Thursday, 29 January 2015
There have been lots of changes in Blogger since I first started using it in 2009. Some of them were unacceptable to me, like the invasive comments of anonymous commenters and I couldn't find a way of stopping them arriving. I asked Blogger, but like so many other websites these days, it seems they are not that interested in communicating with their bloggers. Nothing was done and some of those comments are still on my older posts unless I sit there for ages and delete them all individually. What worried me most was the future posts. How could I stop being pestered by these people, hell bent on trying to sell me all sorts of things I didn't want or just muscling in on my space to get their products across. They use ever more crafty ways to get on here.
I moved to Wordpress and for a while that seemed to solve the problem. I no longer worried about those anonymous annoyances, but Wordpress is different to Blogger and I missed my friends. My most loyal followers on here stayed with me when I moved and for that I was and am grateful, but recently I have felt more and more like returning here.
Coming back I find some differences.
A lot of the blogs that I used to follow are no longer active and I can't find a way of deleting them.
The 'Follow Me' gadget is no longer available, neither is the 'Follow' tab at the very top of the page and many people seem to have moved over to Google + or Network Blogs or whatever took their fancy. I dabbled with Google + and it is quite fun, something like a cross between Blogger and Facebook. If you look on my sidebar you will see a gadget that you can use if you want to follow me on there. If you do, you will get my blog posts and also posts I put just on Google +. Everything seems to be linked these days, doesn't it!
People no longer seem to want to comment much. Perhaps it is because everyone is using I-pads these days and it is not so easy to type anything on one of those things. I am on my Laptop as I write this and enjoying using the keyboard instead of my magic wand on the I-pad. It is much easier to write on here.
So changes abound, some for the better, some not so good.
For the better I find that some of my 'old favourites' are still here and blogging regularly and that makes me happy. I have tried to keep up with my old friends whilst blogging on Wordpress, but it seems a bit difficult to comment on blogs here when people don't take the trouble to look elsewhere occasionally.
It is easier to upload pictures on Blogger. At some stage I will run out of space and need to upgrade and I will do that when the time comes because I find that my blogging world has become important to me.
Wordpress seems to cater more for the professional person. I know that is a generalisation, but true nevertheless. I used to like the templates on Blogger for cottagey people like me, but there don't seem to be many over them over there.
So here I am back and hoping to pick up the pieces of where I left off.
What do you think about the changes? Have I missed anything out? Am I missing anything vital?
Wednesday, 28 January 2015
There has been a lot of hoo-haa in the news about the snow storm in America and now over here in England, we are told we will be getting some snow too. For most people, this is bad news, but for some it is very exciting. I'm talking children now.
In her book 'Village Affairs' Miss Read is describing how her class of Infants react to snow in Fairacre...
'Cruel weather,' said Mr. Willet. 'My greens look fair shrammed. What with the weather, and the pigeons, and all them other birds, I sometimes wonder why I bothers to grow them. If I had my way I'd stick to root crops, but my old woman says we must have a bit of winter greens, so I doos my best. 'Tis a thankless task though, when the winter's like this.'
'As long as we don't get snow,' I said.
Mr. Willet looked surprised. 'You'll get that aplenty, my dear, and afore the week's out too.'
As usual, he was right.
It began during the dinner hour, while the children were tearing about digesting, I hoped, steak and kidney pie and pink blancmange. Hilary was on playground duty, and I was cutting up painting paper for the afternoon sessions, when the classroom door burst open to reveal a knot of panting children, proudly displaying the spatters of snow on their clothes.
'Snowing, miss! Ennit lovely? It's snowing! And it's laying too.'
They were much too excited to have understood the different uses of the verbs 'to lie' and 'to lay', and anyway I have almost given up hope of any success in that direction.
I contented myself with telling them to let Miss Norman know that they must all come in to school.
They clanged over the door scraper with enough noise for a mechanized army, and I went to the window to see the worst.
The snowflakes were coming down in great flurries, whirling and turning until the eyes of the beholder were dazzled. The icy playground was white already and the branches of the elm trees would soon carry an edging of snow several inches deep. Across the playground, sitting inside the window of my dining-room, I could see Tibby watching the twirling flakes as interestedly as I was doing.
The snow hissed against the glass, but that sibilant sound was soon drowned in the stamping of feet in the lobby and the excited voices of the children. I could see we were in for a boisterous afternoon. Wind is bad enough for raising children's spirits to manic level. Snow is even more potent a force.
I judged it best to give out the paints and paper as soon as the register had been called, for it was quite apparent that my voice could never compete with the drama that was going on outside the windows.
'You can paint a snow scene,' I said, working on the principle that if you can't beat your rival, you join him.
'What like?' said Ernest.
Our Fairacre children are chary of anything involving the imagination. If I had told them to paint the tasteful arrangement of dried flowers and leaves, concocted by Amy and kept on my desk, they would have set to without a word. But to be asked to create a picture from nothing, as it were, filled them with dismay.'
Did that passage from Miss Read's book stir any memories of your own childhood in snowtime?