Such was the case yesterday when we held the first of our two forget me not cafes for February.
It was a real mix of entertainment. We started with a music quiz that proved a little more difficult than I had expected. The answers were either boys or girls' names and, when people got stumped, we played a snippet of the song to help them.
There were the usual coffee and biscuits and I played some of Chris' Ross' London poetry which went down well. There's a challenge for Chris later in this blog. At the end of the morning there was soup and cake.
But it was the other bit that floored me.
Three years ago I met up with David and Jane Bull. David had a model railway in his garden and I also went along to chat to him about his work as an upholsterer which had seen him working in 10 Downing Street. After the interview I wrote a piece with photographs that was published in the local press. I also featured David in a blog which is still available online or by going to the blogs from June 2021.
At a previous Forget Me Not Club, David asked if he could bring along his upholstery hammers which he used in his working life. This he did and over 30 people listened as he spoke about the intricacies of his work and marvelled at how he could keep tacks in his mouth without swallowing them. I bet he could still talk at the same time.
At the end of the morning David insisted on giving me his Victorian hammer. This had me struggling for words as I know how much it means to him.
It's another piece of history and I wonder who used it before David who told me he had bought it and it hadn't been handed down to him. The hammer now in my possession will have pride of place on the wall of my study and it will remind me of David's skill as a craftsman and be another piece of history in the Steward household.
I always enjoy presenting bits and pieces at the cafe. I think that's my way of channelling my inner-grandad. That's my grandad and not me. He was something of an extrovert whereas his son (my father) wasn't. I think some of my grandfather has rubbed off on me. I certainly hope so.
*. *. *
I like a challenge as you know.
Our little writers group occasionally throws out a challenge. For this month's meeting on Thursday we have to write a story in 100 words.
Now when I'm asked to write a story in 100 words it has to be exactly that - 100 words. Not 101 or 105 but 100 exactly. I think it's some form of ADHD or VAT or whatever it is kicking in.
It's like my obsession for never being late unless it's because of things I have no control over. Take Monday's school run. I was due to pick the grandchildren up at 3 pm. I was relaxing with a coffee at Cousin Belinda's when I suddenly realised it was 2.30. Cue blind panic. But why? Because the school is quite a way off and would take me at least 20 minutes to get there.
But no there's a shortcut if only I could remember where it is. I've been that way before and it's across a piece of grassland surrounded by houses. I'll remember it when I see it, I said to myself.
I knew I had to go to the main road, cross it and walk through a small wooded area and down the side of the garage that sells ridiculously overpriced petrol which is at least 12p more expensive per litre than garages in Norwich. But as I pass there are a number of vehicles on the forecourt and I just want to shout "if you didn't fill up here you would save yourself a considerable amount of money and they would lower their prices so that people like me could go there rather than driving into Norwich to fill up." All very confusing.
Of course I didn't shout that out. As I came to the end of the path alongside the garage I recognised the piece of grassland and guess what? The walk had taken six minutes and I was 15 minutes early and had to have a walk to kill time - ensuring that I didn't stray too far as I have a fear of getting lost.
I noted that the Robert Kett pub is closed until further notice which made rather a mockery of the sign reading "Food served all day."
But I seem to have strayed a bit from the subject of 100 words. It's not a lot as Paul Daniels might say. In fact it's so not a lot that it's 100 words. I had an idea, but you can't have much of an idea in 100 words. So I wrote a piece relevant to our Forget Me Not cafe which is run under the auspices of the Hethersett Dementia Support Group.
I won't reveal any more at present but will publish the piece after I've read it out on Thursday. Let's just go back to the mechanics of it. 100 words means 100 words as I've already said.
So I wrote something and it came out at about 120. Same thing happened when I attempted to write a few pieces in 500 words. But to me cutting things down to exactly 100 or 500 words is the challenge and writing a story in 100 words is certainly a challenge.
So I revisited my 120 words and took out a slightly erroneous sentence and then tightened up some grammar and there it was - 102 words. Not good enough. Why use five words when three will do I thought to myself and so I rewrote another bit and bingo exactly 100 words.
Now at this point most of you are saying - whatever is he on about? Well I have an idea of collecting together pieces that are 100, 200, 300 and so on up to 1000 words. Could be quite a challenge but you just know that if I do this they will all end up on this blog. And a final thought on this subject. What about if I wrote 10 versions of the same story expanding on it by 100 words each time. Now wouldn't that be original but utterly boring?
*. *. *
I promised you a piece on AI following reading an article. This appeared in the I newspaper and was written by author Dorothy Koomson. The heading was "We are sleepwalking into world of bigots and AI monsters."
In the article Koomson says that overall she loves social media as a source of information
"I'm not naive, though, I'm aware that social media has it's nefarious side, that it can bring out the worst types of human behaviours and can push people to the brink. It can also be compulsively addictive," she wrote.
To research her latest book she watched hundreds of hours of video and read hundreds of thousands of words in blogs. Bet she's never read mine though. She wanted to find out the hidden psychological effects of constantly being exposed to the judgements of strangers.
She says that by the end of her research she was absolutely terrified. She talks of the disappearance of positivity and the extreme levels of trolling, racism, misogyny and other types of bigotry.
She goes on to describe the flood of misinformation which is sucked in as the truth by so many people. I have been a victim of this myself.
These people make pronouncements that sound true but rarely are and, instead of researching the truth, people accept what they are being told and then pass on the untruths to others who in turn believe what they have been told. They continue to believe the untruth even if confronted by the real truth.
Now on top of these untruths comes AI which can further distort reality with false videos, photographs and audio clips of people saying and doing things that they haven't said or done.
Celebrities can be misrepresented and appear to say things they haven't said. How frightening is this?
"A few years ago, I saw an advert for an app where a celebrity's face could be transposed onto someone else's and you could make that celeb do anything you wanted. During my research I found that the use of deep fakes has skyrocketed and it isn't just celebrities being targeted .
"Engaging in the online world by posting video, images and personal info about yourself feeds those AI monsters," the author says adding that people can be asked to publish photos of themselves when they were younger so these can be compared with how their facial structure has changed to create better and more plausible deep fakes.
The author does say she won't be quitting social media as the majority of people online are honest and helpful. "I love to interact with readers," she says before adding that she will be more cautious about what she shares.
Her book is entitled " Every Smile You Fake."
More on my thoughts about this tomorrow.
*. *. *
Now let's talk about why the garden summerhouse has been renamed The Sherlock Holmes Room. It's a story that is likely to bore you but I'll try to make it vaguely interesting as it surrounds one of my favourite authors, one of my favourite granddaughters, a departed friend and a few other bits and pieces.
There's something comforting about reading Sherlock Holmes stories. Historian Lucy Worsley recently said something similar on the programmes she did on TV about Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I have no idea why they are comforting. Perhaps it's because they allow us to slip into a bygone world. Perhaps it's because we would all like to be Sherlock Holmes without the drug taking and the violin playing, dashing around the streets of London, protecting everyone, solving crimes and hobnobbing with the elite.
Must break off again here to ponder on the word hobnobbing. What does it mean and where does it come from?
The name Hobnob comes from the verb 'to hobnob', which means to spend time being friendly with someone who is important or famous. Channel 4's Secret World of Biscuits programme claims that the name comes from the two words "hob" (suggesting home-cooked on a stove) and "knobbly" referencing the texture.
That's what an Internet site says but I think this last bit might be nonsense. It's much more likely to have been formed from habbe and nabbe, the present subjunctive of the Middle English verbs haven, habben and nabben (Old English habban, nabban) “to have, not to have.” But enough of that. Let's return to Sherlock.
I had suggested that we should use the summerhouse as an art and writing studio for Poppy (nine years old yesterday) or a painting studio for grandma ( just a touch older than Poppy). I must point out here that we could safely refer to Poppy as our favourite granddaughter as she was our only granddaughter. Now we have Lyla as well and so we have joint favourites. But enough of that.
A few years ago a friend of ours who lived just round the road was having a clear out and gave me three paperback volumes of Sherlock Holmes stories. I already had an illustrated Sherlock compendium and the complete works of Arthur Conan Doyle for the kindle which cost me the princely sum of 49p.
But I put these three new paperbacks in the summerhouse to occasionally dip into when I'm down there - hence the name of the room and when granddog Reggie comes for a visit we pretend that he's the Hound of the Baskerville's.
Incidentally friend and regular contributor to the Hethersett Herald, John Head, has written a piece with lots of photos about Sherlock Holmes' death in Switzerland. As somebody said "reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated." That was of course said by Mark Twain. Time for a joke.
Mark Twain and his brother are no longer on speaking terms and cannot face being in the same room. Certainly a case of Never the Twains Shall Meet. Slight pause for raucous laughter.
The problem with dear old Sherlock was that his inventor came to hate him because his invention became more famous than him. But Sherlock's death caused quite a stir and Sir Arthur had to bring him back.
Incidentally and I know I've mentioned this before. Who knows where Sherlock Holmes retired to? Answers tomorrow unless somebody can enlighten us before then.
*. *. *
And now a challenge to the brilliant East End poet Chris Ross who now reads my blogs and who I tune into every day for his latest poem or song. Chris - how about a poem about Sherlock. I'd write one myself but I don't have your skills and I'm not a Londoner - just a poor boy from the sticks.
*. *. *
But back to the summerhouse. We have had it for a number of years but rarely use it It's main use is to keep plants away from the frost in the winter. My intention is this spring and summer to use it much more just to relax and enjoy the garden and that means doing one of three things 1/ listening to music or audio books 2/ reading or 3/ having a nap.
It's interesting that on the few occasions I have used it I have felt very relaxed but often that hasn't seemed to fit into my hectic lifestyle. It's about 30 yards from the house but towards the bottom of the garden and looks out onto a raised bed of shrubs and flowers. Sitting in it does give a feeling of communing with nature and being away from it all which can only be good.
This summer I will definitely be making it my Holme from Holme. So many jokes today.
*. *. *
You will have noticed that this blog is considerably longer than 100 words. It's considerably longer than 1000 words as I suffer from a dangerous medical condition generally known as verbal diarrhoea or more to the point writers diarrhea. I can't see that being cured anytime soon. This blog is 2600 words.
*. *. *
Now I have been taken to task for not saying what I thought of Sunday's film at Hethersett Village screen. It's very humbling that people are interested in my opinions on various things. To be honest I didn't enjoy A Haunting In Venice much. I do love reading Agatha Christie but when it comes to her detectives I prefer Miss Marple to Hercule Poirot who I find ridiculous. I prefer Sherlock Holmes to either but I'm sure you have had enough of him.
The film was a piece of piffle. It tried to be a touch frightening which it wasn't really and the whole thing was far too dark and sombre. It didn't entertain me much. I'm sure the next one will. I'm already looking forward to seeing Barbie.
*. *. *
Finally today, sad to see that Ian Lavender has died. I think I'm right in saying that he's the last of the Dads Army actors to die. You always think of him as the naive young boy Pike. It's hard to believe that he was 77.
One of the best ever lines in British comedy when a German officer says
"What is your name?"
And Captain Mainwaring says.
"Don't tell him Pike.
And that's more than enough for today.