Dr. Fogg & Sir Daniel presents..

About Dr. Fogg

 

“Dr. Fogg” resides in Devon, England, he has a care home and with his wife Ann looks after people with learning disabilities. A former farmer and agricultural engineer he too writes poetry. He would also be an administrator at TPS but his propensity for breaking all the rules has somewhat hampered his rise to adminstrationhood.

Born in England in 1948 (phew just missed the bloody war) to a farming family and with a 7 year old sister already in place. Our farm was twenty miles from Shakespeare’s birthplace in the beautiful county of Worcestershire. My father specialised in breeding pedigree Rhode Island Red poultry and became one of Britain’s top breeders, exporting our live stock world wide.
I was sent to a private school for the sons of gentlemen, where I learnt Latin, bomb making and one poem by heart. (Wordsworth’s daffodils). I have to say I had an Idyllic childhood with a whole farm as my playground where I would spend lazy summer days fishing, shooting (don’t worry I usually missed except once when I shot one of our farm labourers in the arse by mistake with an air gun and that is when I took up long distance cross country running.
At the age of eight I made the big mistake of volunteering myself for paid work so that I could buy a tape recorder. When I had raised the thirty pounds required I attempted to withdraw my labour but unfortunately I had made myself indispensable and was required to work forever more.
I hated school which was a fear and terror based system populated by paedophile teachers and a psychotic head master and 400 bully boys who seemed intent on reducing me to a gibbering wreck. It was in the true British tradition a sex segregated school (girls next door) and our only contact with girls was the occasional sanitary towel lobbed over the wall. This crippled me with a debilitating shyness regarding the opposite sex that is only just becoming manageable after 40 years.
I left school to join my father on the farm at the earliest opportunity and worked with him until he died when I was 24. I was married to my wife Ann then and regret he missed seeing my children. He died the week my first was born in 1977 (Fay my daughter). My son William was born three years later. My mother died 2 years after that. I was an orphan.
The farm had to reduce vastly in size because my sister inherited half of it and needed her money out so I turned my talents to becoming an agricultural engineer serving local farmers and making farm machinery, I loved it. I took many courses on welding, diagnosing engine faults etc, the business gradually changed over to becoming the local garage, servicing and repairing cars as well as tractors. A friend of mine became my partner and we did well for quite a few years. I still kept a flock of sheep because I just loved lambing time and found it hard to break that connection with farming life.
My wife had become a state registered mental nurse (Handy with me as her husband) and always wanted to own her own care home, so in 1996 we sold the farm and moved south to Torquay Devon, just half a mile from the sea, where for 12 years we ran a successful home for elderly people with Alzheimer’s disease and also clients suffering learning disabilities. I really threw myself into the management side of this taking endless courses and struggling with the ever increasing burden of government control in the form of never ending initiatives to improve care and stamp out abuse. We had very rigid inspections and a set of standards to work to that were truly mind boggling. Standards that seemed to change every week. For example in the 10 years we were doing this, the government first decided our patients must now be called clients, then it was residents, then service users and the latest is People. Not much of a problem you would think but each time there was a change it involved changing the hundreds or written policies and procedures we have. We employed up to 10 staff members and I as heavily involved in training, the low point for me was when the wearing of nurse’s uniforms became politically incorrect. (The nurses not ME I hasten to add). We enjoyed owning a care home and we created a home with a fine reputation for top quality care, met many wonderful people, clients, their families and the staff, many of whom have become firm friends. I feel somewhere in all this there is a book to be written, maybe “One fell out of the cuckoos nest”
Caring for the mentally ill is a highly stressful job and with our health failing both my wife and I decided to turn our large Victorian home into flats and just keep two people,( residents, clients, service users), in the large ground floor flat we have left.
A few years ago I went to Ireland (Just south of Dublin) with my daughter to attend my nephews wedding. They took us one evening to a small country pub, the people couldn’t have been more welcoming. After an hour or so I heard a tapping sound and the ear splitting noise turned into deathly silence, all eyes went to the corner of the pub where a giant of a man sat, he clasped his hands together and began to recite a poem, The cremation of Sam McGee. It was long, and hilariously funny, his musical Irish voice had me transfixed. This poem haunted me for several years until in September 2007 I decided to do a search on the net for it and to my surprise found it instantly. It was by the American poet Robert Service and I determined then to write my own in his style, which I did. I then needed the world to read it so searched for a poetry site and found TPS where I was welcomed and encouraged beyond belief. Stacy and Daniel in particular, for which I shall be forever grateful. I know my poetry is rather basic but it keeps me happy and people seem to enjoy it so why the hell not.

A few pictures:

[image]

My Great , Great Grandfather.

[image]

My Grandfather, my dad (the eldest boy on the left) my uncle Les and their two sisters Ivy and May. About 1920. Their mother died at the age of 31 from diabetes just before insulin was discovered. My grandfather was quite stern and quick to use his riding crop. apparently little Leslie broke his arm once and was so scared to tell his dad he suffered with it for 3 weeks.

[image]

My Father looking at his prize Rhode Island Red Chickens.

[image]

Little Foggy and his sister Jo, about 1950, walking the streets in war torn Britain having been out digging worms to suppliment the meagre family rations.

[image]

Me and my family on the right 1952. With friends of the family walking home wearily after forcing us children up chimneys to sweep them for a penny a time. Or we might have been on holday at Weston Super Mare.

[image]

Little Foggy and his best mate Ted.

[image]

Bigger Foggy with his precious lambs, 1967 ish aged 19.

[image]

Ann and I get married June 3rd 1972.

[image]

The blushing bride.

[image]

Me in 1988 ish.

[image]

Ann at about the same time.

[image]

Our Children Fay and William also about 1988.

[image]

Just a boy and his dog, William and Maggie about 1995.

[image]

Linda and Amanda.(Care workers)

[image]

Judy and Claire.(Care workers)

[image]

Donna.(Care worker)

[image]

Christmas party for residents their families and staff.

[image]

Our daughter Fay who had finished university and to come and work for us.

[image]

Everyone enjoying the party.

[image]
The garden.

[image]

Fuschias.

[image]

A Rose (Alecs red).

[image]
A Rudbeckia (Probably)

[image]

My fish pond with shubumpkins (Hugh, Pugh, Barney Mcgrew, Cuthbert, Dibble and grub.

[image]
Bengall the cat, a real pal of mine.

[image]

My son and daughter 2009, William is second Chef in a large Torquay hotel and Fay is manager of a local care home.

[image]

And of course not forgetting Danny my fishing buddy.

[image]

Finally no family is complete without the wifes mother.

Dr Fogg.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: