The Green Man

Today was a good day. Many, many people came to St Luke's Church, at the Royal Hospital Haslar to say goodbye to Steve Sharpe. His family, friends, field-gunners, Commandos, Medical Branch staff and combinations of all those were there. There are few people who were as friendly or as generous, and this was reflected in his wife's tribute.

In a way, it was a good day for Steve.. The demons - let's not mess around - the PTSD that had been affecting him as a result of the action on RFA Sir Galahad in 1982, and later an incident in Norway, and had caused him to take his own life, can never affect him again.. In that way it's good and we can now associate Steve with the Green Man - not the green of the Commandos, but a symbol of rebirth, and believe he's happily bimbling around some wood or forest. But without a 'house' on his back and a PRR.

This was the closing poem - a favourite of his mum-in-law:

Do not stand at my grave and weep,

I am not there; I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow,

I am the diamond glints on snow,

I am the sun on ripened grain,

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning’s hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circling flight.

I am the soft star-shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry,

I am not there; I did not die.

Moving on.....

Some Sunday Afternoon Thoughts

It's strange how the mind works. In this past week, I've finally sorted out my business accounts (with the help of a Quickbooks expert), I've attended one interview, have one booked and hope to get a third. And since all that has come to pass, I feel a little more relaxed, a little less anxious. Weekends are always easier but this is a much stronger feeling.  What a pleasant and novel sensation.

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I attended my interview as an London 2012 Olympics Games Maker yesterday afternoon - a volunteer helper in everyman language. My brief and easy interview was undertaken by a lesbian ex-Israeli army sergeant tank instructor who works for McDonalds. Who'd have thought?

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A friend ended their life this week. Whilst it became necessary for them to separate from their partner because of the effects of their troubling condition, their love for each other was, never  has been, in doubt. My friendship developed over a few short weeks, and was curtailed by 2 distinctly separate careers. We met a couple of times over the following 25 years and that friendship seemed to persist. I met the partner but once having tried to help at a troubling time. Since the suicide I see their posts on social media and I wish I could help more.
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I'm edging back into my running again, and it's almost enjoyable! (I have a place in the 2012 Virgin London Marathon). I seem to have got into a habit of running in the dark in the early evening. It seems to make the run shorter but sooner or later, as I up the miles, and as the days get longer, I'm going to have to venture, blinkingly, into the daylight. It just means a change of a barely formed habit. All do-able.
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Friendship's an odd thing. You can meet someone for a short period and then go your separate ways for many years and yet be permanent friends. Other friends come along and the friendship endures over many good years, and you see them intermittently but enjoy the time you spend with them, and wish those opportunities were more frequent. But then there are those people with whom one strikes up a friendship, who are likeable and whose company one enjoys and then you find out they're not quite who they say they are. It's clear it's a pathological thing that makes them fabricate but does that make them any less likeable? Time spent is enjoyable and a break from the routine and provided they don't perpetuate the stories they've spun, it seems churlish to cut the tie, even though one has been misled.

Stephen

CHILLY!!
He’d shout, when we’d meet
(And that wasn’t often)
There was such a grin on his face
And a welcome in his paw

We first met in that cold, grim place
And worked so hard to match the pace
Then. at night,  the bus to Plympton
To eat egg and chips and dhobi our denims

Later, he’d succeed and I would fail
And, after 30 miles, I'd smile from the back
As he donned the green felt
And stumbled away to faint

I saw him once (at the ferry).
We chatted, we parted.
I saw his note
And we chatted a lot more
Later, I saw him.
(I took Starbucks muffins)
We hugged as old friends do.

CHILLY!!
He yelled when we met
(And that was in Plymouth)
There was such a grin on his face
And, obviously, a pint in his paw.

Much later, came the message, the call.

Operational, not decorational

No fanfares at the jetty
No newsclips on flat TVs
No Freedom marches through Dalgety
No recognition given by the public
No medals from the body politic

We Come Unseen

And then

More private reunions at home
More polyblocks removed from off the plant
More vital maintenance on the dome
More PAGs, more deadlines - there is no can’t
More time on drills and time in trainers
More turkeys, steaks, eggs passed down to the fridge
More crap cleared from 'round the strainers
More paint is added to the bridge
More warheads worked on ‘round the corner
More time spent getting back in order

And then

Once more  the final checks for sea are made
Once more  the family ties are given up
Once more the plant is in the half power state
Once more, stern and headropes singled up
Once more, on a drizzly  Argyll day
Once more, for umpteenth time a black boat makes it's way...

We Go Unseen

©Peter Chilcott

Unseasonal Seasonal Weather? Good or Bad?

A guest blog from my old friend and Naval colleague Martin Howells. Martin is a keen amateur apiarist, and keeps his bees in South Wales (in hives...)

It is daft for me to say I am looking forward to the first really cold snap of our Winter? That is because my Honey Bees are still in "Summer" mode. Flying and gathering stores as "normal", with Ivy, Gorse, Holly and another pollen being brought in, I haven't identified as yet.

Pollen is identified under microscopic analysis of samples taken from returning Honey Bees too the hives. Yes! I know I have to be a little eccentric to stand infront of a bee hive to catch individual bees and remove a sample of their pollen load to check what they are gathering. Then letting that bee go on into the hive with its remaining pollen load. Some clown has to do it to find out what the bees are gathering at this time of year. Besides, I cant think of anything else better to do. Sad really?

Not that I should be complaining! As long as the busy bees can provide sufficient stores for now, and that they have sufficient stores for the real cold winter weather, when it does come. My fear is that they may just be comsuming more stores now, in this mild spell, than they can actually replace by recent gatherings. That will lead to starvation when a long cold spell arrives with a vengeance.

Still I need to be alert for the Honey Bees, This country is always in need of lerts. So people; appreciate your honey at this time of year, hoping we will have honey bees ready to go in the Spring; when it comes; ready for next years harvest of fruit and veg and the nectar of the gods.

Season Greetings to all from a Bee Keeper.

Martin can be contacted at martin@mjhowells.co.uk

Some 3-in-1 on that career there

I've been learning - or re-learning for the umpteenth time - that it pays to stick one's head up over the parapet once in a while. There's other cliches that say the same thing such as 'the squeaky wheel gets the oil'. But essentialy, if  one wants attention or wants something done then it's necessary to let people know what's needed.

This became clear in two ways, one trivial, one less so. On the trivial side, I participate in stock trading game called Empire Avenue and at one point there ewas a lot of retaliatory selling when I sold some stock. I made a comment about this on a forum and within a day my stock had been repurchased and more.

On the more important side, I'm looking for a new contract and things have been a little 'dry' shall we say, over the past few months. I posted a comment on LinkedIn about seeking help on getting my CV brought up to speed and I got a lot of advice from people. More importantly, someone emailed me to say that had they seen my CV just a day or two earlier, I would have been a great fit for a particular role. Since then, that same person has taken it upon themself to nag/mentor me and to provide advice and support, and I hope I'm responding accordingly. As well as shrpening up my LinkedIn profile, something they've made clear is that I'm not going to see a role calling for a Pete Chilcott, and that I have take a punt at a role I like and sell the brand 'Pete Chilcott'. I heard much the same from a speaker, Tobias Mews, at the Liquid List networking event. One must be the brand and thats what should be sold and sold hard.

Twelve Little...

I became aware of this little ditty after attending one of the 'Third Thursday Talks' at the Royal Navy Submarine Museum. The talk was given by Tim Clayton, based on his book 'Sea Wolves'. 

It's about the first submarines of the S-class.

Twelve little S-boats "go to it" like Bevin,

Starfish goes a bit too far — then there were eleven.

Eleven watchful S-boats doing fine and then

Seahorse fails to answer — so there are ten.

Ten stocky S-boats in a ragged line,

Sterlet drops and stops out — leaving us nine.

Nine plucky S-boats, all pursuing Fate,

Shark is overtaken — now we are eight.

Eight sturdy S-boats, men from Hants and Devon,

Salmon now is overdue — and so the number's seven.

Seven gallant S-boats, trying all their tricks,

Spearfish tries a newer one — down we come to six.

Six tireless S-boats fighting to survive,

No reply from Swordfish — so we tally five.

Five scrubby S-boats, patrolling close inshore,

Snapper takes a short cut — now we are four.

Four fearless S-boats, too far out to sea,

Sunfish bombed and scrap-heaped — we are only three.

Three threadbare S-boats patrolling o'er the blue,

(from Wikipedia)

At the beginning of the war in 1939 there were 12 boats of the S-class, and these operated around the UK or North Sea. By the time HMS SNAPPER was lost, the war was barely a year old, 8 of the boats were lost and this poem reflects the high attrition rate. Of this batch of 12, 3 survived to meet a planned end, whilst HMS SUNFISH was transferred to the Russians and sunk in 1944 by the RAF.