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It was all quite simple. If we wanted less government and more decisions left to ourselves, vote Right, but if we wanted a Government that would take care of us from cradle to grave, making all decisions for us, then vote Left. If we couldn't decide, then vote Liberal and hope they wouldn't be too woolly minded in their support for what we really felt we wanted. Now it is all quite impossible to sort out. The Left has moved right and the Right is moving left, so there is barely any discernible difference between the Parties, other than a slight bias based on personalities. In short, we have a clump of politicians who seem to be identical and none of whom seem to represent what we, in our long lives, know to be best for the country. Come to that, which country are we talking about? England? Great Britain? Or, to be politically correct, just Britain? Or must we bow to Europe? Nobody seems to know what we grandfathers are talking about. We try to tell our children or grandchildren why we think such-and-such is right, basing our arguments on what we learned from our long past about our country, but it turns out that they were never taught history going back before 1914. I talk to 10 and 12-year olds about times past and well recall the day last summer when I mentioned Cromwell, a founder of our political system. Cromwell? Who he? I raised a quizzical eyebrow at one of the accompanying teachers: she shook her head; no, they knew nothing about that sort of history, so far back and not relating to now. The trouble is, we are starting into the third generation of people who went through schooling without any attempt to explain why we are where we are, or indeed who we are. We control some 11 million votes, we Oldies, bigger by far than any single Party, so let us use them, to produce politicians who think like us. Peter Little came to talk to us in January about the eternal love of his life. No, not his wife (does Peter have one?), the other one, Amy Johnson, pioneer aviatrix. Well, that's how he described her to us and to prove it he had laid out a table full of memorabilia of the lady. He had brought along so much that there wasn't room for it all, but, starting at the left hand end he would pick up an item and then talk about its connection for several minutes, then another and another until he was past his allotted time. No matter, we thoroughly enjoyed every word. For those of you just slightly younger than your Editor, Amy Johnson took to flying like you and I took to girls. Born in Hull in 1903 -just when the Wright Brothers managed the first successful powered flight - Amy grew up along with aircraft and was of an age to go for a pilot's licence in the 1920s. She wasn't quite alone in this, only a few girls attempting licensing and even fewer achieving it. How did she finance what must have been a fairly expensive training? If we were told by Peter, it escaped my note taking, but manage it she did. Her parents were well enough off, but this was serious money. In the thirties of the last century she owned her own deHavilland Gypsy Moth and it was in this that she made her historic flight to Australia, taking W/z days to complete the journey and it was this that made her name. Your Editor recalls having a Dinky Toy model of the aircraft, no doubt worth a fortune had he only kept it and its box, but he didn't. Her fame attracted the interest of Jim Mollison, another pioneer aviator and she broke records flying with him. They were, in modem parlance, an 'item', but again I was too busy listening to Peter to make notes as to whether they married or not. Jim was an awkward character and there was little love lost between them, that I know. The Thirties saw the development of Croydon Airport, one of the first true international civil aviation airports and Amy's connection with it put both her and it on the map. During WW 11 Amy volunteered as a pilot, ferrying all sorts of military aircraft to RAF stations around the country and it was on one of these flights, in January 1941, that she lost her life in dense fog over the Thames estuary. We all thoroughly enjoyed Peter's illustrated talk. So did Peter, it turns out: he was so impressed by our interest and he so enjoyed our meal and company that he refused to accept his speaker's fee. Good lad all round.
Our Chairman Jim Mulvey has been running a photographic competition amongst the members and at our January meeting announced that Barnett Trunchion had won cum laude. The runners up were Mike Southwell and Hugh Roberts. Congratulations all round, gents, and for the rest of us, just because we didn't win this year, let us hope Jim organises another next time round, when we can put up our best (in my case luckiest) efforts for consideration. With the AGM coming up, the Club needs volunteers to join the Committee. Our luncheons, meetings, outings, speakers and the like don't just happen: they have to be organised and as a bunch of ex-professionals and managers of industry there should be no shortage of folk able to do these jobs. Have a word with either Jim or Dennis, they will be delighted to hear from you. It is ages since we saw Bryan Chilton at a meeting, though we have had regular reports on his health. Bryan has been laid low for a year now, unable to cope with the weather. Let us hope he will recover soon and be able to join us again. Many Clubs and organisations have a particular committee member whose job it is to keep an eye on members who are in difficulty through age or illness. This position is an important one and we should have such in Coulsdon Probus. We could call him the Almoner, though that post (in hospitals sixty years ago) has implications of financial assistance which do not apply in our instance. Many of us do such work amongst our friends anyhow, but the Club Almoner would have to make sure nobody is missed out and to be able to call on help from other Probeans if necessary. He could also ensure that news of the poorly is given to the Newsletter publication, so we all know. Our paternal Probus Club, Caterham, is holding a Ladies Dinner to mark their fortieth anniversary on May 24th., at the Surrey National Golf Club, Rook Lane, Chaldon and we, as their eldest offspring have been invited to make up a table. The details of this meeting were circulated at our last meeting and will no doubt still be on the notice board, so if you are interested in attending, tell Secretary Dennis Evans (01342 836 163). Phil Munson, our Outings and Speakers organiser will be giving us details about proposed visits coming soon, such as the proposed visit to Charles Darwin's house at Biggin Hil next month, or the walk around Godstone on May 16th. There's lots to see in Godstone and much history to the village, sited as it is on the 1900-year-old Roman road to Lewes. One wonders if we can find traces of the 15th century iron works there, or the 16th century glass making for which the town was famous. The name has nothing to do with the Creator, by the way, but is the patronym of the chief land-owning farmer there 800 years ago, one Cod, + tun or town. When I completed my National Service training as a Radar Fitter, I found myself posted to RAF Oakington, a flying training school equipped with Vampire FB5s and T11s, just north of Cambridge. The fact that the aircraft were not fitted with any radar at this time made me feel slightly redundant, but that's another story. It would arrive any day we were assured, and in the meantime there were things to be getting on with. Like guard duty: we had the usual range of such things; gate guard, fire picket, armoury guard, etc., but also one of our very own - the Gravelly patrol. As a training base the circuit was always busy and indeed from time to time things got very hectic, when some unfortunate pilot was unable to lock his wheels down and had to land the aircraft on its belly in a spectacular shower of sparks. An alternative runway was essential and there was a suitable wartime airfield a few miles away at Gravelly where pilots could practice to their hearts' content. For some reason it was judged necessary to guard the place at weekends; what happened during the week I never found out and while obviously there was sometimes night flying, it was by no means routine. At other times no-one would be around. Anyway, having found myself on the appropriate roster, one Friday evening I climbed aboard a lorry with one other guard (I was told I was in charge, being marginally the senior) and a cook and was driven out to our place of duty. Most of the buildings were in ruins, the only sound ones seemingly the control tower and a hangar where a Vampire - which had suffered a heavy landing - was said to be securely locked away. We were provided with beds in the room under the control tower but not of allowed into the latter in case we should meddle. Our instructions were minimal and as far as I can recall we didn't have a telephone to call for help if anyone decided to take over the airfield. It was a beautiful summer weekend, incredibly peaceful, neither a courting couple nor a passing farm labourer disturbed us. Our cook could barely be persuaded to get out of his bed to cook the bacon, sausage and egg he provided for every single meal. Boredom set in. Dare we risk a quick trip to the village pub? Better not, for we had been threatened with spot checks to keep us on our toes. Needless to say, they never came. Eventually Monday morning dawned and the lorry arrived to take us back, so ending one of the longest weekends of my life.
Produced and edited monthly by Ian Scales (01737 553704)
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