BAKING SODA TO CLEAN SILVER https://blog.dnevnik.hr/baking-soda-to-clean-silver

Living with Chickens: Everything You Need to Know to Raise Your Own Backyard Flock

Chickens-why not? Tens of thousands of people in all areas of the country enjoy raising these birds, whether for food or companionship. You can, too, with this indispensable guide. Then again, you may want to read Living With Chickens just for the sheer joy of it.
Straightforward prose and dozens of clear, detailed illustrations gives any future chicken farmer the tools he needs to get started, from step-by-step instructions on building the coop to a brief background on chicken biology ("gizzard talk"); from hints on getting high-quality eggs from the hens, to methods for butchering. Vermonter Jay Rossier draws on his own experiences and those of his fellow poultrymen in discussing how to keep marauders from the chicken coop, the benefits of homemade grain versus commercial, and how to live (and sleep) with a rooster in your midst. Personal anecdotes, interesting facts, and lush, full-color photographs of the birds and their landscape round out this comprehensive book.

“We was always outside, all weathers. Partly that was the fact that the houses was overcrowded and partly it was coz of them bloody bugs. Not that the houses wasn’t clean. My Mum was a real stickler, but you just couldn’t get rid of the buggers. Them blighters, they lived in the wallpaper, in the plasterwork. They bit ’til you was mad with it.
“The doors was never locked, we all knew each other and there was always people looking out. The street was like a room we all shared. If Mrs So and So wanted something from the shop or a message taking to somewhere, she would just look out the door and ask one of us kids.
“All the adults was ‘Uncle This’ or ‘Aunty That’. They saw if you done anything wrong or if you wasn’t in school or whatever and they’d just as like give you a slap and send you off and then tell your Mum and Dad and you’d get another slap from them.
“But then, they would also see if you was alone if your folks wasn’t there or something and they’d take you in and give you a sandwich an’ that. We looked after each other in them days.”
This story was repeated in one form or another many times throughout the memory gathering.
The familiarity of stories of the tight Cockney community spirit, can hide what it is that these elders were trying to tell me. The children were always out and about and were messengers for the community in the same way that nerves carry messages around the body. Children were at the core of the community. They were seen and they were heard and, although their life was tough, they had a place, a value and a role. All spaces were spaces where children could reasonably be expected to be.
These adults saw how different life was for the children around them now:
“They ain’t got nowhere except them silly little bits of playgrounds. And what with the cars all around and people looking at them like they was trouble, the kids ain’t got much choice of places.”

They're knocking down the terrace at the bottom of Somerset Road. I'm always intrigued by demolition works, but I actually stopped to snap this one because these houses have an unpleasant association for me.

Years ago now, I crashed my car here. I pulled out of the junction just out of shot to the left, and straight into the path of an oncoming cement mixer. That my head bounced off the driver-side window, rather than the front of the truck, probably accounts for my not being dead. After the larger bits of debris had settled, I staggered out of the car and some kindly students in one of these houses offered the use of their bathroom to clean myself up in. I have a comical recollection of trying to dab surprisingly large amounts of blood off myself from the thousands of little cuts you get from flying safety glass, and failing miserably. I left the sink looking distinctly gory, and staggered back outside to find police all over the place and an ambulance crew trying to find the owner of one very squashed Peugeot. They carted me off in a spinal injury stretcher and took me to the local A&E where the police read me my rights (awesome) and the doctors told me I was very lucky and that the duck-egg bump on my head would go down in a few days (also awesome).

So I'm not sorry to see these particular houses go, because they serve as a reminder of one of the most stupid things I ever did - although I maintain that the lorry driver must have been going way too fast for me to have not seen him coming before I pulled out.

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