I was down in Cheltenham last Wednesday for a business meeting, which was actually quite productive and interesting. I decided, despite the very cold weather, to go down on the motorbike. By the time I was a few miles from turning off the M5 to head into Cheltenham, my fingertips were freezing cold. In all the miles I have done on a motorbike and in all weathers, last Wednesday was definitely the coldest my fingers have ever been. I actually felt the cold biting at the end of my finger tips – there’s no better way to describe the sensation – and I wondered to myself whether this pain was indeed where the word ‘frostbite’ originates. Convincing myself otherwise, I rode through the pain and was soon at my destination.

Following the meeting, I made my way out of Cheltenham. After a few minutes and increasingly cold fingers, I decided to consult Google to find a motorbike apparel shop. Sure enough, there was a branch of Hein Gericke (a personal fave for bike clothing) on the outskirts of Cheltenham, which I had actually passed on the way in. Unfortunately, they had sold out of under-gloves, but the sales assistant offered to knock 30% off the price of a set of over-gloves instead, insisting that I made sure I was comfortable I could ride with them before I bought them by taking them out to the bike and ensuring that they offered adequate handling of the controls. They were a little bulky, but were good enough as far as I was concerned, so I bought them and went on my way home.

The same evening, I had planned to ride up to Grimsby, with a view to staying over at my mother-in-law, Joyce’s house before attending my Aunty Eileen’s funeral on Thursday. In the event, I was tired after the ride to Cheltenham and back, had spent quite some time sorting out the mess that was our cupboards in the vain search for a missing under-glove I knew I had somewhere. In the event, I didn’t find the glove, it was already 20:00 and the temperature was dropping further outside, so I decided to head up to Grimsby by car. It transpired that this was a wise decision, since the normal route I drive was closed towards the approach to Waltham, near Grimsby, and the diversion took me through some treacherous, ice and gravel covered lanes, albeit through pretty villages.

On Thursday, I attended the funeral of my Aunty Eileen – the wife of my dad’s brother Bob. Bob died a couple of years ago and I had been unable to attend his funeral through work commitments, so I had resolved to make it to Eileen’s. They were both lovely people who had raised four daughters, each of which went on to have wonderful families of their own. Bob was a bit of a comedian, and Eileen always appeared to me to be acting like the sensible one when they were out together. Unfortunately, the last few years had seen a decline in their healths, with dementia taking a hold on Eileen in recent years, so, in actual fact, we lost the real Eileen some time ago. Nevertheless, their family of children and grandchildren does them great credit.

The funeral itself was, as they tend to be nowadays, more of a celebration of Eileen, and it was clear that the vicar had known Eileen, so it was a little less impersonal than religious funerals usually are. Her daughter, Barbara, read a lovely poem about her (Eileen had enjoyed writing poetry, so it was done by way of a tribute). The wake afterwards was another opportunity to see family I met just a few weeks ago under similarly sad circumstances, following the death of my Aunty Elizabeth, only there were more of the Eileen’s grandchildren there this time, many of whom I hadn’t seen for years, so it was a nice opportunity to catch up with some of them.

I also learned that it had been arranged for my Aunty Elizabeth’s ashes to be interred at the same time as those of Eileen, the following day, and that was a nice thought, since the two had known each other very well, and it meant that Elizabeth’s final resting place would be next to her brother, Bob and his wife, Eileen – a little plot of Chivers family in Lincolnshire.

I headed back home on Thursday afternoon, taking Joyce with me in the car, since the forecast wasn’t good for Friday and Joyce’s husband Ron (my ‘step father-in-law), preferred that she come down with me and that he come and collect her on Monday. The roads were pretty quiet and we had a good journey back.

In the evening, I headed out for a BAiT rehearsal, at which we thrashed out ideas for an acoustic arrangement of one of the last three songs we recorded as a full band, Sunshine song. It was starting to come together quite nicely by the end of the evening.

Friday was back to work, and fairly uneventful in work terms, although I had quite a productive day overall.

On Friday evening, I had a gig with Ministry Of Beaver at the Kingswood Tavern, in my own town of Nuneaton. It’s one of my preferred venues, as there’s generally a good crowd there and they’re very positive about the kind of music we play. We always go down well there. Phil kindly brought along an extra monitor wedge for me to use. I haven’t been using a vocal monitor at all for some time, since they usually take up a lot of room – something which is at a premium for most gigs, and I have gone with the old view of ‘if I can’t pitch to the music itself, I shouldn’t be singing’. The reality though is that you do need to be able to hear what you’re singing and can’t rely on the sound you’re getting through your cheekbones.

Phil also started singing backing vocals and did a great job, although we need to agree on which of us is singing which part in many places – something we haven’t really had time to do properly, as Phil has been learning the bass parts and concentrating primarily on them.

It was another good gig there, despite the attempts of a few local chavs who turned up after we had finished and started to wind up a few people. A fight almost broke out, but the pub staff handled it well and things settled down again. For some time, I’ve had the idea of having ready a sample of some fast bluegrass music, featuring the obligatory three note start – Foggy Mountain Breakdown would be ideal, especially if accompanied by a rebel yell or two. I’ve never had the sample ready though and trouble is extremely rare – I can count on the fingers of one hand the occasions where violence has happened at any gig I’ve ever played at – and it’s never been at the dedicated biker kind of places – always the town pubs.

On Saturday, I penned a long email to ‘hand in my notice’ to Ministry of Beaver. I have blogged about this in a separate entry, Nothing to do with the band, but to do with me switching priorities in life.

On Sunday, we made a trip to Ikea in Coventry. We went through a phase of going there very regularly, but hadn’t been for a while. The last time we went, we bought a really good desk for the living room computer for £10 – and a mighty sturdy one at that! We went back on Sunday to find a pedestal or set of drawers on which to place the printer. After much looking around at various options, we settled on a set of bedside drawers in a style we already have in our bedroom.

On the way to Ikea, I had noticed a slight change in engine noise, but, apart from mentioning it to the others in the car, thought little of it. However, on the return journey, as we pulled up at lights by the Ricoh Arena, the noise became very bad and smoke appeared from the engine bay. I managed to get across the roundabout and up to the parking bay before pulling over and examining the damage. As I opened the engine bay, we saw sparks dropping down from the timing belt (or cambelt) area and then saw that the belt itself had broken. This is bad news for a car, since it means the pistons are almost certainly bent and is a very expensive job to repair. Following recovery home (thanks to the quick response of the RAC again – for the second time in a year), and some research, I quickly established that a new engine might be the cheapest way to repair the car and so I resigned myself to the fact that our car, Mem Saab as it is known to us, is dead.

The old girl has done us proud. We paid £8,000 for her ten years ago and she has done 80,000 miles under our ownership (I tend to travel by motorbike whenever possible), so that’s not bad value, and I have to say, she hasn’t put a foot wrong besides standard wear and tear and corrosion. I have broken down three times in all that time and it was always (with the exception of this time) minor things which were relatively inexpensively fixed. She may have been a bit thirsty, but what a car! She got us down to Switzerland and back towing a caravan last summer without a single hiccough. She’ll be missed when she’s gone, that’s for sure.

Now comes the fun of investigating a new car. I’m only going to be looking at things on the basis of practicality and economy. I’m not really interested in looks at all – it’s very subjective anyway, and the cars most people consider to be beautiful, I’m not so keen on. I did have a thing for the Lamborghini Countach and the Lotus Esprit as a kid (those nice, ’70s cars with edges), but you can keep your BMWs, bling, and executive cars. They do absolutely nothing for me.

So, I guess it’s time to start doing some research. Wish me luck!

Ironically, the main reason for this decision has been that the covers band for whom I play, Ministry Of Beaver, is just too busy for a man in my situation. Following recent family bereavements, and the passing of other people I’ve admired in the public eye, notably the sad death of Christopher Hitchens, I have taken a more philosophical look at life and come to the decision that I need to free up as much of my free time as possible for family – notably at weekends.

I believe that we have one life and that there is no before or after-life. We have one existence on this planet and we’d damn well better make the most of it! I’m completely happy with that concept too.

The band’s success has meant that many weekends of the year have to be reserved for gigs. This means that time we could otherwise do things as a family has been lost. This is of course what a band should be doing, and don’t get me wrong – it has been great… it’s just time for me to re-assess my priorities.

We have three children, the oldest of whom is 14 this month. I am very aware how quickly the years pass. We are now in a situation where we have a caravan, and some of my happiest childhood memories are holiday times spent away around this country – nothing grand – just great times with family. I am determined to furnish my kids with those kind of memories and am all too aware that time is ticking away.

Given that we are now in the enviable position of being able to take a quick decision to spend a couple of nights away in our caravan, show the kids around this wonderful country, and to build some of those memories, it’s a shame not to exploit that possibility.

Unfortunately, in my case, the thing that is standing in the way of us being able to do this, is the band.

Just by way of an explanation to those who may not appreciate what the average band does when playing a gig, this is how it works for the Ministry Of Beaver…

A gig usually means an early evening start on the night of the gig. The equipment has to be collected from storage and then the band makes its way to the venue. Sometimes, this is just down the road, but more often than not, it is between half an hour and an hour away from where our equipment is stored. We generally arrive at a venue between 18:30-19:00 and then the laborious process of setting up the equipment and sound-checking happens. This generally takes between an hour and an hour and a half. We are always self-sufficient, bringing along our own full P.A. and lights.

Once set up and sound-checked, we are in the position of waiting until around 21:30, which is about standard for a start time. We play between two and two and a half hours’ music and then pack everything away again, drive back to where the equipment is stored, and then finally head home. More often than not, I’m back home between 01:30 and 02:00; sometimes, as was the case on Saturday, closer to 02:30. This means a late start the following morning, and all of a sudden, the following morning is gone.

The actual buzz of playing a gig is fantastic, especially when an audience is really into it. There’s a reciprocal meeting of minds between band and audience, and the more the audience is into it, the better the band performs and plays up to it.

Playing to a lifeless crowd is not much fun, but it just happens sometimes, and it’s pretty random. The important thing is that you don’t let it bring you down and you definitely don’t take it personally. We can all expect to play a number of ‘paid rehearsals’ over time.

Fortunately, Ministry Of Beaver has always had a great level of musicianship. All the members I’ve had the pleasure of playing alongside have been great musicians and brought a lot to the band. It’s rare that you get that kind of chemistry in a band… and that level of musicianship. That may sound conceited, but I write as I find. I hear enough other bands in rehearsal rooms to know when I’ve been on to a good thing!

More importantly than that even, we all get along famously. There are no big egos or work-shy members in the band. Everyone has always turned up to rehearsals having learnt their individual parts, so we’re in the great position of being able to rehearse the song as a band, rather than run through it so that one member can figure out their part in the band’s time.

But, following years of the gig routine, I have grown weary of the peripheral work around playing – the set-up and break-down and the travelling home in the early hours of the morning, and this is ever more encroaching on the enjoyment of the actual performance, which is still actually very enjoyable. I’ve often said that I’d almost be tempted to forgo my performance fee to just turn up, play, and go home, but we’re not in that kind of league and that still wouldn’t solve the issue of freeing up time for family.

A third reason for my decision is probably surprising to many, in that I’m not overly keen on the material we play. I enjoy actually playing it all, but it’s not the kind of stuff I listen to (with some exceptions). Nevertheless, this is a relatively minor issue. I knew what I was joining and did it precisely because I knew the drum parts would be more involved and demanding than those I’d played in previous bands, so I have always appreciated that challenging aspect to the material, and just because I’m not keen, doesn’t mean the audience doesn’t love it! I staggers me how well some songs which I actually almost loathe are loved by people – and vice-versa – some stuff which I really rate as strong material can occasionally fall on deaf ears. You never know what you’re going to get. I’ve played a wide range of material with the band and there have been only a couple of songs I’ve got to in a set and thought, ‘oh no – not that one’ and only one which I couldn’t even learn, because I just loathed it from the outset and my brain just rejected it outright!

But what do I know! The Beaver is the first band I’ve played for which has a relatively regular base of ‘fans’ which come along to gig after gig to offer their support, and they’re all a great bunch of people. They love the stuff we play, so I have to thank them for making the effort to spend their time supporting us. It is very much appreciated.

My final reasoning revolved around logistics, and since my car has just died, that has thrown a further spanner in the works, merely compounding the situation. The timing of the car’s demise is truly appropriate, although it would have been better if it had waited until the end of June!

Informing the other guys in the band of my departure hasn’t been easy, and I ended up writing them a longish email on Saturday to announce my departure and explain my reasons. I had supportive responses back from all of them, which says a great deal about their friendship.

I hope that band can find a replacement who will get on with them and value them as the people and musicians they are as much as I have. I hope to support the band when I can from the sidelines. They’re a great band and a fine bunch of people.

So, my last words are addressed to my fellow Beavers, past and present… Gents – it’s been a pleasure, and I hope to enjoy a few more great gigs with the Beaver before I finally exit stage left.

We had been offered a slot at Ditch The TV – a monthly, predominantly acoustic evening, run by local musician, Malc Evans, for whom I’ve played session drums in the past, both with his band Beneva, and with Malc in his solo work.

Having got back together again at the close of 2010, we (BAiT) have been working on an acoustic set for some months now. Eventually, we settled on a collection of songs predominantly from the band’s back catalogue, with a couple of extra songs penned by Andy which hadn’t ever been played in BAiT and a new song for which I wrote the music and Andy wrote the lyrics.

Ditch The TV normally runs from the Maudsley pub on the Allesley Old Road, but due to a double-booking, it was unavailable last night. Fortunately, Malc had managed to obtain use of the function room at the nearby Four Province’s pub.

We had the headline slot, which basically meant we were on last. This is not always the blessing it would appear to be, as people can start to shuffle off at various points in an evening, but as it goes, we were lucky last night and people stayed for all three acts.

First on was a sixteen year old, Kane Collins, who entertained us with a couple of original compositions and then a range of covers. It was just him and his guitar and he had a good tone to his voice – would expect he’s got a good musical future ahead of him.

Second on the Bill was a fellow Nuneatoner (and flat-cap wearer), Chris Tye, who performed a selection of his own material on acoustic and electric guitar, and accompanied by a guy on double bass. The sound out front was great. Chris had a nice tone to his voice and the material really suited the atmosphere.

Finally, we took to the stage. Having a minimum set-up, this was a relatively new experience to me (or at least one I hadn’t been through in recent years). In the first instance, it’s odd for me, since I ordinarily play drums, to be seated at the front of the stage, but I can’t begin to express how nice it is to not have to set up and break down a drum kit – a task which I utterly loathe nowadays.

We worked our way through the set we had worked out. All went relatively smoothly from our point of view, although following the gig, we did all admit to being nervous at the start. I also had some tuning issues in one song – the E string on my mandolin was a little out of tune and it kept making me wince. At one point Andy leaned over and whispered that it sounded like an old piano, almost causing me to lose it completely, because he had hit the nail on the head.

This and the odd bit of feedback aside, we soon settled into things and really started to enjoy it. As the gig went on, I thought the vocals were working together nicely from what I could hear. For my part, it was nice to switch between cajon and mandolin.

When we had finished our set, Malc asked if we had any more we could play, which gave us the chance to play the one cover we had worked on – Songs Of Love by The Divine Comedy, which many will not know in its song format, but will be more familiar with as the theme tune from Father Ted.

The gig over, we caught up with various people who had come from near and far to see us, and all of whom gave us the ‘thumbs-up’. Mark from Ministry of Beaver was very complementary, which meant a lot. Sometimes, people can be protective or reluctant for band mates to be involved in other projects – whether it be through fear of them ‘quitting their main job’ or just a sense of protection, I couldn’t say, but fortunately Mark is not that sort of person.

Paddy (my former Beaver rhythm section colleague) and his ‘Mrs Lady’ as he calls her also came along, and again, he was very supportive. He’s heard the band’s CDs before and has always spoken highly of us, which again means a lot, as he is a talented bass player.

A few other friends had come along to offer support too, and it was nice of them all to make the effort to come to see us.

The final ‘seal of approval’ of the evening came from the landlord at the Four Provinces who was extremely complementary and asked us on the spot whether we’d be prepared to play a gig there in our own right, so that is something we’ll certainly have to take him up on.

So, it was a really enjoyable first gig back. BAiT is most definitely back. It is different again from its last iteration, but we have a nice rehearsal routine worked out now, and our meet-ups are productive, yet informal enough to have the enjoyable general chat we used to have too much of in the old days of BAiT, when we met up three times a week.

We just need to keep the set polished, look out for some more gigs, and look at adding some more material over time.

Photo albums ruin photos and prevent one from being able to scan the photos. If you have any photo prints, for the benefit of your descendents, please don’t put them in damned photo albums of any kind! If they’re in them at the moment, remove them this instant!

The ones with adhesive are the worst, but the small flip-book ones are almost as bad. Photo envelopes are just fine – and they take up much less room.

Oh, and for feck’s sake write lightly in pencil on the back of each one who’s in the photo and when they were taken or your future generations won’t have a clue.

I’ve been scanning photos and slides for weeks. Trust me – your descendents will thank you.

If you have any photo prints of your own and don’t have any digital versions of them, scan them in yourself at the highest lossless resolution you can and keep copies of them in that format (ideally without changing colour etc. – photo enhancement techniques and your own skills in using them will probably just improve further as time goes on).

Then, and only then do some image manipulation on them.

Make two copies of the high-resolution and unaltered scans and give two members of your family or friends a copy. Ideally, back them up ‘in the cloud’ too. Personally, I find Picasa does a brilliant job of managing synching photos with Google’s storage at a cost of $5 per year for 20GB of space. It also allows you to share photos easily with others.

I’m having to rescan photos I scanned a few years ago, because I didn’t heed this advice and I now know how to get much better results myself through image manipulation tools, but didn’t keep the original scans -cue expletive!

And right now, I can’t begin to tell you how much more difficult photo albums are making my life… again!

I should start out by stating that I have read http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wikipedia:SOPA_initiative/Learn_more and I am aware that you have left access to Wikipedia open on mobile devices or by disabling javascript (fine for those of us who know how to do that – and to switch it back on again for the many sites on which it’s needed or useful), but…

In order to register your protest against the Stop Online Piracy Act and the Protect Intellectual Property Act – potential legislation being proposed in the United States, you’re going to punish the English-speaking world (not even just users in the United States) by depriving them of access to a service which they have built up for you.

This is legislation which is opposed by President Obama and already appears to be a non-starter, based on what I have read in the media. But, even if that is not the case…

I live in the United Kingdom. You may want to look on a map of the world to see where that is. I have no sway or influence over the politics of your sovereign nation, even if I wanted to. You do not appear to have a UK English version of your site, despite the fact that we are ‘two nations divided by a common language’, nor have you implemented your ‘protest’ in a way which uses visitors’ IP addresses to identify their country of origin, so you are not in the position to act in a way which only affects users who may, and I mean ‘may’, be able to have the tiniest impact on this legislation.

Wikipedia represents an open source of knowledge. It may not always be perfect, but the beauty of its open nature is that people in a position of knowledge do indeed have the option to correct errors instantly, and have their work reviewed by peers; something it does have over printed encyclopedias. Indeed, although the perception that Wikipedia is full of inaccuracies (hardly surprising given the vast subject areas covered), I have heard experts in various fields complement the site for its accuracy. The site presents sources clearly and I have found it to be an extremely useful reference in the past. I defend the concept of Wikipedia.

What I can’t get past is the logic behind this action. You may have consulted core members of the Wikipedia team (Wikipedians), but couldn’t you have offered a vote to your readers before you made your futile gesture? It is they ultimately and not just the hardcore Wikipedians who have built up your power and influence – all with their own time and effort, and in some cases money. And now here you are acting in a way which affects the very people who support you! It is fundamentally against the spirit of openness. Yes, I know that’s your point, but you are targeting the wrong people.

Support you? You’ve just alienated me and politicised a site which supposedly celebrates its ‘neutrality’. I don’t want to see your face at the top of the page asking for my financial support again after this fiasco. No wonder the head of Twitter called your gesture ‘silly’. Your visitors deserve better. And if you don’t think so, would you mind confining your actions to those who can have any influence over your politics. Google have behaved far more responsibly and fairly in their protest, by symbolically blacking out the Google logo on the US version of the website. Likewise WordPress, whose home page is very striking as I write this. In both cases, they make their protest in a powerful, but unintrusive way.

As one of countless similar comments (by a Wikipedian) on your own site has stated…

“I am saddened and aggrieved that some people want to use Wikipedia as a political tool. If people have objections to legislations they should make their protests known by acting as individuals, not by utilising the work that I and thousands of others have done. I am not contributing to Wikipedia to provide anyone with a means to add weight to their opposition to legislation. If you’re not happy, write to Congress – you can use OpenCongress, or some other means. A handful of vocal editors should not be able to force the closure of a website used by millions.”

I just wanted her to know that history can always be viewed from several perspectives. Judging past behaviour by today’s values is dangerous and fails to consider the values of the time.

Also, while Britain did some terrible things in India, it left the country with the largest democracy in the world and a rail network which has been instrumental in the country’s development.

A mere 70 years ago we were intentionally targeting civilian targets by blanket-bombing whole German cities; something which would be inconceivable now.

Values change, and it’s important that history is also considered in the context of the time it was made.

Elizabeth was born in 1925 in Bellingham, London, the third child and only daughter of Frederick and Louisa Chivers.

Elizabeth as a young girl

She spent the war in London, surviving the Blitz and, when asked about this time and her experiences, recounted in perfect calmness how she regularly witnessed policemen picking up body parts. The house opposite her home suffered a direct bomb hit and its owner, a Mr Flood, was killed outright.

Following the war, she started nursing at Farnborough. During the first few years of her career, she worked in midwifery in Aberdeen, then moved to Warneford Hospital, Oxford, where she was a sister for three years. In 1954, she moved back to Catford with her parents, before buying a maisonette in Sidcup in 1961 for the princely sum of £4000. She remained at Queen Mary’s hospital in Sidcup for the remainder of her career.

Aunty never married. I only discovered in recent weeks that this may well have been largely down to her choice in career. When she started working, nurses in her position simply didn’t get married. It was not considered proper in her line of work. It’s interesting to think of Aunty as a feminist in those post-war times, determined to put her independence and career above any consideration of settling down with her own family.

It didn’t matter though, because she always had a surrogate family in the form of my immediate family.

As my brothers and I grew up, Aunty was a key figure in our life. As our own parents had had children relatively late, we didn’t have grandparents. My older brother Paul knew our maternal grandmother for the early part of his life, but that was the extent of our grandparents’ influence on any of our lives. Aunty became a key part instead. It was always a joy when she came to visit us and always a joy to go to see her in Sidcup.

She was always great with children – a natural, who relished watching children play, and organising activities for them. Our own children recognised that a trip to visit Aunty would mean that a range of drawing materials, jigsaws, puzzles, games, and other amusements would be presented to them as soon as they walked in the door. Aunty appeared to relish the children’s enjoyment as much if not more than they enjoyed the activities. That’s how we remember her as children too.

In 1987, when my dad retired, Aunty sold her house in Orpington and moved up to Bradford in an arrangement which saw us sharing a house with her as a family. She became part of our everyday life. Unfortunately, following the death of my mother, the relationship between Aunty and Dad deteriorated – in part, a case of two strong-willed characters and siblings, but also because Dad himself was becoming ill and his moods were affected.

In 1991, Dad, my younger brother Peter and I moved a couple of miles away to a new-build house. Aunty sold the house and moved to New Waltham, Grimsby, to be near her brother Bob and family. In the meantime, Dad’s condition worsened, while Peter and I were full-time students away from home. Dad went into a care home not too far from our older brother Paul and his wife, Teresa.

During the remainder of my days as a student, Aunty kindly let us use her house as our ‘base’ home. On return from my third year abroad as part of my four-year Modern Languages degree, I spent the remainder of my summer with Aunty. It was during this time that she prompted me to go out one evening to the pub. I think she felt that I’d spent enough time indoors and was keen for me to meet some other locals. Initially, I didn’t really feel like going out, but eventually decided to do so. It was during the course of that evening that I met Emma, who has been my wife for the last 15 years. On one of my last visits to see her in hospital, I reminded Aunty of the fact that she was responsible for Emma and me meeting, and therefore ultimately for the existence of our wonderful children. I don’t believe in fate or anything remotely superstitious, but that is one of those things in life which does make one think “What if…?”

While Peter and I settled down with our own families in Germany and Warwickshire respectively, Aunty remained in her house until 2005, when, concerned that she couldn’t continue to maintain her garden, she moved to her final home – a flat nearer the centre of Grimsby. Initially, we were concerned about her moving there, but it soon became apparent that she was surrounded by neighbours with whom she struck up very good friendships.

I couldn’t put my recollections of Aunty down without recalling other aspects of her character, which in part endeared her to and part frustrated others. Aunty was one of those people for whom you made allowances, because it was Aunty. You would let her talk to you in a way you might not put up with from others. This was in part down to her willingness to speak her mind. She could be objective to the point of coldness.

When Emma and I announced our engagement, admittedly after a relatively short three months, her response was not the traditional “congratulations”, but a rather cold, “That’s a bit quick, isn’t it?” She very quickly came around to the idea though and was very supportive.

Anyone who ever experienced a phone call would be familiar with her phone manner, whereby she seemed to be in a hurry to end the call at the earliest opportunity, and you could easily find yourself talking to the dialling tone. She didn’t mean anything by it – it was just how she was on the phone.

We also have a memory of Aunty’s driving experiences, one of which resulted in us insisting that the police patrol car really was in fact indicating to her that she should pull over (she was doing 30 mph on a dual carriage way at the time), and the other in which she ended up receiving a slap on the face by an irate Welsh farmer.

We used to take holidays with Aunty all the time. She always came along on our family holidays and often organised where we were going to stay. She recently recalled the story of one place which was in such a state that Mum could not control her own laughter. And the more Aunty became frustrated in such circumstances, somehow the more comical it became to others.

She more than made up for these strangely endearing characteristics (and we all have our ideosyncracies) though with her warmth, generosity, and love.

Aunty never stopped pushing herself mentally, and it’s probably down to this willingness to learn new skills and keep her mind active that she remained sharp until the end. Right up until the time she was hospitalised, she used a PC – a skill she developed in her seventies after she had joined the U3A. She continued to write poetry – an activity she came to enjoy increasingly as she grew older, and her Bridge games were very important to her.

Her character made her a key part of organising games and entertainment for our family get-togethers, particularly when we met as an extended family at New Year.

She was utterly indifferent to her own mortality, perhaps as a result of her life as a nurse. When diagnosed with cancer last year, her first reaction was to tell the doctors not to waste time and money on her. She had to be persuaded to have the treatment by the medical staff, who could see that she was otherwise sound in mind and relatively mobile.

Similarly, she was quite philosophical about the death of others who were clearly dear to her. To some, this may seem cold. I think it was just born out of witnessing death as part of her work.

For my part, I particularly enjoyed talking politics with her. Even during our last conversations, we were talking about the situation in the Eurozone. She was one of the few people I know who enjoyed discussing such things and I think that she enjoyed the opportunity to talk about them too.

For all her seeming abruptness, she was one of the most selfless people I’ve ever known and could turn from chastising to warmth in the blink of an eye.

All these aspects of her character, along with all the fun and frankly comical memories, of which there are many, will endure.

She will certainly be missed.

Aunty laughing

Got to say, I’m with the Morris dancers. For all the ridicule they get, they are bastions of this country’s folk dance traditions going back hundreds of years and it would be nice if, for a change, we celebrated our folk heritage as other nations do.

With a bit of imagination, a mass of traditional dancers, backed by a group of the finest folk musicians from the British Isles, I am sure a great show could be put on. Perhaps we could take the opportunity to teach some of our own islands’ inhabitants that our cultural heritage originates not in the streets of Harlem, but from the many varied regions and traditions which make up this collection of islands.

My own personal experience of people hearing English folk in particular is that they instantly assume it is Irish, due to the similarities in instrumentation and song. This is sad in the first place, because it illustrates immediately that they have no idea of how their own indigenous folk music sounds. English folk comprises jigs, reels, shanties, and other song forms – all from a variety of regions across the country, all with their own regional twists.

There was always a cross-pollination of musical influences across the British Isles, including Ireland of course. This in some way explains why, when British people, ignorant of their own country’s folk music, hear it for the first time, they instantly assume it to be Irish.

As for the ceaseless mockery of Morris dancing, people used to mock Irish dancing until Riverdance came along as the interval act of the Eurovision Song Contest and transformed people’s perception of that traditional dance form, making it and all things Irish ‘cool’.

Perhaps, in this respect, we should learn from our friends and relatives across the Irish Sea.

Did she lose her curling tongs or something equally dramatic?

It makes me so sad to think of the lives given to protect our society… and this is what we’ve built with that sacrifice. Viewing figures don’t lie – this is what matters to people – more so than democracy even.

I can see why some loony religionists see us as decadent, and we all know what happens to decadent societies in history…

Actually, we probably don’t.

In the summer of 1983, we took a family holiday to Scotland to a place called Crubenmore, near Newtonmore in the Scottish Highlands, and stayed in a wooden cabin next to Crubenmore Lodge. We had travelled up as full family: my mum, dad, and both my brothers. We were also joined by my dad’s sister, who used to accompany us on family holidays, which were always somewhere within Britain.

Thanks to the magic of Google Maps, I can actually show you a picture of the place.

The cabin was divided into three sections, with a bedroom and bathroom at one end, a large living room area in the middle, and a couple of bedrooms at the other end.

I was twelve at the time and had developed an interest in ghosts, as many of us do at that stage. I should say at this point that my father was a Church of England vicar, and so we grew up with a spiritual element to our lives, although it was a mainstream C of E church, and so there was no affirmation of faith through charismatic behaviour, such as speaking-in-tongues or any other such ‘magic tricks’ – just an ordinary and friendly congregation. I remember my dad and mum telling me at some point not to dabble with ouija boards and I took their advice, but heard the usual incredible stories from friends at school of their experiences, or their friends’ friends’ experiences.

Anyhow, for some reason, somebody mentioned during the course of the holiday that the actor Alec Guinness had died. He was actually still very much alive at the time, and had in all likelihood come up in conversation due to my fondness for all things Star Wars as a twelve-year-old boy.

During the course of a night, I woke up (or was at least semi-conscious). I was quite frightened of the dark at that stage and used to regularly ask to go to sleep with the lights on. As I lay in my bed, the following words entered by head, although I didn’t voice them out loud.

“The ghost of Alec Guinness, are you there? Knock once for yes, and twice for no.”

Suddenly, there were two very definite and clear knocks on the wooden panelling behind my headboard. I jumped out of the bed with a start and called out for my brother and aunt, both of whom were sleeping in the same large bedroom. I called out again for my aunt, but she didn’t respond, so I made my way towards the door in the dark, planning to make my way through the living room area to my parents’ room. I remember thinking that I’d be safe with my dad – he was after all a vicar and would have some kind of magical powers!

As I reached out to open the door, it swung open in front of me – not just ajar, but fully open. By this stage I was really frightened and pretty much ran across the living room to my parents’ room, where I insisted on spending the rest of the night.

Now, here’s the thing. At the time, I can remember thinking in the morning that I was actually quite happy with the idea of the existence of ghosts. I accepted it completely and actually saw it quite positively. If there were ghosts, there must be an afterlife. Fine! Putting the scary stuff to one side, that was great!

However, over the following weeks, I began to attempt to rationalise it. Perhaps I had imagined the whole thing. I was definitely not fully awake when it happened. Perhaps if the events I describe had happened, the knocks on the wooden cladding were my bed hitting the wall a couple of times, or my older brother moving around in the next room. The door opening may not actually have swung fully open – I had merely imagined that it had. If it opened at all, perhaps it was, as would be expected in such a building, due to my movement, a draught, or simply the building itself moving.

I had a further eerie experience on a separate occasion – in church. My dad used to repair the pipe organ. He had originally trained as a piano tuner and then took a very much hands-on approach to maintaining the church pipe organ, which resulted in pipes being made at home and hours spent routing around the back of the instrument at church. On one occasion, he asked me (or probably ordered me after I’d driven my mum to distraction) to accompany him there. I sat in front of the keyboards while he did what he needed to do maintenance wise, my feet dangling above the organ bass pedals, which I always loved to stand on – brilliantly farty notes. I now understand why I discovered a love for the low frequencies of synth bass pedals, beloved of Prog Rock.

I glanced around at one point and saw a ghostly figure as clear as day stood against the whitewashed wall. Its face was very vivid and its features extremely clear to me. I turned around in fright and then decided to brave my fears and to look back again, hoping that it had gone. It was still there. Somehow, I summoned up the courage to approach the figure in the pews. As I approached, the shape shifted slightly and it became clear that it was merely shades on the wall which my brain had formed into recognisable features, as our brains are wired to do. If I had taken a photo at the time, it would have been a classic ‘ghost photo’.

So, what do I think of these experiences now? Well, the second one taught me to confront those kind of scenarios and attempt to find the rational explanation. The first one taught me that the brain is very good at making you think you experienced things, or convincing you that they happened in a certain way. It has also presented my brothers with endless opportunities to mention the experience, or just Alec Guinness whenever possible, so if you can’t beat ‘em…

Paul, Peter, and Alec Guinness in Crubenmore Lodge

It’s why eye-witness accounts have been shown on many occasions to be completely unreliable. People remember what they want to – good or bad. And if we are in a state of mind to expect ‘paranormal’ experiences, anything which validates that expectation gets the ‘stamp of approval’ in our memory.