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Let’s start with the brief life of Amelia Maggs. Born 1885, she is the daughter of Ephriam Maggs – a plater – and his second wife, Sarah.

In the 1891 census, Amelia is listed as living at home in Southampton, the youngest of eleven children. We know very little about her circumstances, but can assume it is a life of poverty. At least she’s with siblings and parents; a decade later, it’s a very different picture.

The 1901 census lists her as an inmate at the Stoneham Union Workhouse. She is 16 years old and a domestic servant. We know that she marries three years later, and having survived the Great War, she dies on 22 February 1919 – aged 34 – a victim of the Great Flu Epidemic.

And we know one more fact about her; on 28 November 1918, she gave birth to a daughter. Gwendoline.

*

As we sit, well-clothed, well-fed and with loved ones both here and at home, it’s easy to forget the severity of the world into which Gwen / Mum / Nana / Great Grandma was born. It was not the most auspicious of starts. She was a link to a very different world.

For me, as an outsider to the gene pool now gathered in this room, it was learning about Amelia Maggs that set everything in context, and helped me truly value so many of Gwen’s qualities:

Her pragmatism. Her directness. Her belief that everything should be just so. Her generosity. And her appreciation of all the blessings that eventually came her way.

For, despite the difficulties of her early life, the second half was filled with happiness which she really savoured:

- Her love and friendship from Jan, her granddaughter – one of the most constant figures in her life;

- At 72, finding late love with John Day, her husband for the next 14 years;

- Reuniting and reconciling with sons Peter (living virtually around the corner) and Chris (with a life on the other side of the world), and seeing that they had found love, stability and companionship with their wives, Christine and Mary, and had thriving families of their own;

- Her good fortune at the care, comfort and shelter provided by her loving daughter Sue and Trevor here in Cornwall;

- And – what she considered her greatest good fortune – getting to know her six great grandchildren.

*

Of course, all of this is a two-way street – for every blessing she counted, so ought we for having known her. Over the past 10 days, you will have had opportunity to reflect, as you will continue to do over the coming weeks and months.

Here are some of the memories she has bequeathed me – for even the smallest actions can cause profound ripples across the pond of time.

*

Thanks to Gwen, I am a vegetarian.

More years ago than I care to remember, I was invited to lunch by my new girlfriend, Janice. We were teenage sweethearts, and desperately trying to make a good impression. I was introduced to Nana, who was busy in the kitchen, preparing the traditional Sunday roast.

Now, you need to know one piece of information about me to make this story work. At the time, my appetite for vegetables ran from potatoes to peas, via carrots. That was it. A limited basket indeed.

We sat to eat, and Nana started to serve. Chicken (that‘s OK), roast potatoes (check) , peas (check), carrots (check), swede (oh dear). The mashed orange turnip. I ate the rest of the meal with gusto, as teenage boys are wont to do, but left the swede to one side. At which point Gwen took deep offence, and adopting her best Lady Bracknell voice, said

“I hope you’re not going to waste that. Come on, eat up young man.”

I forced myself to comply, gagging on every mouthful. Meanwhile Jan prayed for the ground to open up and swallow her too.

Yet without that moment, my diet would be very different today, and life wouldn’t be quite as interesting.

For that alone, I owe Gwen a considerable thanks.

*

Of course, food wasn’t the only platform from which Gwen could launch a major embarrassment offensive. Stealing from the National Trust and Municipal Councils was also a regular habit. As families tend to do, Sue and Jan created a friendly-sounding euphemism for this petty larceny: Wombling.

Picture the scene; an afternoon spent at a country house or park and gardens; then back to the car to go home. But where’s Nana? Back through said garden, looking high and low, to eventually find her “Wombling” amongst the bushes, taking cuttings for future propagation.

So, as we leave today, keep an eye on Jan. If she gets too near any flowers, and starts to open her handbag, please restrain her. We don’t want a scene.

*

It’s not just outdoor pursuits that Gwen has left me. Thanks to her, I am also a puzzleholic.

When Jan and I used to visit her in Shirley, there was very little for me to say or do. Frankly, it wasn’t easy to get a word in edgeways. So, like the patient in a waiting room, I looked for something to read. And in the absence of What Car or Digital Photography, I found myself flicking through The People’s Friend. Not perhaps a publication aim at 20-something males, but at least  it was reading material.

And there I learned the valuable lesson that you can find gold in the most unexpected places – because I discovered Gwen’s almost-finished crossword.

“Nana – I think I have 9 across. Do you want to know the answer?”

Thereafter, every visit to Gwen included a crossword completion test for me, and I got the bug. Most mornings now Jan and I compete to get the answers on The Guardian Quick Crossword.

Gwen would be proud: Jan usually wins.

*

So thank you Gwen, for the impact you had on me. While you may never have directly interfered – that wasn’t your style – your influence has been wide and long-lasting.

And it’s rather fitting that someone who spent their working life as a cook should leave behind such a rich recipe for a happy life:

· count your blessings

· eat good food

· do a crossword everyday

· and never, ever miss an opportunity to go Wombling.

* * *

CODA: I was due to give this at Gwen’s funeral, scheduled for 10:30 this morning, but the elements (and Cornish hills) conspired against us: when the hearse can’t get to the Chapel of Rest, you know you have a problem.

With her two sons in situ but with tight travel plans (the one from Australia happened to be in the UK for a wedding), the Minister conducted an improvised commemoration in my in-laws’ home, when Gwen had lived for the past 5 years.

It was one of the most intimate, meaningful services it has ever been my privilege to be part of. And three siblings – who had spent most of their adult lives not knowing the others even existed – shared a moment that, in some way, makes them more complete people.

How about that for a legacy?

Popularity: 48% [?]

Amber left yesterday.

She’d been with us for 7 years (a birthday present for my wife), and at the time I couldn’t picture life with a dog in the house. Now I’m having to come to terms to life without her…

She’d been ill for about six months. During one routine inspection, we noticed a very inflamed patch at the back of her throat.  Veterinary check-ups, followed by a operation by a oncologist,  revealed a tumour at the back of her soft palette. It was the size of a plum: To this day, I can’t imagine how  she was managing to swallow.

After the op, the surgeon warned us that the cancer type was recurring and Amber had months, possibly a year or two, but that was unlikely. Wisely, my wife decided that long, drawn-out treatment wasn’t an option. There would be little point in clinging on and putting the dog through protracted suffering.

We hoped for a longer remission. It turned out to be a couple of months.

A couple of weeks ago, I’d taken Amber for a walk and noticed that she was really strugging on the home straight.  I know that animals slow down with age, but she had retained a bouncing, puppy-like quality. To see her struggle was a real shock.

When we arrived home, she flopped in the hallway (not unusual) but then we noticed a very large bump by her shoulder. Sure enough, it was another growth. In the days that followed, swallowing again became uncomfortable for her, and she struggled with her breathing. Our vet told us that all the symptoms indicated that she had tumours in various parts of her body.

And yet, and yet…

On occasions she would as lively as her first days with us. Tail wagging like a windscreen wiper, eyes shining like Asprey silver. How could this animal be ill?

But then she started coughing blood, and we knew she was at the end.

The veterinarian profession is very sensitive and sympathetic about these things. Our local practitioner offered us the option of ‘putting her to sleep’ in the surgery or at home. Amber never did like riding in the car, so we opted for the latter. The vet and her nurse arrived yesterday afternoon, and were gentle yet efficient. This is not a process that should be extended.

Amber laid submissively in the kitchen (we have a floor to ceiling window that was ‘her spot’ where she would soak up the sun. Fittingly, it was a sunny day). The vet shaved a little hair off  her front legs then told us that the injection was an  anaesthetic overdose; all Amber would know was that she was falling asleep.

I have always been somewhat suspicious – not to say cynical – about the anthropomorphic tendencies of pet owners. But I am sure I could see in her eyes that she knew this was going to be a respite from her pain. Indeed, there was barely a whimper when the first needle went in. She pulled back a little, but without real fight, and in a moment – perhaps 20 seconds – her golden-haired body visibly slumped.

To be sure, the vet added to the dose in her other front leg. And by the time the syringe was empty, Amber had gone.

The two of us, teary, a little numb, said goodbye then retired to the sitting room while the vet and the nurse wrapped Amber’s body in a blanket and carried her out to their car. They will dispose of the body at a pet ‘facility’ and we’ll have a her remains back in a week or so.

I thought I was fulfilling my role of strong male, holding things together to give my wife some support.  Amber was, after all, her dog and she was the one who’d taken the tough decision (thus answering the conundrum ‘Do you love someone enough to let me go?’).

Being English, the thing to do in these circumstances is to have a cup of tea, so after the vet had gone I went into the kitchen to boil the kettle. And there, on the table, was Amber’s collar. Red leather, rather worn, with its metal disc with our phone number.

And in that moment, I saw every occasion when I had clipped on her lead or pulled her back to sit at the side of the road. Every walk to the park, every wrestle with a football in the garden, every conversation started with a stranger.

And it hurt much more than I ever thought it would.

It’s the unanticipated gaps which amplify the grief. This morning we didn’t have to negotiate with her whether she’d go out the backdoor or the side door to visit the garden. When the top came off the biscuit barrel, she didn’t suddenly appear at my side, the embodiment of attentive obedience (aka cupboard love). I didn’t have to step over her on the landing.

But it was seeing the weekend paper in the letterbox that really caught in my throat. The paperboy had delivered – but this time, to a silent reception.

And I realised that for seven years Amber’s bark – like birdsong – had announced the start of the day.

Mornings just won’t be the same.

Popularity: 27% [?]

Morning Run, originally uploaded by paulrutherford.

Been almost a year since I picked up a camera with a vengence (been discovering the delights of blogging, Facebook, Twitter, mobile computing – discovering my inner geek).

Out with Amber this morning, I slipped a Canon IXUS in my pocket, and started clicking as I ran along side her, with the gait of Groucho Marx.

She had a health scare recently, which makes me appreciate her all the more. Bizarre, given that when she first arrived I was the one person in the house that was ambivalent about the very idea of ‘dog’.

Now, I can’t imagine a home without her.

This is the shot of the set (most of the rest were of sky, back legs or grass). I’m sure purists will be a bit sniffy, but for a point-and-click, it’s OK.

(Oh; if you’re looking at this in the Flickr ‘National Trust’ picture group, the land does belong to the NT, so strictly speaking.. )

Popularity: 3% [?]

Every night, as I lay in bed, I think of Brian.

And whenever I check the time, I think of my wife’s ears.

This all started about eight weeks ago. We decided that after 15 years on our Seally Posturepedic it was time for a new mattress. It had served us well – especially our three children when they aspired to Olympic-level trampoline. But the edges were beginning to fray, the surface was worn through in a couple of spots, and hard lumps had appeared in the most inappropriate places – rather like poolside widows at a Florida rest home.

So where else to go but BeddyBuys?

It’s a local independent we’ve been buying from since No. 1 child first stood in his cot and demanded the right to fall out of bed.  Singles, doubles, pull-outs, bunks, wardrobes, chests, chairs – we’ve completed two rounds of refurnishing, all sourced from the same small shop on the outskirts of town.

‘Shop’  overplays it; ‘light industrial unit’ is probably the technical description. It’s a 70m by 30m brick-glass building with a concrete car park opposite the paint works, off a small road, off the main road.

We don’t go to Beddy Buys for the glamour. We go to be sold to, well. By Brian.

Brian has been in the bed business for over 50 years. There’s nothing he doesn’t know about his product, his suppliers and the market. More importantly, there’s nothing he doesn’t know about customers.

LEAD AND WE SHALL FOLLOW

We arrive, shake hands, tell him that we’re looking for a new mattress. He invites us to try one that’s just near by. It’s quite firm, comfortable and 25% under our budget. Perfect.

“You might also want to test this one one too; this is really popular.” Brian catches my eye. I know the game, he knows I know the game, but I’m happy to play. Because he’s so good at it.

We walk along the showroom and try the next bed. It IS better, and bang on budget. I am emotionally engaged already. This is the one. J lays next to me. She’s not sure about it; too firm?

‘How about one with memory foam?’ asks Brian. ‘Best thing that’s happened to beds in the past ten years’.

Softly, softly, he’s reeling us in.

He guides us up to the end of the store, and we clamber onto a bed that’s almost waist high. And it’s fabulous. Brian explains the workings of the foam – and how it forms an additional layer, like a mattress on a mattress. Hence the height.

Then he tells me the price, which is double our budget. He can read that on my face.

‘It’s the most expensive in the shop, and to be honest we don’t sell that many. It’s the top of the range, and was the flagship product when the foam was first introduced, but now they have an intermediate model.’

I’m no longer in a furniture shop; it’s a BMW showroom.

We move from the premium to the intermediate. It’s as comfortable and certainly better than the first two. J and I lay on our backs, then one our sides. Brian delivers his coup de grace.

“These memory foam beds are especially popular with women.” We both look at him, question marks on our foreheads. Brian pats himself on the hips. “Takes up your shape, but still gives support.” And in that moment, J has decided that this is the one.

It’s 20% more than our budget, but at that moment, it’s the best value in the shop. And it continues to be so, every time I climb (almost literally) into bed and think of Brian.

ALL THAT GLISTERS

A few weeks later, I’m in the town centre itself,  to buy J an anniversary gift. It’ll be earrings this year – can never go wrong with earrings. And being blessed with a wife who has modest tastes, ‘everyday earrings’ are as gratefully received as those suitable for State occasions. So a pair of everyday earrings it’ll be. White gold, probably hoops? Possibly stud thingies? Maybe with a coloured stone. (What’s the blue one called?)

There are three jewellers to choose from. I go into Branch A, where the quality of product always seems to be a little higher than elsewhere. I am the only customer. Two women stand behind the counter, one polishing, the other arranging things.

“Can I help you?” the second says, a tad frostily. For a microsecond I want to ask her why else she thinks I’ve come in, but I resist the retort, and explain what I’m looking for. From the lack of response, I may well have been speaking in tongues.

Look – I’m a chap; we do our best, but really jewellery is beyond our comfort zone. We sort of know what we want (in that we think we know what she’ll like), but really we need help. Some hand holding, some suggestions, some examples, some explanation.

In short, we need selling to.

Arranging woman looks at  Polishing woman. “I don’t think we’ve got anything like that, do we?” (Nor are you particularly interested in finding out, I say to her, in my head).

“Might be something over there,” says Polishing woman, waving her cloth towards a display across the shop. I pause a moment, waiting for Arranging woman to exhibit signs of motion, but management must have spot welded her feet to the floor.

I walk to the display cabinet, wconcerned about my breath and choice of deodorant.

“On the left” says Polishing woman, pointing again, like a football manager unable to leave the technical area.

Sure enough, there are earrings, but they’re yellow gold. And while I don’t know much, I know that J wears white. I say so to Polishing woman.

She actually tuts, before saying “Well, it’s still gold.”

With all the willpower I can possibly summon, I stretch a smile onto my face to match Jack Nicholson’s Joker, thank them for their help and leave.

MR GRIFFIN GOES SHOPPING

Branch B is busier. Two young men behind the counters this time, each one serving a couple of customers. The younger pair are buying a ring for her, the older two a Christening gift. It’s not clear where they are in the transaction, but I’ll wait. It can’t be worse than the previous shop.

I wait. I wait some more. And then some more. The first couple can’t decide on rubies or garnets, while the second are torn between a silver money box, a bracelet or a Talking Teddy from Argos.

And I realise that an amazing physical transformation has happened during the stroll from Branch A to Branch B: I have become invisible.

I stand as close a socially acceptable to the second couple, hoping to catch the eye of the sales assistant, just for a “sorry to keep you”.

Nope. Nothing.

I sidle over to the first couple, and stand with my hands in pockets, bobbing up and down on my toes, expecting a “be with you in a minute, sir”.

To no avail. Zip.

At this point, I consider robbing the shop. My new found form surely gives me an advantage – but then I remember the film version of HG Wells’ story seemed full of artefacts that floated. A string of pearls and an Omega display stand flying down the High Street would be a bit of a give away.

I walk up and down the shop, almost doing physical exercises as if to keep warm. I consider knocking over the watch strap display or blowing gently down an assistant’s neck.

I reach the doorway when one of the voices behind me says “Alright mate. Gissus a couple of minutes. Won’t be long.”

Mate?

Alright mate??

I spin round, a shopper caught between the rock of long-sought service and the hard place of over-familiarity.

But the boy wonder selling the ring isn’t talking to me: He’s on his mobile.

SORRY TO BE SO MUCH TROUBLE

Branch C had a make-over about a year ago. It’s on the corner of two thoroughfares, so shop-fitters have removed the two external walls:  Customers must have been struggling with complex architectural concepts like ‘window’ and ‘door’.

The two internal walls are now floor-to-ceiling display cabinets, with the sales counters arranged as  two square in the middle of the shop.

There are a couple of earring sections on the back wall; and one tray (see, I speak the language) of white gold; there’s  even a pair with blue stones. Great; let’s have a look.

I turn to face the rest of the shop. On my right, a woman customer is becoming very annoyed an being kept waiting. She’s expelling air with the force of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and drumming of her newly-polished nails on the glass worktop. These are, I believe, well-established non-verbal signals.

My eyes switch to the assistant who’s standing to my left, ‘doing something’ with a small box. I guess that she’s serving the customer who’s noiw starting to  look like she’s been here since New Year 2007, when she came in to return a gift.

More fiddling. More tapping and heaving breathing; I fear she is about to hyperventilate.

The assistant looks up at me: “Can I help you?” This throws me completely. Not only have I been acknowledged, but who on earth is attending to tapping woman? I look at her, almost asking permission to be served. She shrugs and gives me a ‘be my guest’ wave of her palm and roll of her eyes.

I tell the assistant that I’d like to see the earrings in tray 60. Or perhaps I ask for the cosine of Pi? Could be either, because all I get is a blank look. I turn and point. ‘I’d like to see the earrings please. On tray 60. The blue ones.’

It’s like being a tourist trying to explain the Scotch egg to a  Moroccan street vendor.

The assistant comes out from behind the counter and unlocks the display. She removes the tray, locks the glass, and returns to the counter. But not the one I’m standing at; the one that’s on the other side of the square. With her back to me. She hunches there for a short while, and I wonder if she’s crying.

Was it something I’d said? Tapping woman shrugs again, and with the same eye-rolling communicates ‘what can you do?’.

I walk round the counter, but before I get halfway, the assistant says ‘I’ll need to put you on the other till’ and walks to the front of the shop, me following, a puppy desperate for walkies and a biscuit.

At the next counter she holds out her hand and asks if I’m paying debit or credit card? I realise that she has put the earring into a box and into a small bag, and now wants me to pay.

“Well, I’d quite like to have a closer look at them first,” I plead.

“I thought you saw them in the window.” Again, she stares at me with blank animosity. I stumble; “But…but…it’s part of the sale. Let me have a look at them close up. Put them on a piece of black velvet. I want to see them against skin, to imagine what they’ll look like being worn. SELL TO ME!”

Actually, I don’t say any of that. I want to, but she has followed her blank look with a “Whatever” as if she’s just been told that she was taking over from Mr Sisyphus on rock-pushing duties.

She takes the box out of the bag, and smacks it onto the surface like a WWF wrestler. A crack appears in the glass.

* * *

Perhaps they were all just having a  bad day. Perhaps they had all just dealt with the customer from hell. Perhaps I’M the customer from hell…

But when I compare Brian’s independent store with the jewellery chains, well, there is no comparison. Not for knowledge, enthusiasm, attention, service, sales, commitment or sheer good manners

It’s what we lost when we gave over town centres and out of town malls to the multiples. We may have gained cheaper prices (and even that’s not an absolute statement), and uniformity (was that ever presented as an option?) but we lost people who care.

During the boom years, most shop staff didn’t have to sell. It was enough to take orders. With high volume footfall through the doors, bringing enough customers with enough credit cards in their pockets, business almost transacted itself.

But in tougher times, every pound needs to be chased, and it will be the companies that invest in developing their shopfloor sales skills and genuine customer care who’ll survive.

And in case you’re wondering – after my aborted trip, eyes filled with tears of frustration, I asked J what she’d like as a gift. And she said a kitchen clock.

What man can begin to fathom the workings of the female mind?

Popularity: 92% [?]

Waiting.

My father in the Short Stay Coronary unit for an angiogram and CAT scan. Gowned, tagged and sampled, he lays on a bed that has more controls than a JCB cabin, watching cars queue for £20-a-day parking.

Two maintenance men fitting new ‘Max Headroom’ signs above the car park entrance. Of course, for Dad they are making a bad job of it.

‘Makes my blood boil,’ he says. Judging by the screen above his bed, it’s almost a literal statement.

Waiting.

A man in a white shirt arrives to wheel Dad to the scanning room. “How long will it take?” I ask.

“Don’t know. I just wheel ‘em. You’d better ask the nurse.” Foot levers are pushed, and Dad glides away, a human liner launched on its voyage into unchartered waters. A nurse tells me “an hour, an hour and a half”.

Waiting.

I find coffee at the Main Entrance: Hawkers and vendors with their cappuccinos and cakes, their burgers and books, their flowers and french fries. A mini mall of consumption to help pass the time.

There’s even a legal practice; a solicitor who got smart and gave up chasing ambulances. Now they come to him. He waits by the front door, personal injury forms partially complete: just sign here, here and here.

I buy a  black coffee and a brie baguette. “Do you want a packet of crisps or a banana with that?” There’s a meal deal, and I can have a free packet of crisps or a banana. It’s Hobson’s choice: I’m in a hospital; there are ‘5 Portion’ posters everywhere and my conscience is fruit-shaped.

Waiting.

Back on the unit,  I find Dad laying prone on his bed, recovering. The procedure – a tube inserted through his groin, along a main artery, to the aorta – has been painless but uncomfortable, so now he must rest.

Waiting.

A junior nurse – her light blue uniform showing her place in the pecking order – tells Dad to drink a jug of water to flush out the dye from his system. She offers a cup of tea with a straw, and a cheese sandwich. She raises the back of his bed 15 degrees.

Outside, the car queue dwindles. The workmen have finished the signs. We watch people walk to and from their vehicles.

A doctor arrives to speak with a man in another bed. Curtains are drawn, voices murmur about a murmur, curtains are pulled back. The man’s wife casts an apologetic, it’s-not-so-bad smile at Dad.

He says his feet are cold; are his slippers on the floor? I find them behind the drawer unit, kicked there by the porter, and stand at the end of the bed, pull back the blanket and put them on Dad’s feet, dark coatings for pale plates.

Waiting.

Another doctor. This one introduces himself; a cardiologist who confirms what we already know. Dad needs surgery. His aorta has dilated, restricting the supply of blood to the brain, and causing blackouts. It’s a replacement operation, too big for a stent.

Dad takes this in his stride – because it isn’t the bad news he is fearing. That comes in the next breath. “I have to advise you that until you’ve had the operation, you mustn’t drive.”

The metrics on the screen all change in an instant. Fifty years of professional self-respect and personal pleasure have just ended. His heart has been ripped out.

Waiting.

Cars leave the car park. Dad is now sitting upright. Another nurse, in darker blue, looks at his charts and asks if he would like to go to the sitting room. “Can we get his clothes from the locker?” I ask.  Not yet; just sit.

I help Dad on with his dressing gown, like wrapping a fragile parcel. We walk slowly to an open area, with salmon seating arranged against the walls.

The waiting room is new; no scuffs on wall or skirting, no rips in the chairs, no smell of hospital.

Waiting

The patients sit in hospital robes, their white porcelain legs capped with socks and slippers, received at Christmas, like every Christmas past.

A father, wife and son huddle in one corner, sharing a joke. Along the wall, a couple sit; he asleep, she staring straight ahead. Connected by hands, clinging to each others’ memories.

To my left, a lonely man reads a book and twitches his arm back and forth like a metronome.  Opposite, a well-dressed woman struggles with The Times crossword.

Waiting.

We’re told to take  gentle walks up and down the ward, every fifteen minutes. Without conscious arrangement, the seven patients take it in turns, a slow-mo relay without a baton.

I stroll with Dad, past more posters about fruit and fat, smoking and exercise. Given the circumstances, I’m not sure if this is encouragement or a reprimand.

Waiting

We all sit in silence, as only the English can. From along the corridor, the sounds of medicine – whirring, humming, buzzing.  The screech of a chair scraping the floor. Footsteps: we all look up, hoping for attention. But it’s not for us. No one comes.

Like divers in a decompression chamber, we need the ‘all clear’ to head for the surface.

Waiting.

The cardiologist reappears. He confirms that he will be handing Dad’s case notes to a surgeon, who will call him in for a consultation. Meanwhile, he’s discharged: One of the nurses will complete the paperwork.

A GP letter is written. A test report is compiled. Dad goes to his locker to dress. The visit is over, the prognosis given. The treatment is surgery, once he hears from the hospital in ‘couple of weeks.’

Waiting.

Popularity: 5% [?]

The pleasures of parenting are numerous and varied: from lisped lines in a Nativity play to the first try in a school rugby match; from reading a bedtime story to reading an A-level essay. With enough time, I could write a thousand moments of joy that my children have given me.

Watching ‘Scooby Doo: The Movie’ is not one of them.

There are so many things wrong with this film, it’s hard to find a redeeming feature: Possibly the production design, which takes the vibrant colour scheme of the original cartoons, and renders the entire film with a similar primary look.

Other than that,  it lacks everything. Soul, wit, charm – all missing in abundance. Which is inevitable if you set a film in a soulless, witless, charmless theme park (presumably in the hope of creating the ultimate merchandising cross-over, and building said park as a soulless, witless, charmless ‘downstream revenue pipeline’.)

For a moment, I thought my contempt was linked to being outside the target audience – but looking back over the U-certificates of the past 15 years,  I’m relieved to report that I haven’t lost touch with  my inner child. There are at least 10 movies that stir the heart, engaged the brain, and set benchmarks that Scooby Doo misses throughout its seemingly-endless 90 minutes:

Aladdin: love or loathe Robin Williams, he’s perfectly cast as the Genie, and the Disney Studio made an inspired call in letting him improvise first, then animating to the voice track after. It sets the tone for the entire film, which is energy. Scooby Doo has the energy of a wet battery.

Babe: every time I see those stupid sheep line up in single file and walk into the pen, followed by the eruption of applause from the crowd, there’s a tear in my eye and a lump in my throat. Then again, I had that reaction to SD – but I think it was a gagging reflex.

The Iron Giant: the best morality tale for children I’ve seen in all my years as a parent. It deals with complex issues, like a prejudice, in a way that 5-year olds and adults can ‘read’ side by side.

Stuart Little: wearing  schmaltz on all their sleeves, live actors (including Hugh Laurie, practicing his US accent) seamlessly interact with a computer generated mouse. In Scooby Doo, live actors have trouble interacting with live actors.

Monsters Inc: as well as great characters, out-loud-funny one-liners and a rich narrative, it’s a technical masterpiece: There’s a single shot of Sully (the big blue one) asleep in bed, breathing on his furry arm which, on its own, is worth the price of admission. That’s true of the end credits for Scooby Doo – just because they’re at the end.

Toy Story: delivers exactly what the title promises – a great story, perfectly structured, precisely paced.

Shrek 2: my pick of the Shrek series because (as the King) it’s John Cleese’s best screen performance for years. Maybe Rowan Atkinson would have been better off voicing Scooby than actually appearing as the villain?

The Incredibles: watching ‘Bob Parr/Mr Incredible’ run through the Pixar-generated jungle, I remember thinking “This is the future; why will movie crews ever need to go on location again?”. Well they did, and they went to Scooby island. Sadly, they came back.

Wallace & Gromit – The Curse of the WereRabbit: and they said that our two Plasticine heroes would never extend beyond 30 minutes. More invention in a single frame than in the entire Scooby canon.

WALL*E: rather like Saving Private Ryan, Act 1 of this film is somewhat let down by the rest of its running time. But those opening 25 minutes are simply stunning; gorgeous graphics offering the pathos and joy of silent comedy – two words that have no meaning on planet Scooby.

* * * * *

So that’s my Top 10 family films, enjoyed as an adult. (And believe me, there have been some clunkers. Hell is an endless loop of Scooby Doo, Agent Cody Banks and Spy Kids 3D.)

Excluding the films you saw as a child and now revisit – they’re too coloured by nostalgia – what are your favourites?

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My one-man campaign to lift the spirits of the nation enters Day 3.

According to ‘The Secret’ (the book with the fake parchment cover and blood red seal – wax, not Alaskan – that’s sold three squillion copies) if you think negative thoughts, you’ll attractive negative things.

Think positive thoughts, and you make a lot of money from recycling old self-improvement ideas.

So, with brow furrowing to the point of sweat, here are my positive thoughts for the day:

1. The sun came up this morning

2. No one is trying to charge me for using the sun (although E-On does want to sponsor it)

3. I still have a pulse.

4. You still have a pulse. 3 & 4 together are about as good as it gets, and is the secret to happiness..

5. Robert Mugabe still has a pulse (which may be a flaw in my theory. Still, Darwin never actually proved his theory, so I might still be a household name in 200 years time. Although perhaps not in Alabama).

6. At breakfast, my 10-year old daughter patted me patronisingly on the shoulder when I told a joke that was received in silence.

7. My wife and sons immediately laughed a lot – which I think was delayed response to the joke.

8. When I pointed that out, my wife and sons laughed a lot more, and so we entered an eternal loop with the previous point.

9. We learned that Home Secretary Jacqui Smith is bringing family values back into public life by lodging with her sister.

10. Families have an annual value of £161,000.

11. I have a spare bedroom, and have offered it to Jack Straw, who is a second cousin, twice-removed through adoption: we’re going to split the allowance.

12. My morning passed without a single press photo of Madonna.

13. Or Mariah Carey.

14. However, nor were there any pictures of Mickey Rourke’s dogs – perhaps the low point of my day.

15. Beatra, the Polish girl in the coffee bar I frequent, smiled at me this morning. I think she wants a marriage of convenience.

16. When I told my wife, she asked for a divorce of convenience.

17. But that’s okay, because Jeff from ‘marriagesinasia.com’ sent me a very nice note about my blog. So I thanked him, and now he’s sending me photos every 15 seconds.

18. I managed to get a pair of highly sought-after gig tickets for my son’s birthday.

19. I am to appear before a Parliamentary Select Committee to explain my idea of stimulating the economy through Ticketmaster.

20. Mark Wallinger has been given the go ahead to build The White Horse at Ebfleet. (Seems a lot of fuss about a pub.)

21. Over dinner, I tried another joke. My daughter – who is still 10 -  patted me again. Everyone laughed. Life is a circle, huh?

I didn’t think things could get any better than that until, just before going to bed, I happened upon this review of ‘The Secret’.

Another convert to my happiness campaign.

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Roy Castle, Greg Norman, Murray Perahia and Anthony Trollope: apart from being a surprising back four in my Fantasy Football team, writing about them yesterday really struck a chord. After a week of whinging, they gave me a reason to be positive.

Which set me thinking: in addition to the challenge of writing a blog every day, is it possible to extend a run of entries that are positive? Being cynical, being sarcastic, pouring scorn and generally complaining is easy, especially in these times.

But being upbeat? How long can I keep up that pretence?

Actually, it may start as a pretence, but it can become self-fulfilling. I enjoy writing, and an hour or so at the keyboard, creating and shaping, is very rewarding. But yesterday was different; yesterday, writing about people who had committed their all and become best-in-class  was, well, invigorating. Indeed, I feel a frisson of energy again just thinking about them.

So while getting a complaint or a rant off my chest is quite therapeutic, it’s not enough. It cleans out the stable, but doesn’t put in any new straw.

Time to make hay. In this time of economic downturn, financial uncertainty and general malaise, I am determined to look for the positive, and hopefully start some on-line conversations about what, in troubled times, makes a good person and a good life.

ON KINDNESS

Driving home this evening, I listened to a recent podcast of ‘Start The Week’, on which psychoanalyst Adam Phillips spoke about his new book “On Kindness”. If I understood correctly, his thesis is short and to the point: kindness is very rewarding, yet despite that we prevent ourselves from acting kindly. This is for two main reasons:

- it leads to a level of intimacy that we’re not comfortable with;

- we are afraid that if we show this side of our nature too much, others will take advantage of us.

Put another way, I don’t have time to be everyone’s friend, and in a dog-eat-dog world, you can’t afford to let down your guard.

(I remember a few years ago, on a ‘Leadership’ course with my then employer one of the managers summed up this dilemma with a very graphic aphorism: “We’re all acting like foxes, and you (the company) want us to behave like rabbits. Which is great, and I support it in principle – but I don’t want to be the first rabbit.”)

Yet we all know that ‘what goes around, comes around’, that ‘you reap what you sow’ and that you ‘have to give to get’. So why do we find that so hard?

GREED IS GOOD

It’s a very timely question, given that we are awash with bi-centennial celebrations of Charles Darwin’s birth. After all, while his theory may have evolved (excuse the pun) in others’ hands, there’s one undeniable truth about it: survival of the fittest, right? Every man for himself. Winner takes all.

That’s one pillar of the anti-kindness environment. The other is capitalism. In an open market, where each individual is rewarded for efforts and results, the system encourages selfish behaviour. ‘I am paid to win’. ‘Greed is good’. We are encouraged to compete, which in turn encourages hostility.

(Before we go any further, let me reassure you that this is not about to descend into an anti-banker / capitalist / globalisation rant. There are enough of those in the blogosphere generating heat and very little light. That is not my purpose here. I’m looking to find what I can do within my circle of influence, rather than my circle of concern).

Even if we are not paid in this way, the signals we receive constantly from the media reinforce the individual-as-conqueror motif: the CEO who lead the turnaround and is now worth xx hundred million, the sports person who ‘took’ the title, the politician who ‘destroyed’ his/her opponent at the despatch box.

KINDNESS HEROES

Very few win plaudits or awards for giving – but that is not surprising, because genuine giving does not expect anything in return, least of all public acknowledgement. Kindness gives for its own sake.

There is an inherent humility within kindness that seems to sit better with an earlier age. The most vivid example is to hear the stories of Victoria Cross recipients; almost to a man (and they are mostly men), these heroes are extremely reluctant speak of their actions. When they can be persuaded to recount their experiences, the theme that comes through is one of detachment: “the ‘person’ who saved the lives of others wasn’t really ‘me’, and I’m rather embarrassed by the fact that you associate ‘me’ with the bravery.”

The humility of those individuals is as moving as their bravery. But while it’s inspiring to hear about the potential perfection of the human condition, their testing of limits hardly helps me negotiate an average day with any real meaning.

So I look for someone closer to home: and soon arrive at Aunt Mary.

DUE NORTH

Aunt Mary came from hardy stock. Born in Country Durham into a mining family, she grew up helping her mother feed and clothe six (I think) brothers who worked down the pits during the 1930s and ’40s. I’m not sure how she met Uncle Bob, an engineer from Greenock in Scotland, but they married and headed for work in Southampton Docks. She was great friends with my mother and eventually became my Godmother.

Several years after retiring, Uncle Bob had a yearning to go back north to his beloved Scotland, like a salmon swimming upstream. While they had enjoyed a ‘comfortable’ life together, they weren’t rich, so ended up moving into a council block near the Clyde with a view of the former shipyards where Bob had served his apprenticeship.

Bob had found his resting place; the ever-industrious Mary was less settled.

She had always been a keen gardener, with the greenest of fingers that could cultivate orchids on ski slope. So moving into a tenement flat was very difficult for her. But growing up in the North East in pre-war years prepares you for anything.

Soon Mary was growing some pots outside her front door; a few red geraniums, a couple of chrysanthemums. Nothing fancy, but a splash of colour. The elderly gentlemen next door remarked upon this one day, so Mary took a cutting, potted it, and set it outside his front door too. She did the same for the widow on the other side. Soon, three front doors were framed with a splash or red and orange.

FLOWER POWER

The postman mentioned this to housebound woman on another floor of the block, who sent him to Mary with a message asking if she’d pot a couple for her. Of course, she obliged, and while on her deliveries, deposited a couple of spare plants to the house next door.

She repeated those random acts of kindness many times over the ensuing months, then began to notice that other pots were appearing, on landings and stairwells that weren’t on her ’rounds’.

The punch-line of this little family tale is that after three years that tenement block made it to the Scottish finals of Britain in Bloom, competing against some of the finest formal gardens north of the border. It didn’t win (this is real life, not a Hollywood script), but that didn’t matter. The competition was no more than recognition for a wonderful woman who brightened the lives of hundreds of friends, neighbours and strangers, expecting nothing in return for her kindness.

Looking back, I think Mary is the closest I ever came to meeting a saint. She gave constantly, and radiated a permanent glee in doing so. Her laughter was infectious, her love for others seemed boundless.

And she was the best personal example I have of why kindness in not only mutually beneficial, but is also a way of living meaningfully.

In an attempt to keep heads up in these turbulent times, following her example seems as good a place to start.

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Later this year will be the 10th anniversary of my Mother’s death. Today, I happened across a journal from that time, with a record of the following incident.

As written that evening, it still makes me smile:

I spent much of this afternoon sitting in Dad’s car,  trying to speak to him about dropping his anger towards the doctors who say that  there’s nothing they can do, and the Health Service in general for failing to address her cancer earlier.

Understandably,  he wouldn’t (perhaps couldn’t) listen.

Each time I touched a nerve, he’d jangle his car keys or fiddle with the light switches, impatient to get on, frustrated at our inability to produce a miracle.

Eventually he started the engine and floored the accelerator. It felt as if we’d left the ground and were leaping towards the exit. Fortunately, the barrier was down; it stopped us driving home through a red mist.

Lesson 1: barriers can be useful.

Dad put his ticket into the reader: £6. How much?! Between us, we could scrape together £4.80; checking our change hadn’t been a priority when we left the house this morning.

We were too busy trying to deal with reality.

Lesson 2: not having enough can be beneficial. Had we had the correct money, we’d have paid and missed the moment.

Under normal circumstances, an argument with the disembodied voice that usually inhabits car park 1-watt speakers, but this time I was lost for words.

“Don’t worry Dad” I said. “I’ll go back to the shop (League of Friends) and buy some chocolate. I’ll get some change.” I got out of the car and walked back across the car park towards the hospital, past the car park entrance.

A thought: why not take an entry ticket and drive out through the way in? No: there’ll probably be a senor this side of the barrier, and it’ll come down on us before we’re out. Bad idea.

Caught between hatching an escape plan worthy of Colditz and an overwhelming desire to go back into the ward to see Mother, I froze, then realised that I was in front of the car park tariffs:

3 hours: £3.50. 4 hours: £4.00. Over six hours: £6.00.

I looked at our ticket. We’d only been there a shade short of 3 hours. But the machine wanted to charge us for six.

I ran across the car park and buzzed the intercom. I explained the discrepancy, and readied the change to pay £3.50.

The barrier went up. No charge. I waved Dad through.

Lesson 3: the solution to a problem is always there, but you have to look in the right place and with the right eyes.

Lesson 4: heading directly at a problem isn’t always the best route.

Most importantly, the best way to solve a problem is to let go. When the tariffs presented themselves to me, I wasn’t looking for them. Nor was I trying to win a conflict with a faceless voice.

I just let go.

Ten years later, I realise that the ticket is still in my wallet. I should look at it more often.

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There is no greater pleasure, no greater sense of achievement, no more obvious evidence of a job well done than cleaning a pair of shoes. Done properly – thoroughly – it can be the source of true contentment.

Today presented a double duty; my walking boots that needed recovery after our Christmas Day amble and a pair of black brogues that – to my shame – had been neglected since late November.

The boots first. They had been consigned to a plastic bag on returning from the walk, then into an under-stair cupboard, then into the loft as the stream of festive visitors came and went, and the boots became an ‘after New Year’ task.

The mud was thick and encrusted. It called for a scrape. I have an old knife, from a very early cutlery set – the sort of knife that you’ll find in the drawer that isn’t the cutlery drawer, but we keep cutlery there, because it’s unlucky to throw it away (or is that only in my house?). A single piece of cast metal, rounded tip, very worn serrated edge, totally blunt. It’s perfect for the job.

Starting on the left instep, the knife scudded along the edge of the sole, sparks of earth skipping into the air and onto the  newspaper. (Did you know that Herbert Chapman, manager of Hull and Arsenal in the 1930s, created the WM formation – 3-2-2-3 – and is now regarded as the greatest innovator in football management? Accidental learning is a joyous supplement to  a session with your shoes.)

As the dirt flew, so the boots revealed another reminder of Christmas afternoon. We had walked through a very muddy field, and the footpath running alongside the fence was awash with sheep manure. It didn’t matter; by the time we got back to the car, we’d wiped most of it on thick grass and hedgerow.

Most, but not all of it, and even dried, two-week old sheep dung smells of sheep dung.

Pressing on, I turned the boot over and began on the sole itself, a maze of channels and crevices. Working the knife, sometimes like a chisel, sometimes like a cut-throat razor (little finger raised for balance) the earth snapped away and the true pattern began to show. It was like archeology, uncovering something clean and whole beneath a carapace of crud.

The next ten minutes were spent chipping and scraping, knapping and scratching to return both boots to a pared state ready for polish. And those minutes were the most focused, most vivid of my weekend. All thought subsided, all distraction evaporated. Just me, an old knife, and a pair of boots.

Perfect calm.

To the brogues next, and the ritual I have performed for the past 25 years, ever since I started wearing ‘proper’ shoes, and realised just how expensive they are if not well cared-for.

Remove the laces. Wipe any dirt or detritus with a wet cloth. Open the tin of polish, and spray water onto the wax (I’m not a camel, so  never have enough spit). Apply copious amounts of the black stuff onto both shoes. Take up another cloth, wrap it around your index and middle finger, and wet it. And the polish and the shoes. Pick up polish with your two fingers, then work it into the leather. And work it. And work it some more.

The toe cap, the vamp,  the punch holes (these are brogues). The quarter, the counter, the cuff.

Soon, the shine begins to appear, a small sun coming through a black window. Keep moving those two fingers in circles over the surface until there are no more smears: it is ready to buff.

While the application brush is stiff and wiry, the buff brush is soft and giving – much softer than a shaving brush. And the bigger the better. Jerky little scrubbing movements just remove the goodness of the clean; longer, more elegant strokes bring the deep shine to the surface.

It’s that ‘inner’ quality which is so satisfying at the end of the work, as it was today. A sense of bringing the life back to something. A task well done.  I remember it from cleaning the brass candlesticks at Granny’s, from helping my mother clean the windows with newspaper, and from earning pocket money from cleaning my father’s car.

Perhaps my sense of well-being at the end of the work is a nostalgia for childhood experiences. But I think it goes beyond that.

There are quicker, easier, ’spray-and-shine’ ways of cleaning shoes, just as there are people who’ll offer to polish them for you. That’s true for virtually any outcome you need to achieve; you can buy a short-cut, a quick-fix or a ready-made answer.

However, for the real pleasure of cleaning shoes isn’t the outcome; it’s the act itself. It combines duty, cleanliness, creation, art, discipline, labour and a total suspension of all worries, concerns and distractions.

All the benefits of a meditative retreat – for the price of a tin of polish.

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