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Friday, October 23, 2009
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Grand-Dad Harry's Motto! - (Quit Yur Judgin.)
- Still only have 1 follower (and that's actually me) =(
- I have blog posts in my head all day, but really don't know if I want to write about them when I get here.
So onto the thoughts of today...
One dreary afternoon in England many, many years ago my Grandfather (Harry Whitehouse) recalled a motto. I can remember how the conversation took this turn because I had mentioned the motto of Trosnant School. Work hard, play hard.
It really is quite remarkable and if I were a smart person (Let's out that giant gorrilla for a start) - I would have paid attention to him. But, I am always in debt with attention and can't even keep up with the payments.
So here it is...
Grand-Dad Harry's motto: THREE THINGS THAT COME NOT BACK.
- The sped arrow. -- I'm assuming this applies to bullets et al.
- The spoken word. -- Ain't it the truth?
- The mistaken opportunity.
Or is it a better lesson learned if it is learned indeed by our own mistakes? The mistaken opportunity scared me when considering moving to the US. I was afraid of regretting the decision to not come.
When Gran-Dad died I was not there, nor there for the remaining 3 Grand-Parents passings. I can never take that back, or the days they might have missed me. No good-bye greetings, but I can not say "No regrets"
Grand-Dad Harry's Boat (forgive me if this isn't a boat) he also loved to talked about his war-time travels and adventures. http://www.royalnavalmuseum.org/
HMS Tigris
HMS Tigris (N63) was a T-class submarine of the Royal Navy. She was laid down at Chatham Dockyard and launched in October 1939.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Refusing to give up the dream...
I know why I have good reason to to fear disapointment; and sometimes talking about going home gives me that knowing you could be jinxing yourself feeling.
But I am entitled to have a dream. In fact a boss I had many, many moons ago said that if you could dream it you could have it. I've dreamt about this so long that I have woken up and gone back to bed again. It feels like an old familiar saying is mocking me... I went from can't do to can't don't.
This where you can wave to me.... if I am ever there. http://www.oggle.com/dem_harboureye.php On the hour you can see the Ferry drifting out of Portsmouth Harbour. I plan to take the 7:00am ferry because when I go home I am not going to sleep.... AT ALL!
"Hi Cynthia!" (Is going to read my blog from 7-2 Schoolage/Adolescent)
But I am entitled to have a dream. In fact a boss I had many, many moons ago said that if you could dream it you could have it. I've dreamt about this so long that I have woken up and gone back to bed again. It feels like an old familiar saying is mocking me... I went from can't do to can't don't.
This where you can wave to me.... if I am ever there. http://www.oggle.com/dem_harboureye.php On the hour you can see the Ferry drifting out of Portsmouth Harbour. I plan to take the 7:00am ferry because when I go home I am not going to sleep.... AT ALL!
"Hi Cynthia!" (Is going to read my blog from 7-2 Schoolage/Adolescent)
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Snobbery!
Hmmmmm.
Have to agree on the British deserving some credit for keeping that alive!
Have to agree on the British deserving some credit for keeping that alive!
Snobbery
From Awe
(Redirected from Inverted snobbery)
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Snobbery is the state of being a snob – “[o]ne who meanly or vulgarly admires and seeks to imitate, or associate with, those of superior rank or wealth; one who wishes to be regarded as a person of social importance”, or “[o]ne who despises those who are considered inferior in rank, attainment, or taste” (OED). The adjective is snobbish; the adverb snobbishly.
Snobbery, therefore, is the state of judging people, or their status or possessions etc, by inappropriate criteria. It is sheer snobbery to assume that a Duchess is better than a collector of rubbish because she is married to a man who is descended from a man who helped to win a battle. It is inverted snobbery to assume that the rubbish collector is better than the Duchess.
Snobbery is very common in British society. We commonly make judgements about people from the way they speak; worse, the judgement is often condemnatory. “The moment an Englishman opens his mouth, another Englishman despises him” said the playwright G.B. Shaw (Pygmalion, 1916). Snobbery is also common on grounds of how one dresses, one’s table manners, one’s learning and many other irrelevant grounds.
In its most usual form, snobbery refers to judgements made on grounds of social class. This is sometimes more clearly defined as social snobbery. However, such groundless value judgements, or prejudices, can take other forms. In academic circles, for example, intellectual snobbery is not uncommon – assuming that one person is better than another because he has read more ‘difficult’ or fundamental texts. This is subtly different from academic snobbery, one form of which is to assume that anyone with a degree from Oxford or Cambridge is, ipso facto, better or cleverer or better educated than anyone from another University. (In the USA, the commonest academic snobbery puts the ‘Ivy League’ universities above all others.)
Try to avoid snobbery. It is offensive and ill-mannered. However, it is probably impossible. I fear that everyone has some more or less irrational prejudice against other people who are seen as being “not one of us”.
Retrieved from "http://slb-ltsu.hull.ac.uk/awe/index.php?title=Snobbery"
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Let's have a nice cup of....
Where do I start? The day that eventually had to come...
Yesterday: After a somewhat recent diagnosis with cancer my mother-in-law passed away. Our relationship as families go was not typical, or some may say it was.
We had not spoken for probably about 8 years. I had my reasons, and she had hers! I won't re-hash any of them because it is probably a really good time to let them go. I did reach out many years ago on my daughters 2nd birthday and was for a little while let back in to the family fold. For me that it was not a warm fuzzy place to be. Cultural differences among Americans and the British stretch from the Grand Canyon to The River Thames. In most British homes an American would still be given the common indulgence of homesickness. We would smile politely and all have a nice cup of "Shut the fuck up!"
Let's just say that the most hurtful words I have ever heard are "You're an American now!" - "This is your home!"
Is she having the last laugh? - Typing this now I am backspacing through typos, racking sobs are welling up.
TODAY: I have been asked/summoned to attend the Wake (I won't knock this because it is obviously a tradition that I am never to understand) I have attended many, mercifully it has never been a family member of mine. But a year ago in October I found out that Alice a friend that lived across the street from me had passed away in her sleep. My neighbour Lynn and I adored her. Alice was always there, her passing made the street feel different. Looking at her house was for a while painfull. At her 'Wake' I cried like a child. Mourners at Wakes have no place to hide if they can't hold the tears back.
This might be where the British would stay on the bus.
- For the British that may be reading this, it is a gathering of ALL family, friends and aquantances (spell check) to view the dearly departed as they will be interred for all eternity. The queue for some wakes has been known to flow out into the street and down the road.
- For the Americans... The British don't really get this, but it is a dignified way to say goodbye for loved ones.
I don't think Children should be there. PERIOD. I'm not going to object to my own children attending because they are teenagers. But that's just me.
Now I feel I am completely over it. Tears came. Tears went.
Yesterday I found out that I am expected to attend the funeral (and lets not forget the wake) under normal circumstances I would naturally be there. And, I will be so that my husband doesn't have to face this alone.
But, the GIANT PINK ELEPHANT in the room is my bitter, bitter resentment of the truth.
The painful, omni-present, dirty little secret. The history and the anger that I am an emmy award winning actress at hiding. When a close family member of mine died... I couldn't be there. The circumstance of being 3000 miles away was originally my fault. When she was alive she didn't agree that I should go home.
She said... "You're an American now!"
Really? So American that I have a green card, doesn't sound very American to me. I could be, I have 3 children that by birth in the United States are US citizens. I'm a British Citizen. I can't even vote or ellect an official that decides how the taxes taken out of my pay check are spent. I have to pay for the priviledge of re-newing my Green Card every 10 years by driving to New York and sitting all day waiting for a number (it was actually a letter - go figure) to be called.
These things are not necessarily my mother in laws fault. But, on an individual basis, generalised, stupid thinking did affect me.
Theres the anger! - Will it ever go away? How do you let it go?
So when today I am welcomed into the family fold within the cold arms of Aunts, Uncles and siblings. If I'm offered a drink (although I'll feel like I'll need one) I'll bite my tongue and sip a nice cup of "Shut the fuck up!"
Yesterday: After a somewhat recent diagnosis with cancer my mother-in-law passed away. Our relationship as families go was not typical, or some may say it was.
We had not spoken for probably about 8 years. I had my reasons, and she had hers! I won't re-hash any of them because it is probably a really good time to let them go. I did reach out many years ago on my daughters 2nd birthday and was for a little while let back in to the family fold. For me that it was not a warm fuzzy place to be. Cultural differences among Americans and the British stretch from the Grand Canyon to The River Thames. In most British homes an American would still be given the common indulgence of homesickness. We would smile politely and all have a nice cup of "Shut the fuck up!"
Let's just say that the most hurtful words I have ever heard are "You're an American now!" - "This is your home!"
Is she having the last laugh? - Typing this now I am backspacing through typos, racking sobs are welling up.
TODAY: I have been asked/summoned to attend the Wake (I won't knock this because it is obviously a tradition that I am never to understand) I have attended many, mercifully it has never been a family member of mine. But a year ago in October I found out that Alice a friend that lived across the street from me had passed away in her sleep. My neighbour Lynn and I adored her. Alice was always there, her passing made the street feel different. Looking at her house was for a while painfull. At her 'Wake' I cried like a child. Mourners at Wakes have no place to hide if they can't hold the tears back.
This might be where the British would stay on the bus.
- For the British that may be reading this, it is a gathering of ALL family, friends and aquantances (spell check) to view the dearly departed as they will be interred for all eternity. The queue for some wakes has been known to flow out into the street and down the road.
- For the Americans... The British don't really get this, but it is a dignified way to say goodbye for loved ones.
I don't think Children should be there. PERIOD. I'm not going to object to my own children attending because they are teenagers. But that's just me.
Now I feel I am completely over it. Tears came. Tears went.
Yesterday I found out that I am expected to attend the funeral (and lets not forget the wake) under normal circumstances I would naturally be there. And, I will be so that my husband doesn't have to face this alone.
But, the GIANT PINK ELEPHANT in the room is my bitter, bitter resentment of the truth.
The painful, omni-present, dirty little secret. The history and the anger that I am an emmy award winning actress at hiding. When a close family member of mine died... I couldn't be there. The circumstance of being 3000 miles away was originally my fault. When she was alive she didn't agree that I should go home.
She said... "You're an American now!"
Really? So American that I have a green card, doesn't sound very American to me. I could be, I have 3 children that by birth in the United States are US citizens. I'm a British Citizen. I can't even vote or ellect an official that decides how the taxes taken out of my pay check are spent. I have to pay for the priviledge of re-newing my Green Card every 10 years by driving to New York and sitting all day waiting for a number (it was actually a letter - go figure) to be called.
These things are not necessarily my mother in laws fault. But, on an individual basis, generalised, stupid thinking did affect me.
Theres the anger! - Will it ever go away? How do you let it go?
So when today I am welcomed into the family fold within the cold arms of Aunts, Uncles and siblings. If I'm offered a drink (although I'll feel like I'll need one) I'll bite my tongue and sip a nice cup of "Shut the fuck up!"
Friday, October 9, 2009
Sleepy !
had planned to write tonight, but the truth is I am sick as a dog and just about as tired. Didn't sleep well today after my 10 night marathon. (I really need to pay more attention to the schedule) - So peeps, it is time for a really long nap.
Tomorrow I have a lot to say...
What do you think about before you fall asleep?
Tomorrow I have a lot to say...
What do you think about before you fall asleep?
Trafalgar Square.
oneandother.co.uk
A live webstream running through October 16th.
All observed by Horatio on his newly renovated column.
A live webstream running through October 16th.
All observed by Horatio on his newly renovated column.
When you know a thing or two, about a thing or two!
When insulted, I have found, knowing a couple of basic "Life Rules" will get you by with a smile.
- Everything eventually exhausts itself.
- Those that think they know everything usually don't!
- Jealousy, is itself a great motivator, although it is also greeds angry cousin. Unfortunately the intentions are rarely good.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
October 4th - 22 Years away from home.
It took me a few days to get the mind set for this post, melancholy sunset skies bring me back to earth and I am ready. The colder welcoming chill of fall comforts me.
Leafy scenes surround me and I realise that years are never really over, a new one will always come. A new chance to put this sick to my stomach longing to rest. I have the support of my friends and their hands will surely be held as I walk back in time to visit the child of yesterday. I know she is still crying and I am the only person who can calm her fears. I can pick up her chin and whisper into her eyes that it is almost over. I've carried the sadness with me every minute, painfully reminded every October 4th that the "I'm so sorry" days are coming to an end.
Monday, September 14, 2009
White moths are on the wing.
Roseman Covered Bridge
Built in 1883 by Benton Jones, it is 107 feet in length and sits in its original location. Roseman was renovated in 1992 at a cost of $152,515. In Robert James Waller's novel The Bridges of Madison County and the movie of the same name, Roseman is the bridge Robert Kincaid seeks when he stops at Francesca Johnson's for directions; it is also where Francesca leaves her note inviting him to dinner.
The truck in the rain...
As is not uncommon in life, timing is not a GREAT thing.
She starts to cry, she can't tell him why and losing interest quickly he turns up the radio. Pulling into the gas station she is glad of the opportunity to re-group her thoughts and compose herself. Then in pulls the omni-present 'truck in the rain' (please note I am not talking about myself in the third person... just in case ya was thinking I had a lover) -- The truck, driven by someone else might give it an excuse to take her away. Was the whole affair an excuse for her to leave, she must have felt the homesickness all along. Now just leaving tempts her... opening up to a stranger. (OK, she did a lillte bit more than open up) but stolen in the romance of it all is escape.
An evening out is an escape. A vacation... a day at the beach is something anyone can understand. But, can you understand that given the chance to stay at the beach... would you?
She starts to cry, she can't tell him why and losing interest quickly he turns up the radio. Pulling into the gas station she is glad of the opportunity to re-group her thoughts and compose herself. Then in pulls the omni-present 'truck in the rain' (please note I am not talking about myself in the third person... just in case ya was thinking I had a lover) -- The truck, driven by someone else might give it an excuse to take her away. Was the whole affair an excuse for her to leave, she must have felt the homesickness all along. Now just leaving tempts her... opening up to a stranger. (OK, she did a lillte bit more than open up) but stolen in the romance of it all is escape.
An evening out is an escape. A vacation... a day at the beach is something anyone can understand. But, can you understand that given the chance to stay at the beach... would you?
The movie that makes me cry.
Now, not sure how deep one should be in a 'blog', but feeling like sharing, so I will.
The Bridges of Madison County... as movies go it is fair to call it a chick flick, but to me it is hauntingly sad. Her kitchen's emptiness and the dusty road that leads to it are symbolic of a life lived far from home. The road is me at the mercy of who may travel it into my life. The kitchen is my heart. Sometimes filled with children, but like wallpaper and pretty curtains fade, the window can steal your eyes away in an instant, your gaze wandering over lanscapes you've studied for many years, unchanging.
A friend that doesn't know you yet may come down that road, and you search their stories so that you can feel like you were with them. You can picture the moonlight and all the glorious sunrises, but never feel the wind. Never hear the sounds. Never know how it felt.
In solitude there is comfort that you don't have to explain how or why you can be so sad, but yet so happy in your life. The multitude of beatiful blessings that can only be counted in as many moments as there are in a day, remain unmatched by the number of times your heart aches just a little more.
Places that have never been seen by anyone but you are the memories tied to places that only someone with the same memories could understand. These heartstrings suffer in a death that is unendingly mourned.
When it is time for her lover to leave she cries and the anger comes out. That anger is ever present in all things that try to tempt me, tease me into letting it rise. The only emotional dalliance that justifies itself to me is the feeling of that long dusty road stretched out in mile after mile of impossible desperation. Impossible for anyone to find me, impossible for me to tell them how.
The Bridges of Madison County... as movies go it is fair to call it a chick flick, but to me it is hauntingly sad. Her kitchen's emptiness and the dusty road that leads to it are symbolic of a life lived far from home. The road is me at the mercy of who may travel it into my life. The kitchen is my heart. Sometimes filled with children, but like wallpaper and pretty curtains fade, the window can steal your eyes away in an instant, your gaze wandering over lanscapes you've studied for many years, unchanging.
A friend that doesn't know you yet may come down that road, and you search their stories so that you can feel like you were with them. You can picture the moonlight and all the glorious sunrises, but never feel the wind. Never hear the sounds. Never know how it felt.
In solitude there is comfort that you don't have to explain how or why you can be so sad, but yet so happy in your life. The multitude of beatiful blessings that can only be counted in as many moments as there are in a day, remain unmatched by the number of times your heart aches just a little more.
Places that have never been seen by anyone but you are the memories tied to places that only someone with the same memories could understand. These heartstrings suffer in a death that is unendingly mourned.
When it is time for her lover to leave she cries and the anger comes out. That anger is ever present in all things that try to tempt me, tease me into letting it rise. The only emotional dalliance that justifies itself to me is the feeling of that long dusty road stretched out in mile after mile of impossible desperation. Impossible for anyone to find me, impossible for me to tell them how.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Homesickness (the lost blog post) with a Wizard of Oz theme.
I've decided to re-write a post that I lost.
Homesickness is something that you do not want to have sitting at a red traffic light. Your mind wanders like Dorothy's in a tornado of melancholy winds. Often snapped back into reality by some wanker in a Volvo behind you.
But,truth be known...I have actually said the words "I want to go home!" - but, nothing happened, so I can disprove that theory.
(Quit yur judgin... it's not like I expected to see a little man revealed behind a curtain)
Still wouldn't it be amazing if that really did happen? Then I'd see the balloon with a giant Virgin Atlantic sign on it floating away from me. Like all the trips home I have ever wanted to take.
My Uncle Neil litterally knocked on my door a week ago today. He had flown here from London, took a train from NYC and then walked from Milford station. (Yeah, the British will walk a very long way if it seems the most logical mode from A to B) He knocked the door and I casually (I swear to God it was casual) said, "Oh, Neils stopped by!"
It seemed really cool at the time.
Any Ho! He bet me a Pound (British Sterling) that I won't be coming over next May. Of course it's an insentive tactic probably used in Parliament.
"Shine up your money Uncle Neil! (using the most favourable exchange rate possible).
Long past it's prodromal state my homesickness is omni present in everything I do. Taking full advantage of that I've tied it in with saving and weight loss.
If I save every cent/penny myself then I can only blame myself. So completing each day sans Dunkin Donuts will make me feel more in charge of this dream.
We shall see... money saved so far $0. Weight loss so I can look fabulous... 0 Lbs
Homesickness is something that you do not want to have sitting at a red traffic light. Your mind wanders like Dorothy's in a tornado of melancholy winds. Often snapped back into reality by some wanker in a Volvo behind you.
But,truth be known...I have actually said the words "I want to go home!" - but, nothing happened, so I can disprove that theory.
(Quit yur judgin... it's not like I expected to see a little man revealed behind a curtain)
Still wouldn't it be amazing if that really did happen? Then I'd see the balloon with a giant Virgin Atlantic sign on it floating away from me. Like all the trips home I have ever wanted to take.
My Uncle Neil litterally knocked on my door a week ago today. He had flown here from London, took a train from NYC and then walked from Milford station. (Yeah, the British will walk a very long way if it seems the most logical mode from A to B) He knocked the door and I casually (I swear to God it was casual) said, "Oh, Neils stopped by!"
It seemed really cool at the time.
Any Ho! He bet me a Pound (British Sterling) that I won't be coming over next May. Of course it's an insentive tactic probably used in Parliament.
"Shine up your money Uncle Neil! (using the most favourable exchange rate possible).
Long past it's prodromal state my homesickness is omni present in everything I do. Taking full advantage of that I've tied it in with saving and weight loss.
If I save every cent/penny myself then I can only blame myself. So completing each day sans Dunkin Donuts will make me feel more in charge of this dream.
We shall see... money saved so far $0. Weight loss so I can look fabulous... 0 Lbs
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Sooooooo tired!
OMG! - It is 4:18 on a Sunday morning and it feels like the whole world is 'sleeping in' except me.
Walking to Dunkin Donuts to try to wake up from sleep I haven't had yet... \~/
Walking to Dunkin Donuts to try to wake up from sleep I haven't had yet... \~/
Saturday, September 5, 2009
*~* Goals*~*
Fit in a size **'D' bra. I have about 5 new bras that I cannot wear because I'm too fat. So I name thee...
GOAL # 1 - FIT IN SMALL BRAS (that are in back of draw, before going home next May)
( * )( * )
Tumble outta bed and stumble to the kitchen. Pour myself a cup of ambition...
Ummm, well, not exactly.
Here's how it went...
7:30am; Leave work and bleary eyed drive home (keeping conscious awareness that there are soemtimes State Troopers sitting at Mc Donalds waiting to give out tickets) - I'm usually in the slow lane because this minimalises the need for concentration. Try not to be distracted by roadside wildlife.
15 minutes or so I pull into the driveway and see my sunflowers waving "Come on in!" to me.
Here's how it went...
7:30am; Leave work and bleary eyed drive home (keeping conscious awareness that there are soemtimes State Troopers sitting at Mc Donalds waiting to give out tickets) - I'm usually in the slow lane because this minimalises the need for concentration. Try not to be distracted by roadside wildlife.
15 minutes or so I pull into the driveway and see my sunflowers waving "Come on in!" to me.
Driveway Sunflower - Ain't it purty?
Grown from seeds I scattered, I am a very proud grower. However... the tall ones are freaking out my daughter because they become horticultural hi-ways for bugs. In her words... "I hate them, they make bugs come in my screen!" Alas... I have promised to cut them down.
Truth be known, I said I would cut them down as soon as Aunty Eve and Aunty Joan had seen them.
Oh what a tangled web we weave. I will give them the chop, sadly wiping a tear from my eye. "Sniff - Whimper"
OK, so you've probably noticed that I'm creative with puntuation. I would dearly love to know the rules for it, but I'm admittedly "Dispunctional" This will be covered in another post.
It can also be said that I'm a random knowledge geek.
I have just found the "Text background colour" thingy.
Below is another picture taken with my phone of a Daisy I absolutely love. It has been growing on my deck for months and the flower has been open for about 2 weeks... Love it.
The Pink Daisy.
After requisite 'run to the loo' I took Coby for a walk. Just to the end of the street and a little wander into the next street. He's learning to pee on things now. If only there was someone to show him how to lift his leg. Poor thing... he has to kinda hover and sprinkle. Not impressively, manly at all! Bless him!
Olde Bedhampton
Had to add a picture (or 2) of Olde Bedhampton.
BEDHAMPTON
Betametone (xi cent.); Bodehampton (xv cent.); Bedhampton (xvi cent.).
The parish of Bedhampton is very long and narrow, being about 1½ miles in breadth at the widest part and 6½ miles in length; its southern part extending down Langstone Harbour nearly as far as the South Hayling farm, and including the four islands, Baker's Island, Long Island, and North and South Binness. A small part of the town of Havant lies within its boundaries. The London Brighton and South Coast Railway passes through the village, which is about a mile west from Havant Station and 6 miles north-east of Portsmouth. A cluster of low houses near the church forms the older part of the village, while a group of inns, shops, and houses lying along both sides of the high road from Portsmouth to Havant, and separated from the church by a wide meadow called Bedbury Mead, marks the modern outgrowth. Here are the schools which were built in 1868, enlarged in 1873, and again in 1895, for about 180 children; and also a Primitive Methodist chapel erected in 1875. From the schools a footpath over Bedbury Mead leads south-west to Lower Bedhampton, as the part near the church is called. Opposite the church are the rectory, a large white house, and Bedbury House, which is at present unoccupied. Directly north-west of the church the manor house stands on rising ground overlooking Bedbury Mead. Other houses are The Elms, at the corner of the road to the west of the church, occupied by Mr. Lionel Fawkes, and The Towers, occupied by Miss Meiklam, on the main road from Portsmouth to Havant, west of the village.
There are numerous springs in the village, which have become quite famous for their properties; St. Chad's Well, near the manor house, being supposed to possess the most health-giving virtues. A stream rising near the post office runs parallel with the village street. The hamlet of Belmont lies on high ground north of the church, and is almost a continuation of the village.
Belmont Park, the seat of Mr. W. H. Snell, lies to the north and covers an area of some 20 acres. The north-west part of the parish of Bedhampton is thickly wooded, once forming part of the Forest of Bere, which in early times extended as far south as the range of the Portsdown Hills.
The road which leads northward from Belmont to Waterlooville goes through the heart of this beautifully wooded country, Little Parkwood, Neville's Park, and Beech Wood being the names of the largest stretches of woodland. The area of the parish is about 2,401 acres of land, and 4 acres of land covered by water; 228 acres covered by tidal water and 1,166 acres of foreshore. (fn. 1) The proportion of land in the parish is 542¾ acres of arable land, 1,125 acres of permanent grass, and 413½ acres of woodland. (fn. 2) The soil is loam; subsoil chalk; and varies in quality. The chief crops are wheat, barley, and oats.
From: 'Parishes: Bedhampton', A History of the County of Hampshire: Volume 3 (1908), pp. 142-144. URL: http://www.british-history.ac.uk/report.aspx?compid=41945 Date accessed: 05 September 2009.
Can I go home now please?
A nod to Portsmouth history.
Note it is the only surviving "London" home of Charles Dickens... he was in fact born in Portsmouth.
I know the house I was born in is still there because I have seen it on Google Earth. (Aunty Joan was also born in the same bedroom 7 years earlier)
11 Selbourne Avenue, Leigh Park, Havant, Hants. Was a post war solution for the people fleeing the heavily hit bombed out Portsmouth.
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