Friday, 7 August 2015
Monday, 11 May 2015
History can sometimes be cruel. Not necessarily remembered for the creation for the first mass produced helicopter, Anton Flettner will still go down in history.
H periodically sets me homework and identifies Wikipedia articles that I really should read. I am afraid not to read then for fear they come up on the test.
Now, what can be more impressive than the helicopter? Sorry to disappoint but he did not create the kitkat. That honour as we all know is reserved for Dave Kitkat. Did you know only had four fingers on his left hand?
Anyway, Mr Flettner (H for all her knowledge didn't know if he was a doctor) is responsible for the Flettner vent. You know what that is, it's the little thing on the top of police vans that stops the dogs from sufficating. See, sometimes I can be educational.
In no way I be so childish to point out that early helicopters used the chassis of a focke wulf. Ofcourse being recycled, it was often necessary to clean them before re use. Hence the first recorded use of the term dirty focke.
Sunday, 22 March 2015
Sunday, 8 March 2015
It's 2-20 am and the wind is howling outside. I can hear the wind battering against the window of the bedroom. To be awake at this time of the morning is exceptional for me and by writing these simple words I am hoping to remain focused.
I am in the bedroom of my great aunt who died less than 24 hours ago. The irish funeral machine has swung into action and I am keeping her company. It's just me and the mortal remains of a woman who helped shape my life.
Already her features betray the fact that I know was inevitable. I will keep her company until the sun rises. In the irish tradition, I am at her wake.
This old house has hosted many of these events in the past. I wonder if the spirits of those who went before me and sharing my vigil. Perhaps they are helping me stay awake. I hope they are with me and that I have not disappointed them. An era has ended and I am sad.
Suddenly a generation has vanished. It happened so quick that the enormity is only just touching me. Those memories of people who died long ago have died too in a way. Sure I can tell you about my great great grandfather but I can't describe the sounds of his boots as he entered the kitchen downstairs. I don't know if he intended to die in this house on the day he said he would.
I don't doubt that they are here and whispering the answers in my ear.its late though and no matter how open my mind is, my ears are closed