Brain

Because of the inevitable decline in numbers of brain cells in direct proportion to age I have the utmost respect and admiration for those who, at a mature stage in life, make the decision to go back into some form of education.This could be under duress from employers to skill-up and offset obsolescence, a new direction following a mid-life crisis or redundancy, a complete lifestyle change or to prove a former spouse or partner wrong who said that you would never acheive anything. The decision may simply be to make up for wasting time and opportunities the first time around when there were more attractive things to be prioritised in life and living. The sense of satisfaction upon completion of something educational that has effectively been shelved for perhaps 30 or 40 years must also be tinged with a bit of regret for time lost. There is nothing wrong at all with a desire for self improvement. I was inspired by the true story of the Ashington Coal Miners from County Durham who, for an alternative pastime enrolled in painting classes in 1934. Their artwork served to supplement their wages being sold at local markets. The wider art world of the inter war period raved about the paintings resulting in a number of prestigious gallery exhibitions, on merit and not through patronising of the supposedly uncultured working classes. Rediscovered in the 1970's as typifying the genre of Workers Art this developed into a dedicated museum that opened in Ashington in 2006 for The Pitmen Painters. It is a fact that some people have little option but to start work from an early age to meet family commitments,economic and social demands and this is a tragedy in that many gifts and skills which could benefit mankind or the community are suppressed or are just not allowed to germinate and fluorish. On the other hand I have no sympathy whatsoever for those who, given an opportunity of an education and to pursue their dreams , subsequently squander it all for a bit of a laugh and a larking about.
The young brain is a sponge for the absorbtion of facts and figures and is resilient enough to adapt and learn almost anything with very little prompting or actual teaching. The mental capacity from age 3 to the late teenage years is at its maximum before being tainted , bogged down and cluttered with the useless stuff with which we are bombarded every second of the day in our adult lives. Information introduced to the young brain in its formative years sticks and holds, taking up prime position in the equivalent of our hard-drive of the mind. At a base level we were taught and still retain the building blocks of language and communication. The alphabet, times tables, The Lords Prayer, Kings and Queens of England, landmark dates in history, the Liverpool team of the 1974 season (Clemence, Lawler, Lindsay, Lloyd, Smith, Callaghan, Hughes, Hall, Toshack, Keegan, Heighway) , song lyrics and how to play a musical instrument. This latter skill and its persistence in the human psyche was more than demonstrated just two days ago. With Christmas fast approaching we were doing a bit of de-junking in the house. The Ikea cabinet, called a gruntfuttock or something swedo-mythic, fell victim and was rapidly de-engineered and destined for a landfill. Unfortunately, as a storage medium the cabinet was exceptionally voluminous. It had housed CD's, treasured and inherited vinyl records, stray ornaments, a parchment scroll, aboriginal rainstick, navigational chart from Hull to Burton upon Stather and two descant recorders together with a faint odour of dettol. I picked up one of the musical instruments and launched into a jaunty and playful tune, a classically themed Gavotte by some long dead composer. The remarkably note perfect piece moved into a slower middle section before a frantic, finger flailing finale with a flourish of aerated fine spit spray. The musical experience must have been at least 3 minutes long, or at least it had been way back in the early 1970's when I had originally learnt it for a music festival. The power of mental retention was amazing after some 38 years. The experiment was continued by my wife who, not to be outdone, took up the other, admittedly less hygienic recorder and started to play the theme from Van der Walk or 'Eyeline' as performed with orchestra on Top of the Pops. This was quickly followed by some classical Bach and not a little wheezing from her restricted and rather asthmatic chest area. I retaliated with the National Anthem. Exhausted but triumphant we fell into each others arms, laughing and crying at the same time. The Boy looked on horrified but whether for the impromptu recorder recital or our show of unbridled affection and joy I am not sure. He then left the room to check if our TV was still under warranty, fearful that any loss of mass media over Christmas would be replaced by a re-enactment of a freakish combination of the festive concerts of Glebe Road and Mersey Street junior schools, class of '74.