What makes home Home?

What makes home Home? (c)

By michaelgcasey

What makes Home Home? ©

By Michael Casey

Somebody I know is going off on an adventure, he is going to work abroad. So it set me thinking, what would I miss and what would I take with me if I went to work abroad. To start with I don’t think I would want to work abroad, I’d miss the comfort of my own bed, foreigners and foreign countries have harder beds much harder beds than we have here in England. I’m older now with children so I’d want them to stay at their schools and not miss their friends. I know people have gap years and do a lot of travelling, but that’s just a holiday really, they know they’ll be back home.

Yes I’d enjoy say 2 months somewhere different, but home is home, home is where the heart it. So what makes home home? It’s knowing I can get up from my chair in front of the computer and make a drink of something nice and hot or ice cold. It’s nice to know I can drink water straight from the tap and not worry about possible infections, here in Birmingham we have the best water in the world,  it’s Welsh water we steal from Wales, there’s a pipeline. Home is where I can not shave for a week if I’m feeling lazy, being somewhere else I’d have to shave, you can be a tramp at home but not abroad.

Yes I can speak a little French and Spanish, so in those places I wouldn’t be lost, and when in Shanghai I am looked after by the family. Yet being able to switch on the radio to hear the news or dip into tv news with BBC and Sky and Fox too that’s what keeps me happy. In 2007 we were in Shanghai when the Navy lads were kidnapped by the Iranians, all I had was CNN on the hotel tv, this was torture because CNN s just a travelogue, next to rubbish. At home I’d have 3 other news stations at least, for me being at home means following the news, I am a news junkie. I read the Daily Telegraph  constantly too, the web edition, so if I cannot get to a computer I would not be at home.

Home is being nagged to go to the corner shop to get some strange vegetables my Shanghai wife wants, two or three times till I get the right one. Home is watching films with the kids, watching horror films with the wife, slipping out to the corner shop to get fizzy pop for me and the kids to drink during the film. Home is just being relaxed in ones’ own space, being off duty, being able to go outdoors and have a breath of fresh air in the garden, it may be a scruffy little garden or a show garden but it is your garden, you can scratch your bum and throw a fart to the wind. In a hotel it can be very very nice and you can have fresh sheets on your bed every day, but it’s still not home. I know hotels can be great, I worked at a 4star for 3 years but not unless you have a  big suite can you compare it to home in some small way.

Shoes scattered, shoes on a rack, an old pair of shoes converted into slippers, simple things that turn a house into a home. You cannot bring everything with you if you lived abroad. The right type of toilet paper,  the right kind of soap and tooth paste. All of these simple things turn a house into a home, a smile a nod a joke with the postman or the corner shop man these too make home. Understanding the priest on a Sunday this is a little thing that makes us feel at home, even if you don’t really like that priest very much.   Yes do have adventures, but make sure you come on back home, the priest is always waiting to hear your confession.

 Christmas On A  Bus ©

            By

             Michael Casey

On a bus coming home the Christmas Story revealed itself to me, ordinary events on a cold  Winter’s evening.

There was a large man squeezed into a seat sitting crossways as he was so large, I squeezed in next to him, the two of us like boulders abandoned.

A small African child was singing a carol to her mum who was weighed down by worry and a carrier bag  larger than  the child, behind a bigger child was swinging her feet off the seat.

In front of me a child with  a large bright pretty ribbon in her hair was talking excitedly to her nan. Her nan was all wrapped up against the Winter weather, she was more like a parcel than a person She was giving sage advice to her granddaughter, don’t expect too much this Christmas.

There was a pretty teenaged too, she was  moving her ankle in her new clean boots, perhaps Christmas boots, she was speaking confidently to her ugly friend, pretty girls always have either a fat or ugly best friend, its Nature’s balance.

The African family got up it was their stop at the bus stop, I told the child to hold on tight to the rail as she moved forward only she was too small to understand fully.  My children are about their age I said to the child with the ribbon in her hair and her nan.

The large man squeezed in next to me started doing sign language to me, it was only then that I realised he was deaf and dumb. So I signed back to him. A few stops further on the dumb man as big as Gabriel himself got up as it was his stop, we exchanged goodbyes, “Good Luck” I said, he got off and waved goodbye from the street.

I heard a voice on a mobile, “we’ve got to go then or the graveyard will be shut, I want to give mum some flowers for Christmas.” All this represents Christmas,

your Christmas, My Christmas, Everybody’s Christmas. So take time out to speak  to the deaf, to share a smile, to remember your mum, for Christ is Born.

Parenting ©

By Michael Casey

“Mom where’s my shirt?”

“Where you left it.”

“Mom you have to help me, I have to wear it for school.”

“It’s where you left it.”

“You’re no use, Dad where’s my shirt?”

“What did your mum say?”

“She said it was where I left it.”

“So it must be there then.”

“Dad you’re no use, you’re worse than mum. I wish I was adopted.”

“YOU WERE, “ echo Mum and Dad.

“You two are cruel you’ll give me physiological damage.”

“Then that’ll be something we all have in common,” retort Mum and Dad.

“I’ve found it, I’ve found it,” screams the child overjoyed.

“And where was it?” ask the bored parents.

“Where I left it,” whispers the child sheepishly.

And so it goes on in every home everywhere the world. Kids should have all their things electronically tagged, then with a bleep everything could be revealed. Letters  from school arrive at the bottom of school bags, well arrive is a general term, arrive should be replaced with are discovered, just as archaeology discovers things. Three months later you discover what is happening in school, school letters could and are used as bedding for gerbils, sometimes you only know what has happened at school when you are cleaning your kids’ gerbil cage out. Then the terrible thing happens, the gerbil is dead and you have to find an old shoe box and a priest so that the gerbil can be buried with dignity in the garden. Making sure the gerbil is buried deep enough so the local foxes don’t get a takeaway option for their own dining.

“I’ve got nothing to wear.” Now that means you have to visit the charity shop for yourself while you kids spend a fortune on the latest trainers. If you are from a large family you had caste me downs, I did, but this generation don’t want to do that. You tell them tales from your youth and about grandpa and grandma in Ireland and China, in our case, or any other combination for the rest of you reading this. And what do they reply, “that’s the old century,” as if the 2^nd half of the 20^th century was in the Middle Ages, did we have indoor plumbing then?

“Mum, Dad can I have £20  for a trip.”

“When’s the trip?”

“Tomorrow.”

You would have known about the trip if you only bothered to read the paper you used to wrap the gerbil in when you buried the gerbil in the garden, Father Dan in attendance, he’s a family friend and comes around for the dinner, so stifling a smile Dan had blessed the grave. The child promised to come to church more often, and ran away crying.

“Here’s £20 then.”

“But what about refreshments too dad?” the child looks up pleading to you.

“Ask you  mum.” you walk away, you had plans for that £20, you were going to have a beer with a school friend, someone you’ve know 40years, now you’ll have to ask him over for a few cans.

“Mum dad said you’d give me a tenner for resfreshments,” says the child.

Mum is all knowing and loves her child, so she follows dad and steals a fiver for her child.

“But that’s only £5,” says the child looking all hard done by.

“Dad’s given you £25, so hop it, or I’ll give you a kick up the backside.”

Dad looks at his empty wallet, he’s high and dry now.

“What can I do now?” he asks all forlornly.

“We could go to bed,” replies mum.

“Sex at you age, you are disgusting,” replies the child.

Like my Page (c) by Michael Casey

How do you capture a thought, its like a polar bear trying to capture a butterfly in its teeth without harming it. So you use a metaphor or some other kind of butterfly net, ideas lap at your toes  like walking on the beach at Cromane Lower Eire, then you get sands between your toes.   Your socks are stuffed in your pocket only they fall out and you stumble to catch them like a wicket keeper in cricket, or the catcher in baseball. See already I've put a few diverse thoughts in your head. Images is what advertising is all about, a warm and soft glow in your mind then you buy stuff. Memories of a first kiss, or the first loss of innocence, something that makes you smile and close your eyes, and want more. So you will go out and buy stuff, just one click away. I shouldn't ruin the illusion, but I will, you can buy my 5 books on Amazon Kindle, just look for my silly face on the corner. Comedy sells product, but how do you sell comedy itself? Perhaps  I should say read my books and your chest will expand, you'll look like Rocky, or if you are a girl you'll look like Angelina Jolie. Read my books and people will be impressed by your choice of reading, I never thought you'd read him, Michael Casey is so so, well just so so so, we have so much in common now, quick marry me and we'll read his books while we are on honeymon.
So I've displayed cheap marketing tricks that B list celebrities use all the time for their Z list latest films. I've got on all the front pages  by flaunting my body, are fat hair chests all the rage now, is silver coloured hair with matching eyebrows the latest thing. Do I look like Steve Martin or Leslie Neilsen?
This is what you get when you ask me to go to your page on Face Book, would you have refered a kiss under the mistletoe? Or will you just strike me off your Friends list, a horrid horrid man, or is it polar bear ?

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Michael-Casey/e/B00571G0YC/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1

Treasure

Treasure ©

By Michael Casey

Well its 2 weeks before Christmas and we are all thinking, or perhaps thinking of presents and so forth. If we are children it’s all about what we will get, but if we are parents it’s all about what we can give to our kids. All I want for Christmas is my 2 front teeth the song goes, me this Christmas I’ll settle for a lack of back pain.

I’m thinking of The Bishop’s Wife, the Cary Grant and David Niven version, perhaps all I should say is go and watch it again because it says it all. We all treasure different things, this Christmas I found a cheap but very good quality dab receiver with a ubs port, so after a 2 or 3 year gap I have replaced my old hifi, look on Amazon for the Pioneer one. This is my treasure, it cheered me up and took my mind off the pain, just imagine a piece of plastic no bigger than your thumb can store all your cds and then you can play them back on the hifi. As you may know I do love a bit of music. The last hifi we donated to the car wash attendant, he did a good job so he ended up with a hifi with great speakers, it was in the car boot and instead of a charity shop getting it the car wash guy got it.

Treasure comes in many forms, memories are all our treasures, me for family things I seem to have total recall, as if I’m the family historian. I remember the tales my dad told me over many a year, he repeated them over and over again, but for me I just loved it. Listen to the old they do have laughter and wisdom to share with us. At Birthdays and Anniversaries and Christmas we remember our friends and family, we buy them gifts, we send them  a card, and if they are no longer with us we share stories they had shared with us, by doing this we keep them alive.

Treasure comes in many forms, right now we hear of the Spitfire and how some may have been found in a foreign field. We also hear how loads could be buried in crates in Birmingham, that’s where I am now talking to you all. The Spitfire is a treasured icon and perhaps we should all be going out with metal detectors, looking for treasure we could all treasure for generations to come.

When we receive a gift for Christmas or whenever  we treasure it, a Don Camillo omnibus in English for example would be a great gift for me, I have Don Camillo on the shelf behind me. When I think of Don Camillo I think of Mr Trout my old History teacher for it was he who recommended Don Camillo to me. So there I have a memory and a treasure combined. Charity shops will gain stock after Christmas as unloved items are sent away and abandoned at Charity shops. We might not realise the thought the intent behind the present, we may not realise it’s on a par with the widows mite. Children, some children want and expect the latest this and the latest that, 100s of pounds spent on plastic junk, batteries not included. If your uncles and aunties are teachers what do you get? Books, books, books and more books. We do have 2 new bookcases in our house, so that’s just fine.

We can discover a little café or a little pub, now that too is something to treasure, an oasis of calm where you can indulge and enjoy a coffee and a cake, or a really decent pint or three and pork scratchings, I am in the Black Country after all, let’s just stop a second and think about that. As a child we discover sweets and the memory lasts a lifetime, then fancy old fashioned sweet shops appear, halleluiah praise the lord, and the tastes and memories come flooding back. There was one such shop in the Law Zone in Birmingham, men in suits, very expensive suits queuing for sherbets well in my imagination they did.

Time spent and misspent is something to treasure, climbing over walls and going scrumping when you were a kid, running like mad to escape the owner’s dogs, getting splinters in your fingers as you escape. Getting home and mum had to get out a big long and thin needle to remove the splinters. The screams you made and the tugging away as mum got the splinters out, do you remember it, do you remember it?

These are just a few examples of treasure, I hope it will   awaken long almost lost memories in all of you who read this, it has reminded me of my own life and of some of the Don Camillo stories too. Nothing we buy nor nothing we give or even receive can compare to Love, love is a free gift, costs nothing, but it is priceless, so treasure that this Christmas.

Prof Beard and Me(c)

Prof Beard and Me

By michaelgcasey

I heard a bit of Prof. Beard on the radio and today in between wincing with pain I read her piece on the BBC website, of I forgot to say she was talking about teaching at Uni and all the surveys teachers have to hand out. We are all a market research driven society, it even has it on vans “am I driving well”, so you cannot avoid it. I did spend 3 years at a 4star hotel so I know all about customer service, if you get it wrong 10 people know about it, and if you get if right only 4 know about it. So 99.99% of the time you must get it right.

As for teaching, you have to please the Head at the school level or you don’t get that raise, or your 1year contract is not carried over, everybody is just a hired handnowadays not just in teaching, we are also the worthless society, judging by all the 1 year contracts. Little wonder moral is so low. But we soldier on because we love our subject and we want to share it with students. But are they listening? That’s another question. At Uni at least they have chosen to be there so they should be more attentive.

As for Mary Beard and Homer, Homer Simpson is known and perhaps he IS the modern Shakespeare, her Homer the Greek guy, and not the one down the road in the Kebab shop. When she talks I listen and I learn, I enjoy her tv documentaries, and I don’t mind if she doesn’t apply war paint, she is not on X facter after all, but I would vote for her because she is so illuminating. BBC2 and BBC4 have opened up doors in the mind for me and millions more.

How about Prof Beard on Strictly Come Dancing, you could have Prof Brian Cox on it too, perhaps doing the music, all your fav teachers having a go at the dancing, and Brucie could give a lecture on the significance of dance in early culture., starting with cave men and up to the present day. Humour does have a place in learning,  in my blogs some of you may have spotted it.  Or then again perhaps I should have a makeover myself and try my hand at the Xfactor, a new Pavorotti.

Shakespeare was....

NOVEMBER 28TH, 2012 18:42

Shakespeare was ………..

By michaelgcasey

I’ve been watching the Sky Arts prog on Shakspeare. It was interesting but left me feeling empty. My tutor once said I was Shakespeare’s agent when I wrote an essay 20 years plus ago, all I can remember is that I got 74%. There was a documentary about Will on BBC2 a few years ago and that make a compelling case for Will being from Stratford. It highlighted all of Will’s influences and perhaps he was a Catholic too, how all of life’s events made Will the man he was. How he learnt so much stuff, so he was able to write what he did write, Will was the man. In good Will hunting the cleaner can do maths problems that out fox the greatest brains, in the end though that Will finds out the most important thing of all LOVE.

Scholars say that Will Shakespeare couldn’t know this and he couldn’t know that, and he couldn’t possibly be so mean, according to the Sky Arts program. In real life we all know some Son Of a Bitch, who seems so nice but in reality he’s a SOB, if only we knew about things but the person seemed so nice so genuine, but in reality…  People have got away with murder and things even worse than murder, but we don’t have hindsight.

Shakespeare is the same, he amazes us, he touches us.  Steven King frightens us to death, doesn’t mean he should be on Death Row, he must be warped because of the way he writes. It is his job, it was Shakespeare’s job, writing is what people do, you don’t have to be a Saint to pray and you don’t have to be Satan to curse and do worse. And if only we didn’t mix the two up with current sad and tragic events in the news….

Shakespeare is fun and kids do him at school, Macbeth is being studied by our kids if they are old enough to be in the GCSE class today. Cliff Notes and BBC Bitesize are a great help. But back to the plot, I feel the older BBC documentary was more accurate, and I vote for that version of Will’s identity. If I can  do my bit of writing, from my own background then why on earth cannot Will be the man who wrote his own stuff. Clever people are trying to hang their own coat on Will’s frame, but sadly the cloakroom tickets have fallen off and the wrong garments are being given to the wrong man.

Michael

p.s. I still maintain that Prince Hal was a bit of a lad and would abandon Falstaff  once Kingship beckoned

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