I have come to the conclusion that being a grumpy old man has its advantages. At least you get to tell people what you think of them. My most recent complaint is with BT who offered to upgrade my WiFi, on which both my computer and my three cordless telephones now depend. An engineer came to install the WiFi cabling about which nobody had told me and left an hour or more later saying he did not have the cable to connect my computer to the access point the cabling ran to in the next room. He assured me that the modem would work until I got the necessary cable. It did not.

I complained and also sent for my own engineer who installed the necessary cable and charged me £120. Anyway, it works. Now BT have sent me one of those conciliatory emails saying they were sorry about my problems and have credited £36.75 to my account which, quite frankly, is somewhat of a kick in the teeth – in other words, thank you for nothing. I am still some £80 out of pocket.

It is also one of those emails to which you cannot reply – they always are. This means starting the whole thing all over again which I felt I could hardly be bothered doing, except that at the same time they sent me one asking what I thought of BT? So I told them again.

It all makes me long for the days when my Aunt Mary was the supervisor of the Lanark telephone exchange. When you made calls you got an operator, sometimes Aunt Mary, to put you through. All were able to talk to you about whatever problem you had and pass you on to the engineer. It is a long time ago but whatever else I may have forgotten, I still remember those phone numbers one had to ask to be connected to. The greener grass is usually on the far side of the fence in front of one. I am beginning to think it is on the far side of the fence behind me.

Bill Russell



I am sure many of you have seen valuable objects unearthed on the plethora of TV programmes turning throwaways into cash. Fashions change and items, when used in their original setting which were relatively worthless, can gain value in time or in context. Mrs Eardley is a mid-century furniture enthusiast and we have a number of beautiful pieces of furniture adorning our house, which would not have looked out of place in a 1960's abode.

There is a dark underbelly in the trade of objet d'art, antiques and precious things. You read about it sometimes in newspapers or online, depending on what has been discovered. A Ming-era vase or long lost/recently verified painting by a universally recognised great, reported as selling at auction for millions. Most of these discoveries are made by chance and by the casual browser, searching through the attic of their recently acquired Victorian house or among the remnants of a house clearance picked up in a charity shop.

The real owner never seems to be considered in any of the reports – 'finders keepers' seems to apply to such situations. Only rarely do we hear of the person who struck it lucky by making and identifying the found object, attempting to track down the real owner or perhaps, their heirs.

If I found £1,000 in the street and did not make any attempt to find out the real owner of that money but instead embarked on a spending spree, and it then came to the attention of the authorities, I expect I would be in a lot of trouble. So, with that being the case, why should it be okay for the opposite to apply with uncovered or found items, whilst ignoring the original owner?

I expect the counter to my position would be the claim that the finder used some form of knowledge they had acquired and perhaps had trawled second hand shops on the lookout for such a bargain, so were entitled to the spoils. Well, I have decent eyesight and could use it to comb the pavements around town to find a big bundle of cash. In the event of a successful find, do you think I could then claim that I was using my accumulated knowledge and expertise? Should it then be mine to keep?

Our tendency is to applaud and celebrate object or item finders, falling under the romantic notion of serendipity, but accuse others of theft. We live in a funny old world.

Frank Eardley



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