction, the Pearseus epic fantasy series and children's books

My experience with the wee one has shown me just how essential picture books are for young readers. They are building blocks that facilitate vocabulary skills, literacy, story analysis, and sentence structure. These aspects are significant for young minds and an important component of learning how to read.

Typically, this type of book format is the initial step in introducing your child to reading and is considered the start of learning the language. Here are my top reasons for why picture books are essential to children:

Building Language Skills

Picture books are often used to build language skills in children. The illustrations in a picture book can provide context clues for words that the child may not be familiar with. The repetition of…

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Boxing Day Sunday Musings

I hope everyone had an enjoyable 25th. It was a relaxed day here in Beetley, with present opening for me, followed by a very quiet (and cold) dog walk with Ollie. Hardly anyone was out and about at lunchtime, and we only saw one other dog being walked. It has still been raining, so the mud was bad.

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Remember when Christmas morning we would see excited children out on the street? Riding new bikes or scooters, falling over as they tried out new skates, or walking in family groups in their best new clothes on their way to visit family or friends.
Well that never seems to happen anymore, certainly not in Beetley.

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Ollie loved getting his wrapped presents. He was so excited, running in circles, jumping up and smelling the parcels. It was easy to forget he is almost 10 now, as he was like a small puppy again. He got a plush grey squirrel, a cow that squeaks and crackles, a ‘Nemo’ type stuffed fish, a hedgehog in a spiky ball, a squeaky hot dog in a bun, and a rubber squeaky Christmas Tree. Later on he was so worn out, he slept soundly all evening.

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I did well too. A lovely heavy plush dressing gown and real sheepskin ankle-boot slippers. (Both being worn as I type this.) Three different bottles of red wine. (I had the Malbec last night.) Two boxes of chocolate-covered Brazil Nuts and two packets of pistachios. A pair of very nice stemless wine goblets, and a paperback book.

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We went out to the restaurant for our Christmas meal at 2:30 pm. It was great food, and served piping hot. There were three courses, and Julie couldn’t finish her cheese board selection at the end, asking for it to be boxed up to bring home. We were the last to leave, and got home just before 4:30.

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Today is called Boxing Day in England. This explains why.

The name comes from a time when the rich used to box up gifts to give to the poor. Boxing Day was traditionally a day off for servants – a day when they received a special Christmas box from their masters.The servants would also go home on Boxing Day to give Christmas boxes to their families.

I will be cooking a traditional roast Sunday dinner later, and we have a lot to do to prepare for a long day tomorrow with guests coming from around 2pm.

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Life returns to normal on the 28th.

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Bloggers Books: Chaya Ubhayakar

I am very pleased to announce that Chaya has had her first book published. It is a nicely-illustrated book for chidren, ‘Different and Similar’.

This story is about the friendship between Missy, a Golden Retriever, and Billu, a cat, and their love for Jai, a ten-year-old boy.

Children will discover how Missy and Billu show love and kindness to each other by respecting their differences and appreciating their similarities.

Illustrated by Andrea Benko, the book explores how in a world where everyone is unique, similarities can always be found.
This is a tale of Jai and his dog Missy welcoming a new friend, Billu the cat. Follow how Missy and Billu discover the differences and similarities between each other.

Here is an Amazon link where you can find out more, and buy a very reasonably priced Kindle copy.

This is a link to Chaya’s blog, where you can read more about her and her work.
https://chayasheela.wordpress.com/

“Old Man! Old Man!”

As I was finishing the walk with Ollie yesterday, I was heading past the small playground on Beetley Meadows in the direction of one of the exits.

Two young mums were sitting on a bench inside, watching their children playing on the swings, roundabout, and climbing frame. The children were aged around four and five, and very noisy. Ollie was trailing behind me, sniffing and marking the rows of shrubs along the wooden fences of the houses that back onto the playing field.

Just as I got past the playground’s wire fence, a little boy shouted out to me at the top of his lungs.

“Old man! Old man!”

I turned to see him up at the fence, obviously wanting to say something to me. So I smiled at him, and walked back.

“What is it?”, I asked him. He pointed at Ollie. “I like your dog”. I grinned, and asked him a question.

“How did you know my name?”

He didn’t get it, but his mum smiled.

A Nostalgic Image

For my birthday on the 16th, my lovely cousin Sue sent me an e-card that contained an old photo of us together.

She suspects it was taken in a very early type of ‘Photo Booth’. I look to be around six years of age, making her almost eight at the time.

That dates it to sometime in 1958. But looking at it now, it looks more like it was taken in 1928. I can only vaguely remember having white-blond, curly hair. Sue and I lived in the same house, her mum was my mum’s older sister, Auntie Edie. We remained very close throughout our lives, and still are today.

I am sometimes criticised for excessive nostalgia, but I freely admit that I adore this old photo.

Dunblane: Never Forget

Today marks the 25th anniversary of a mass shooting that occurred in the quiet town of Dunblane, Scotland on Wednesday the 13th of March, 1996.

A man named Thomas Hamilton walked into a junior school at 9:30 that morning carrying two Browning 9mm pistols and two Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum revolvers. He also had around 740 rounds of spare ammunition.

The guns and ammunition were held by him legally, under UK gun laws that existed at the time.

In the school gymnasium, 28 very young schoolchildren were assembled for a gym class, being supervised by three adult teachers. Hamilton walked in, and began firing immediately.

Less than five minutes later, Hamilton had shot 32 children and staff, killing 17 of them. He then killed himself, by firing a gun into his mouth.

Here are the names and ages of those he killed.

Victoria Elizabeth Clydesdale (age 5)
Emma Elizabeth Crozier (age 5)
Melissa Helen Currie (age 5)
Charlotte Louise Dunn (age 5)
Kevin Allan Hasell (age 5)
Ross William Irvine (age 5)
David Charles Kerr (age 5)
Mhairi Isabel MacBeath (age 5)
Gwen Mayor (age 45) (teacher)
Brett McKinnon (age 6)
Abigail Joanne McLennan (age 5)
Emily Morton (age 5)
Sophie Jane Lockwood North (age 5)
John Petrie (age 5)
Joanna Caroline Ross (age 5)
Hannah Louise Scott (age 5)
Megan Turner (age 5)

Britain was stunned by this mass shooting. The shock extended far from Dunblane, affecting every corner of this country.

As a result, the laws on legally held firearms were changed.

In response to this public debate, the Conservative government of Prime Minister John Major introduced the Firearms (Amendment) Act 1997, which banned all cartridge ammunition handguns with the exception of .22 calibre single-shot weapons in England, Scotland and Wales. Following the 1997 general election, the Labour government of Prime Minister Tony Blair introduced the Firearms (Amendment) (No. 2) Act 1997, banning the remaining .22 cartridge handguns as well. This left only muzzle-loading and historic handguns legal, as well as certain sporting handguns (e.g. “Long-Arms”) that fall outside the Home Office definition of a “handgun” because of their dimensions.

Never forget why that happened.

Christmas Past

I didn’t always dislike Christmas.

As a child, I would ask to go to bed early on the 24th, so I could wake up and get all my presents when it was still dark. I am an only child, and though not spoiled, I was never short of a pile of presents from my mum and dad, as well as my extended family of uncles and aunts.

By the time my parents were awake, I had already read my Christmas Annuals books, and all of my toys and other gifts would have been opened and examined. Like most kids then, I dreaded receiving ‘sensible presents’, like clothing. But I will never complain about my childhood Christmases, as I can still remember the thrill of them. And I appreciated every gift, however small.

Then it was off to my maternal grandmother’s house, for a massive family Christmas lunch at 2 pm. Everyone would be there, and trestles would have been set up for a huge table top to rest on. Then every chair in the house, mismatched or not, would be crowded around so that everyone had a seat at the table. Before that happened, all the men would set off for the lunchtime drinking session in the nearby pub, while the women and older girls took on the mammoth task of preparing all the vegetables, and laying the table.

And all of this cooked in a single small gas oven, with a three-ring hob above.

The men would return just in time to sit and eat, still merry from too much beer and whisky. Then in the afternoon, they slept off the booze, while the exhausted women washed up and cleared away, ready to serve up the ‘Christmas Tea’. Assorted shellfish, bread and butter, lots of cakes, and anything sweet.

The evening would see a huge Christmas party. Crates of beer lined up in my grandmother’s parlour, the ‘good rug’ rolled up and stored away, and my aunt Edie exercising her skill on the piano as my dad and my uncle sang popular songs of the day, as well as wartime melodies. Everyone over the age of sixteen smoked, so the blue haze in the room would sting my young eyes as I sat enjoying the seasonal show.

When it got too late for me, I would sneak into my grandmother’s bedroom, and creep under the pile of coats laid on her bed. They included ancient furs that smelled of mothballs, and huge wool overcoats that had the aroma of tobacco.

I never really remembered my dad lifting me up to take me out to the car.

But I always woke up in my own bed on Boxing Day.