A very parochial tale

Picture by Margot K Juby

Towards the end of October last year somebody, OK it was a man, decided that it would be a good idea to drive his car at a fair old speed into our bus stop and demolish the bus shelter in the process (as you can see below). The story in the local rag was that the driver had been drinking (gosh, I am shocked, shocked...!) and the police had arrested said driver as they put it: "on suspicion of drink driving". There's a pub just 400 yards down the road ... do I need to paint you a picture?

Anyhow that was back in October and still we have no bus shelter nor even a pole saying this is an actual bus stop. The orange barriers have been lying on their side all the while, sometimes being moved by youths who lack anything better to do. Bus drivers are no longer seeing this as a stop and sometimes run past as we, with our shopping bags full, shout at them to stop ... it was getting to be beyond what they politely call a joke... 

So about three weeks ago and somewhat unhappy with this situation I wrote to the County Council who are responsible for roads in these parts asking what was going on ... "Oh we'll send someone round to have a look" came the speedy reply and that was it, no more did I hear. That is until the other day when, still fed up with the state of play, I contacted the Council via Twitter ... "Oh it's nothing to with us, mate, it's a Parish Council matter" came the stern reply. ( I got no answer when I asked why they could not have told me this three weeks ago).

The Parish Council clerk was quite apologetic when I asked about this. "We're a small organisation with no reserves, so we have to wait for the insurers to pay up" was the sad story and it seems that the Parish now has the money, has ordered a brand new shelter (from a company called Shelutions, I kid you not. ) which should be with us in a few weeks (I'm not holding my breath) and all should be well. And as a ps "Did I know the precept for the Parish Council was one of the lowest in England?" (No, I did not, but I was delighted to hear this)

I never found what happened to our (alleged) drunk driver ... I just hope he's waiting for a bus that never comes ... in the rain.

Pink Kisses

Which came first the flower or the colour? These are pinks (Dianthus) and have been called pinks since day one or, at least, since the Dutch brought them over; now it seems the colour came from the flower that is to say things were "pink-coloured" eventually this became simply pink... so what word did we use for pink before we had pink? It seems we used 'incarnation' and 'incarnate' (flesh-coloured; you can see a need for a slightly less gruesome word and without religious and other connotations). So from incarnation you might think it is but a very short step to carnation which as you know is also a dianthus or pink but this etymology is said to be confused, or so I read (the whole damn thing is confusing and I wish I hadn't started out on this nonsense), and could come from coronation, the edges of the flowers looking like a crown.  
Still and more, the word pink became a term for excellence ... so these could be said to be the very pink of pink pinks ... and then, of course there's pinkos for those of a not quite red, slightly left of centre  persuasion (persuasion itself is becoming dated notion), pink elephants can, of course, be on parade and pinkie (again from the Dutch) ... and then there's the verb, to pink, meaning to pierce which is totally unrelated and which could give us pinked pinks ... and  I think I'll have a little lie down with a large pink gin.

Anyhow these are Dianthus Pink Kisses and you could buy a pretty pink potful for £3 from a big shop on Clough Road should you wish.

Today's monthly theme, as you might have guessed, is pink.

All mod cons ...

Cor there's posh! Most Hull folk still have to wander down to the corner pump with a bucket ... Cottingham houses have their own private wells.

Gin School

I don't know how these things work; I'm talking about fashions. Now a few years ago you couldn't give gin away, it was mother's ruin, the tipple of the well-oiled sot. From the 1920's through prohibition, to the end of the fifties, if Hollywood is to be believed, anyone who was anyone was fuelled by lashings of gin disguised as a dry Martini.  I must admit that on a hot afternoon a large G & T with ice (and a slice of lemon if you really must) can be a delight,  though by the end of the last century it was really not the drink of choice for the young get up and go types (like what I wasn't). A couple of centuries back, though, it was the patriotic duty of every loyal Englishman to drink pints of gin daily (Think Hogarth Gin Lane, "drunk for threepence, dead drunk for sixpence" ) and none of that nasty French brandy, thank you very much. So it should come as no real surprise that gin is now flavour of the month again or should I say flavours of the month since the plain old juniper berry infused distilled liquor is just a bit passé. Now the thing is 'artisan gin'  made and sold at great expense with any flavour you can pop into the still. Can I tempt you to a rhubarb gin? No? How about plum and vanilla? or strawberry and cream? perhaps a herbal rosemary and thyme would appeal? Cheese and onion, anyone?
Here some enterprising soul is clearly trying to catch the wave in full flood and you can make your very own little bottle of gin to take away and cherish ...cheaper by far to buy a bottle or three or four but then you won't be learning anything.

Oh look we are rapidly approaching World Gin Day ... Saturday 8^thof June 2019.

Green and Blue

I've mentioned before that Cottingham has a fair few splendid trees so I thought I'd post some again because they are still splendid and other things goings-on in the world are somewhat less interesting. This grand old specimen you've seen before but that was in its winter attire; it's a near neighbour of that red beech I posted the other day.

Sweet Williams

Picture by Margot K Juby

Round the corner from the Duke of Cumberland sits this quietly unassuming public house named officially as the  King William the Fourth; a mouthful for anyone so known universally as the King Billy. Now I've only just found that the William referred to here was the fourth, no-body remembers Billy IV. Everyone knows Will I (the Conqueror or Billy the Bastard, 1066 and all that, a good thing), Willy II (aka Rufus, died (murdered?) while hunting in the New Forest) and then our Glorious King William the Third ( the King Billy; the great deliverer, who gave us our freedom, religion and laws) but William the Fourth who he, when all the dust is settled? As Margot succinctly put it  "He's the Gordon Brown of Kings"; poor sod, forgotten by all save the sots of Cottingham. 

... and the fading flowers are, of course, Sweet Williams, not, as some north of the imaginary border, call them Stinking Billies (ragwort actually) and besides the Stinking Billy in that case was William, Duke of Cumberland (Butcher Cumberland to some who knew him well enough to suffer) and, as I say, he lives round the corner.

William is such a sweet name, dontcha think?

Fill Your Boots

The news earlier this year that the town centre was to lose a pair of Boots¹ (here on Prospect Street and later on Whitefriargate, yes poor old Whitefriargate is to lose yet another store!) was tempered somewhat by the announcement that a brand new, size 16, mega Boots was to arrive in St Stephens. The new store duly opened a few days ago with "huge queues" (who queues for the opening of a new chemists shop? Do they pay them like opera claqueuers to wait from dawn with bated breath for the doors to open? Do they put off buying their Germaloids until the big day? Just what is it that makes these people tick?). So ... anyway, in this town,  the score is two lost and one found ...


¹ Boots, or Boots Alliance, formerly a large and well liked UK pharmacy and retail company bought by Swiss private equity and later sold to Walgreens of the USA. Now just another retailer with too many stores and not enough customers. And, after some atrociously poor customer service, at another Boots, I never go in this place ... I'm sure they miss me.