Apologies for late delivery of weekend blog, its been hectic. On Friday night I and 9 of my colleagues celebrated an addition to the Over 50s
Club I joined last year. And yesterday my youngest was 21 years old and we were visited by my family from London. And I had a birthday this week too, and on the day was delivered tickets for the cup semi-final at Wembley in just over a fortnights time. It’ll be my first visit since it was rebuilt, and as a Palace fan it may be some time till we return although I’m hopeful of beating Watford to reach the final. Our first arrival at the FA Cup final in 1990 inconveniently clashed with one of my sisters wedding ceremony at Haringey Civic Centre. I went to both. In a suit. No time to go back home and change.
I’ve been enjoying The A Word, a drama on BBC1 on Tuesday nights, about a boy with an autistic spectrum disorder. Like his dad, the boy has great taste in music, but it’s also well scripted. One I’ve been recommended is the four part series on Obama, I’ve since watched the first.
During the week a friend from school reminded me of our maths teacher. Somehow the fact he wore a hearing aid completely passed me by. I do remember once he asked our class how many cigarettes could be rolled from fag butts if it took 4 to make 1 and there were 16. As the class were leaving I went up and said I thought the answer was 5, not 4, on account of the four that were made from the 16 would in turn create an extra one. He called back the class. Despite this episode maths was not my strong subject. But geography was. Some weeks back I told of how I spent an extra week in Yorkshire on account of contracting appendicitis during a field trip. I attach a picture of Mr. Christou the geography teacher who took us along with the more photogenic Miss Mwanga who I don’t have a photo of.
On our first venture up the hills we scaled the summit in driving rain. Having reached the top what better way to relax than to have a fag. Not me, I wasn’t a smoker then, but Mr. Christou. He nearly went mad trying to light a fag with his damp box of matches.
I work for a generous employer, so generous they give me a work mobile. Not that I asked for one or wanted one. Last week I achieved the honour of being locked out of my own phone twice due to forgetting the password. I’ve only had it six months or so. I am waging a daily battle to retain information and with dementia being prevalent in my family these bloody passwords are something I can do without.