A dip into the past

What do you think that:

• Mr. W. Newman, of 4 Dalhuusil Square, Calcutta, India,
• the Bengal United Service Club Library, and
• Mr. Herbert C. Fyfe, author of Submarine Warfare,

have in common with yours truly and the Opportunity Shop, Morrinsville, New Zealand?

I'll tell you:

A book was bought by Mr. W. Newman, of Calcutta, which was then purchased from him by the Bengal United Service Club Library in August 1902. I found it in the Opportunity Shop in Morrinsville in 1999.

Apart from its loose stitching and some pages tending to crack and break if not carefully handled, it has survived remarkably well, even to the Bengal United Service Club Library label on the back cover, which states:

'Members may keep the book for thirty days and are reminded that unless books taken out by them are entered as "returned" in the book kept for that purpose, they remain responsible for them'.

The last issue label of September, 1916, pasted inside, records just one issue, 22 March 1917. It was returned on 8 September 1944, and with no evidence that the book was 'Withdrawn' from the library, prompts the question: Where had it been during its twenty-seven years’ absence?

Published in London in 1902, with its 50 illustrations and readable text, 'Submarine Warfare', by Herbert C Fyfe, is an absorbing read. What intrigues me most about my Opportunity Shop find is the identity of the member who, in 1917 took out P 99, as the book is designated. Why wasn't it returned by the due date? Some call to active service perhaps, or dare I suggest, the strangling rope of a thug, devotee of the Indian god Kali, still active in some areas?

And after all that, how did it come to be in the Morrinsville Opportunity Shop, 55 years after it was returned to the place of issue?

I say! Damned perplexing! What?!

(Any ideas?)

Dennis Crompton © 1999

(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

Main Street, Morrinsville

Nottingham Castle pub, corner of Thames and Studholme Streets, Morrinsville 3300, New Zealand

Some bright spark on the council suggests modernising our main street,

believing it will encourage visitors through our town to stop,

comfort a priority, then, hopefully, to shop….

*

That’s a laugh, no comfort in the central toilet block,

that’s normal though…where-ever you go;

folk are usually pleasant, feeling lighter as they leave,

the time to capture them and re-adjust their sights…

a sign perhaps, large and snappy to lift their eyes and make them happy.

*

Around our town, above their heads of window-shoppers on our main street

our old facades of faded paint, chipped red bricks and dusty panes

listing a kind of history in the names of people there.

Photographs, large shop-window size crammed full of detail there to see,

really quite a thrill to view them, time-frozen action shots of people.

*

Things we see on gala days, farm engines puffing, snorting and wheezing,

pistons gleaming through the steaming, belts and pulleys, cranks and levers,

care-giver’s eyes happily streaming, adjusting this and checking that,

the women folk are just as bad with fancy dresses and large graceful hats.

*

Cake stalls bountifully displaying grandmother’s mouth-watering favourites;

scones, pikelets, oatcakes, sponges and biscuits,

light as a feather cream-cakes all ready for eating.

*

So hold it there smart little go-ahead buddy in your desire for all your updating

things pulled down today could be the basis…

a calling-place tourists would love to be filming,

tomorrow.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1996

(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

I see...

Written whilst looking outside my office window, Studholme Street, Morrinsville, New Zealand.

* 

The road outside my window

now teems with every form of life …

above, all sight of feathered flight is lost

to those set on an intercontinental course …

 *

Close by I see the past in an old fence post,

last remnant of the farmhouse here that was,

beneath my feet the earth, rich and dark

retains whatever drama was played out here

a hundred or more years before …

 *

Next door, pupils arrive from school eager

for another supplementary education session …

seated at keyboard, their fingers,

brain directed, computing information

adding an extra dimension to their day’s learning.

 *

What formula will they perhaps discover …

that twenty years on will set another kind of course?

No matter; they have youth’s potential and motivation

to adventure with a growing, more cosmopolitan

worldwide barrier breaking population …

on the internet I see …

*

Our human senses interface,

surface skimming almost instinctively …

sometimes, provoked by mood or other stimuli

more deeply comprehending a new insight.

 *

Dennis Crompton © 1999

(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

How to lose friends and infuriate people

Three years ago, after careful consideration, I made the rash decision of allowing myself to be nominated for the position as chairman of SeniorNet Morrinsville, a computer group for the aged. And yes, I was successful.

Since then, I’ve learned a great deal about how to lose friends and infuriate people. For those wishing to learn how this is done, I offer a few gems that have encouraged my hair to grey and much of it to lose contact with my scalp, all within a very short space of time.

Part one
No matter how well you have worked by phone, e-mail, personal house calls etc, lurking in the back of your mind is the knowledge, that somewhere, at sometime, someone will raise a question from the floor during a meeting that you are not expecting and have not the answer for. In response, therefore, I come to a phrase made famous in New Zealand by a member of the team on the television programme: A Game of Two Halves. When faced with the fact that he didn’t know the answer, nor did his team know the answer, but knowing that the other team knew the answer… he would toss his head in annoyance and growl: ‘Aw, who the hell cares?’

If that doesn’t fit the bill because the question asked of you is extremely complex, you could try…


Part two

Now you knew the answer seconds before it was asked, only now, your memory has turned to scrambled eggs, somewhat. You murmur to yourself: Easy does it boy, and working on a kind of frantic automatic response engagement, you slip in the politicians’ pass-the-buck method by turning to one of your trusted committee members (and they love you for this), smile and suggest authoritatively, ‘Now, Rodney, let’s hear from you on this one.’

Finally
Should you happen to be a rather crafty chair-person who has already made use of the above suggestions, or something similar, resulting in your committee being reduced to non-quorum status … regularly … I offer the following, which I heard on the TV One breakfast programme a few weeks ago.

A bright young thing who knew everything there was to know about films, film stars, producers and the rest, pontificating on the kind of people who go to see films these days, made the statement which now applies to your quorum-avoiding group:

‘Oh there are lots of people who don’t go to films anymore; they just get together and knit.’

Oh, and of course - there's 'passing a motion'
This can be a strain sometimes. Get it the wrong way round and try passing the seconder instead of the mover, and it can prove to be most embarrassing and certainly not to be recommended.
Meeting finished. Thank you.

Dennis Crompton © 2005
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

My out of body experience under the influence of drugs

What: Right hip pops out of socket

Why: A slight wriggle of the hips whilst well-reclined in comfortable chair, and galloping old age
Then what: Paramedic kindly eases pain with a drug
Result: My spacey drug misadventure back to normal

Seated in my Ezy-boy chair one day, I eased my body into a more comfortable position. Without so much as a 'how's your father', out popped my right hip from its socket after several years in good-working order as a complete right hip replacement, if you please. This was for the first time of happening… (I'm ex Church of England). A little time passed with me squirming or trying to keep still while my granddaughter smiled and ignored my pleas for her to get somebody to help me, thinking it was just another of my jokes. By this time, the desperation and decibel level I'd reached gained my daughter Helen's attention. Something was definitely wrong with Grandaddy.

The St John's Ambulance arrived very quickly. They knew the way to our place by now and probably had the ambulance set on auto-drive. On the floor of our lounge, the officers (two females and a male) opened a large hold-all of drugs and syringes of every description but wouldn't allow me to choose the pretty colourful ones. They knew best, and soon the pain began to ease replaced with an unplanned free trip into space. My advice? Don't try this at home, or anywhere.

Whatever the drugs were that now coursed through my veins, my trained care-givers had warned aforementioned daughter that drugs can have a weird effect on some people. Weird puts it mildly, believe me, for I had entered a grotesque place where nothing was real or distinguishable. Distorted faces came close then moved away several times, their lips moving yet I was hearing nothing and, isn’t that typical, not an angel in sight when you need one. I was me, but a strange disembodied me, no longer fully aware of anything (and I touch nothing stronger than wine gums these days).

Now, whichever way I turned I was staring up close at an ever-moving wall of meaningless shapes and colours. While my care-givers were thinking it was pain that was making me groan, it was the utter disorientation I was trying to come to grips with. Only when daughter Helen's hand held mine and she murmured that she was there did I begin to feel a measure of safety enough to begin to relax.

The above sentences in no way capture the absolute horror I felt was tearing at my sanity. It’s an experience I’m thankful to have behind me. Oh by the way, the hip in question is functioning well and given extreme care by its owner. Thanks indeed to Waikator Hospital (Hamilton) medical and Morrinsville St John’s Ambulance staff for their professional care. I shall sing your praises by enjoying the measure of life you’ve given to. May bands of angels sing you to your rest.

Dennis Crompton © 2011
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)