It's often said that when you retire what you do expands exponentially to fill the time available and that is certainly true.
Yesterday was a prime example of that with not a second wasted as I struggled to keep up with everything. So how did the day pan out and what did I do?
Well I was up around 6.30 am as I had so much to do. During the night I was woken by a couple of unusual events - rain. Yes it was our first real rain for months. Mind you I'm not sure what unreal rain is.
Once up I chucked down some Honey Hoops cereal, had a glass of water (always like to start the day with a glass of water) and then got down to doing some work on the Norfolk Ancestor magazine.
This is the quarterly magazine of the Norfolk Family History Society and something I edit and design every three months. I am currently working hard on the December issue (yes we have to prepare that early). Tried out a new toaster (yes I live the rock n roll life). Our old one which we have had for many many years has been playing up and burning the toast. So now we have a bright red one from Lidl. Hope it does what it says on the tin.
Then it was a quick shower and get ready to go down to the twice monthly Forget-Me-Not Cafe which is run by the Hethersett Dementia Support Group. I go down half an hour before the cafe starts to put out chairs and tables.
Today there was an interesting presentation on recycling goods but I could only stay until 10.45 (just time to have a cup of coffee) before going down to St Remigius Church for a very special burying of ashes.
But back to the bit of the presentation I saw. It involved using things like tights and T shirts to knit and crotchet and turn into bags and many other things. The presenter Julie Porter said that in today's economic climate, re-cycling items has become more and more popular.
Then it was down to see the interment of Bill Morton's ashes. I later wrote a piece for the local Media and also various other publications.
Many years ago I was contacted by Bill Morton from his home in Canada. He had written quite an extensive document about growing up in Hethersett. He later emigrated to Canada. Sadly Bill died in 2017 at the age of 97. One of his daughters - Judy Hope - came to Hethersett to have his ashes buried in St Remigius Churchyard and they held a short service.
It was good to meet Judy and her husband Bill and also Bill Morton's niece Stephanie and her husband Eddie who I had met before.
Apparently the family weren't aware that Bill had written all his memories down. When he died they Googled his name to see if there was anything about him on the internet and they came across one of my websites which is entitled Hethersett - A Village At War. I often think this is a wrong title as it suggests the village is involved in hostilities. It focuses on Hethersett between the years of 1910 and 1950 and covers both World Wars.
If you are interested in what Bill wrote (and some of it will certainly jog the memories of a lot of readers) you can find it at www.hethersettatwar.weebly.com.
Hurried home in order to drive to Wymondham to see youngest son who had an operation on his knee yesterday. He ruptured his cruciate ligament playing football quite some time ago but hasn't had to wait too long to get it repaired. Years ago this would have been a majorish operation. Now it's just a day procedure and he went in at 11 am and was home again by 7 pm. So we needed to make him lunch and take granddog out for a walk. He still wants to sniff every post and wee everywhere!
Then it was back home to write up the Bill Morton story for our Good News magazine, Hethersett Herald and also for the local newspaper the Eastern Daily Press and send it over to them along with some photographs.
Then spent the evening back on the Norfolk Ancestor. And that was my yesterday. Today I can get up and do it all over again.
* * *
So Norfolk has only its second Prime Minister ever.
Liz Truss, who should now be known as the National Truss, isn't actually from Norfolk of course and during her campaign she seemed to be more proud of her Yorkshire roots. But she doesn't come from Yorkshire either.
There always seems to be kudos from pretending to come from Yorkshire. A few days ago I also saw a question on Facebook asking "When you hear the word Yorkshire what comes to mind?"
For me the answer to that question is "the other threequarters." Coming from Yorkshire seems to be like being in a special club. I can't help thinking about that dreadful advert for Yorkshire Tea starring (is that the right word) Sean Bean. You know the one "let's do it for Yorkshire," he bellows. That's just plain embarrassing.
But Liz isn't Miss Truss' first name anyway. Her name is actually Mary. Quite a few people adopt their second name - James Paul McCartney being a prime example. I seriously thought about doing the same. There's absolutely nothing wrong with Peter and I'm quite happy with it but I also like my middle name Owen.
For years I thought that name came from Welsh ancestors but then I found that it was the surname of one of my great grandmothers and I like to think that it has been handed down through the generations in tribute to her. I was aware that it has become a generation name but not why. My grandfather was Frank Owen Dew, I'm Peter Owen Steward and my eldest son is Christopher Owen Steward. But I digress as I so often do. Back to Mary Truss. Truss isn't her surname either. She is married to Hugh O'Leary. So our new PM is actually Mary O'Leary which has a much more poetic feeling to it.
She was born in Oxford. At the age of four the Truss family moved to Renfrewshire in Scotland and she was 10 when she moved to Leeds. So she is no more a Yorkshire Lass than she is a Norfolk lass. She was involved in local politics in London before standing for Parliament in a safe Labour seat in Yorkshire and coming second, but increasing the Conservative vote.
Her life in Norfolk didn't start until 2010 when she became MP for South West Norfolk. So by our rules she has another 15 years to do before she is accepted in Norfolk. We've always been like that. We are a friendly enough bunch but you have to have been born here to be a true son or daughter of Norfolk or to have lived here for 27 years to be an adopted son or daughter of Norfolk - unless you are former speedway rider Ove Fundin and then you get the freedom of the city (quite rightly so).
I am sad that I cannot claim freemanship of Norwich as my line has been broken. I have many ancestors on my Dew and Steward sides who were freemen of Norwich through being important tradesmen. My ancestors include master builders, master hairdressers and master bakers (had to be careful how I typed that). The freemanship can be handed down through the generations but once the chain is broken that's it and neither my grandfather or father claimed the honour. They probably had no awareness of its existence. It's an honorary position that means very little although I believe it gives permission to drive sheep across the river!
The only true blue Norfolk man to be prime minister is Robert Walpole and that was 280 years ago. Walpole was the first real PM of this country and so Norfolk can claim to have started the trend.
Walpole was born in Houghton in Norfolk and had 18 brothers and sisters. He was educated at Massingham in the county before going on to Eton and King's College, Cambridge.
The Walpole estate is a vast amount of land in Norfolk and in the past we have been to the Walpole Arms pub on a number of occasions. In Norfolk we have Walpole St Andrew, Walpole St Peter, Walpole Highway and Walpole Cross Keys - all in west Norfolk and not a million miles from Mary Truss' constituency.
There are of course a few other prime ministerial connections with Norfolk. Winston Churchill stayed in Cromer for a holiday when he was a boy and declared that he didn't like the place at all. If you walk along the prom prom prom tiddley om pom pom you can see his quote etched into the walkway along with lots of others proclaiming how wonderful Cromer is.
Then we have Sir John Major who has a holiday home at Weybourne.
That's certainly more than enough for today.