Entertain Yourself for Free. No 2

Just volunteer for something.

The all pervading sense of helping out with a venture or event is tremendously heart warming and can also be fun if you are in a sphere of activity in which you actually have an interest.

This was certainly the case with me in my second consecutive year of marshalling at a round of the UCI Mountain Bike World Cup in Dalby Forest, North Yorkshire.

I got a good position on the early section of the very gruelling and downright nasty course in the bottom of a wooded dell.

I had to move about to prevent the onset of hypothermia in April . This took on the appearance that I was chasing the thin, but warming shafts of sunlight penetrating the forest canopy- a bit like a demented Hobbit.

Apart from a few posh sounding people who had evidently wandered into the woods with no prior knowledge of the major sporting event being played out and who wanted to know what was going on, "I say, smashing, and all that on a push bike, what", my only company for a total of 12 hours in the wild over the two days was the regular passing through of the top quality field of mountain bikers.

The video below is on the first lap with the riders in a rapid procession which, lap on lap, diminished to a tight group of leaders, amongst them the World Champion, the current leader of the World Cup Series and respective National Champions from europe and the americas. By the mid point of the race the field straggled past with the tail enders just a few seconds ahead of the leading riders.

To view the video just have some patience for the first minute or so. The quality is poor because my camera phone is ancient, we are talking only 2 megapixels. The vegetation does entertain in this first minute by moving about in the spring breeze and does give some degree of ambience. The lad on a trial bike is not joy riding but is the lead vehicle. In reality it was quite noisy with the marshalls nearest to me blowing hard on their whistles to alert those down the course of the approaching race. My ears were ringing for a good week after the event from this persistent high pitch of a synthetic pea on metal.

The rather irritating nasally and frankly nauseosly sycophantic narrator providing what is a pitiful audio commentary is me.

QUESTION: How many mountain bikes did you count? Answers via the comments box please. No prize offered but you will be remembered for your persistence and eye to brain co-ordinational dexterity which is a mighty useful trait and may one day save you from getting run over by a herd of cows or a fleet of buses.

Entertain Yourself for Free. No. 1

This particular activity is one that I have been trying to acheive for much of my time on this planet.

I have been thwarted by the general lack of availability of a suitable building.

There appears to have been a complete reaction against glazed corners in contemporary architecture, The Shard excepted.

My inspiration is of course the comedian Harry Worth whose TV programme, I watched when I was very young, featured this stunt in the opening, or was it closing, sequence.

I eventually located the perfect structure in my home city, Hull.

It is the south eastern edge of Kenworthy House which is an office building from the late 1960's or ear;y 1970's within the operation of the Local Authority. It is in a bit of a back street, which helps to overcome my natural reticence and shyness as well as a genetic fear of getting into any form of trouble. Unfortunately, the premises are overlooked by the Hull Central Police Station, but mainly a side entrance into their car park. The south side is onto Dock Street with a large Solicitors Office opposite and a quick getaway possible into the former Queens Dock, a longstanding infilled basin and public park. It is of course essential to have a sidekick to keep a lookout and take the all important evidential photograph. Best time of day is definitely early on a saturday morning before the street side parking bays fill up.

Weak end

In life there is quite a lot that is mundane. The utter predictability of  the day to day routine.

However, this should not be begrudged because for the majority it is this relentless treadmill that is a fundamental part of our livelihoods and means of generating income .

This ultimately helps in the funding of interests and pursuits which make the heart and soul sing and the spirits soar.

Take an average working week.

Monday can be a bit of a trial especially after an indulgent or over-active weekend break depending upon what really floats your boat.

Tuesday can have some turbulence left over from the day before but is a good time to start a project with the prospect of a good part of the week ahead.

Wednesday is definitely the source of mid-week blues, what with a now very distant recollection of that precious weekend period and a seemingly insurmountable task ahead to get to the next two day reprieve.

Thursday, there can be a tangible uplift in attitude and enthusiasm with the approach of the end of the week and on the generally accepted principle that it is now too late to start a new project, that is after all what a tuesday is all about.

Friday, a few deadlines to meet and presentations to make but after the short morning, unless on flexi hours and a 7am start, the gradual running down of activity can begin in the early afternoon.

A lot of companies and businesses seem to cease work by about 4pm, no doubt very much aware, from  experience, of the significant fall off in productivity towards this time.

Plans for the weekend will be well formulated by late friday afternoon, after all there has been a lot of strategic work towards it on office time with so much social media and internet available under a veil of legitimate browsing  and networking.

A proportion of the workforce will be commencing their weekend from the moment they vacate the premises, having struggled in that morning with overnight bag, clothing in a dry cleaning cover and changing from office attire into glad rags in the canteen lavatory. Others may linger a while to see if any group outings are in the offing or try to catch a rumour or whisper of a party or gathering amongst colleagues or their wider circle of friends and acquaintances.

There can be luxurious speculations about a saturday morning lie-in, love-in or tidy up. The more energetic and adventurous may look forward to spending their friday evening preparing their walking gear, oiling the cycle gears, greasing the motorbike, stocking up the caravan or planning a DIY project. I am not so sure that there is, nowadays, an exodus straight to the pub but that friday fish supper maintains its position in the traditions to mark the end of a long working week.

Personally, I do look forward to friday tea-times with family participation in preparing a meal and making plans for the all too short weekend. Much does depend on the time of year and the weather of course but that has always been the case in this country and nothing, short of the apocalypse, stands in the way of the English and their saturday and sunday activities.

Tea or Coffee with a biscuit?

I had the mindset of a casual, inquisitive tourist and not, as required in a formal Church service, a humble and penitent demeanour.

It had been a mistake for me to look up the architectural and historic details of the particular church but it was a nice thing to be able to do ,on the sunday morning , over coffee and toast and before getting ready to go.

It was also quite an interesting bit of background reading in my thick, chunky volume of Pevsner's Buildings of the East Riding of Yorkshire.

On a purely secular basis I was looking forward to seeing, at first hand, the much admired interior as described by Mr Pevsner and this in spite of his rather dismissive opinion of the exterior. This he felt had been somewhat vandalised by mid Victorian enthusiasm for cement render over the original stonework. The origins of the building are Medieval, reputed to be from the early 1300's and with many very prolonged subsequent phases of alteration and enlargement through to the mid 19th Century large scale re-modelling.

There was a very evident sense of heritage on walking through the archway which, unusually, forms part of the pedestrian pavement. I pushed open the very heavy, cumbersome and intrusively creaky oak doors very much against the flow of shoppers and those yet to get home from a saturday night out in the city centre pubs and clubs. It is a heritage that comes alive with the all pervading odours in an old building of dampness, fustiness and a fine layer of dust amongst the pages of hymn books and pew bibles.

The church, some twenty minutes from the scheduled start of the morning worship, was vibrating under the tolling of heavy brass bells and the hushed tones of those preparing to administer and receive. I slid onto the bench seat as far back from the front and as close as possible to the door in order to observe proceedings inconspicuosly.

Later arrivals, their welcome indicating them to be regulars, glanced at me in a regular procession. I felt a bit hot and flushed , thinking it to be from this passing attention and loosened two of my three layers of scarf, coat and cardigan before realising that I was sat on the pew directly in front of the sole radiator for the whole building. Although it was generating a great temperature of dry heat it was a losing battle against such a draughty and stone-cold environment.

I do have some experience of religious services from compulsory attendance when younger at a time when a third of my family made up the choir at our local church. Then, there appeared to me to be just one universal format to Church of England worship. Now it is a bit of a leap of faith what you will get even from parish to parish.

I was informed that St Mary's was in the Anglo Catholic mould. This appeared to be playing out as a wisp of vapour took to the cold air across the Nave. There was however no distinctive smell of incense. A hissing noise pinpointed the source of the emission as the water boiler in the curtained off alcove amongst the Tupperware sealed custard cream biscuits.

The service was mainly sung but with the largest proportion of those present being in an official capacity I had a good, strong vocal lead to follow. The hymn choice was very traditional and I recognised the tunes if not ye olde words. The final blessing came around too soon.I can give a favourable report on my fact finding mission.

Back home, still in the warm glow that comes from worship and the output of a large cast iron radiator I re-read Pevsner and ticked off in true I-Spy style the features of the church I had seen. On my next visit I would be quite happy to relinquish the hot seat. This was not out of consideration for others but out of a sense of self preservation. Apparently the tower under which I had been sitting had collapsed in 1518 demolishing the whole west end of the building. A little knowledge, in the hands of those with little faith, can  lead to unnecessary perceptions of danger and peril. I will make sure to listen carefully and prayerfully next time in church rather than be seduced by architectural ornament and the finer points of Victorian cement render.

Intervention

I was very interested to hear that a Japanese Organisation who advise on matters of economics, business and commerce attribute more than half of the greatest inventions known to the world to the ingenuity and eccentricities of the British.

That is quite credible at face value but if entirely true what has happened to dislocate the natural talents of British boffins from actual industrial and financial dominance for this nation?

Somewhere and under a combination of circumstances there has been a failure to carry  the germ of an idea through to a prototype stage and into actual large scale production?

The sole reason, the hard fact of this situation is not very nice.

Principally, it is because of the individual inventors themselves and their knack of not getting on at all well with those who, through their own and diverse talents, are essential to making a dream a reality.

A stereotypical inventor type may be percieved as a Doc Brown character from the Back to The Future Trilogy, all madness and hair to match. I have limited personal experience of meeting actual Inventors and in reality they are more likely to be quite normal in appearance, mannerisms and behaviour, perhaps even a bit on the quiet, reserved, shy and retiring side.

I did once meet a Mr Bruce Bedlam, inventor of the Bedlam Puzzle, a most intriguing and frustrating solid dissection challenge, in a tour of a rather chaotic laboratory at an East Midlands University. He did appear reasonably normal but evidently thinking and existing at a higher level of consciousness than us mere mortals, well alright, just me. Although only a very brief introduction was made he did make quite an impression.

However, to reinforce the missing link between inspirational ideas and actual sales and profits I have not been able to find and buy a Bedlam Puzzle anywhere in the High Street or on the world wide web.

What is the process to alert the world to the next best idea if you happen to have it?

The Patent Registration Process is often pursued to protect the intellectual property rights of an invention but this can be a very long, drawn out and expensive process. So much so that it is reasonable to presume that ideas which may have potential to revolutionise the way we exist as a species could be sat in a drawer, the ink fading on the blueprint because of a lack of funds to progress to the next stage.

I feel sorry for those inventors who have to resort to the freak-show style of such TV programmes as Dragons Den in order to secure some form of financial backing or access to the expertise and networking that has so far eluded them. A few who have made it up the stairs into the Den have been reduced to a state of nervous distraction and meltdown and this has been pounced upon as being a sign of weakness by those sat behind the piles of cash.

This fracture in what should be a seamless process from idea to product has been addressed to some degree through the actions of a new breed of business advisors.

They take the responsibity for organising and assembling a team of experts and specialists who form the front and public face for an invention. Disciplines cover the complimentary roles of production, financing, marketing and media relations leaving the inventors protected and cushioned from distractions in their workrooms, labs and sheds to pursue their main activity of invention.

Through this structured approach an invention can be brought up to at least a working prototype in order for it to be demonstrated to the money men. It is however a reasonably recent innovation to assemble an effective team.

James Dyson recounted how he had been to his local bank branch to try to obtain a six figure loan for his pioneering invention of the dual cyclone vacuum cleaner. This was in the days when he had to do everything himself from drawing board through, hopefully ,to stacking the shop display shelf. The bank manager did not appear to grasp the technology or concept of the system or appreciate the inspirational thought behind it by its inventor. A working model was left with the manager but James Dyson did not get  a decision. It took some weeks for the bank to agree to the full request for funding. When asked what had been the critical factor in accepting the business proposal the manager said that his wife, on using the prototype, had thought a bagless system was a brilliant idea.

So it appears that the exposure of an idea and invention to the world can be susceptible to failure on such grounds as personality and presentation but this may always have been the case. Other ideas may be killed off at any early stage because they are just too damaging to the social and economic order that operates even for all its faults and failings.

Of course the conspiracy theorists will hark on that a domestic fuel produced from air and water has been proven to be viable but the technology and intellectual rights has been purchased lock, stock and barrel by the oil companies and will never see the light of day.

Large Scale Operation

It is perfectly possible to fall out with a person for a variety of reasons. Such is human nature that it is inevitable that opinions will clash, there can be misconstrued comments, simple misunderstandings, a few raw emotional moments or that realisation, mutual or not that there is nothing of merit or substance to make an attempt at ongoing compatability viable or worthy.

It is also quite feasible and reasonable to do the same with an inanimate object.

I am really referring to the love, hate, love relationship that I have with the bathroom scales.

I have only recently struck up a dialogue with them after perhaps a couple of years of dismissing their existence. The problem is entirely with me and no fault of the electronic device. I have simply shunned it because it insists on revealing the truth about how much I weigh.

Not content with just a straightforward display of my actual weight the scales add insult to hurtfulness by flashing up the ratio my body fat and also water content.

I of course understand the implications of an upwardly spiralling record of stones and pounds which has been the case in my forties but not the relevance of the other indicators of my wellbeing and longer term health. I have often defended my jowly cheeks and flabby midriff by commenting that my cholestrol level is remarkably low and I can easily startle the Practice Nurse by exhaling and sending the toilet roll tube-like lung capacity thing right across the treatment room. My wife reminded me only yesterday, over the chinese takeaway meal, that I had attended that particular Well-Man Clinic over a decade ago and that such physiological facts do change over a lifetime.

I accept that I have been in denial of my expanding waistline and  have even thought my man boobs and love handles to be akin to badges of honour to a typical male lifestyle. Something had to be done about it and without the expensive luxury of reverting to surgery or other such drastic measures.

Since August, I have been working to a regime that, if put into paperback or on interactive DVD, would certainly be a best seller as many other such plans have been for decades.

It is not based on an inner metabolic chemically based reaction with, to my knowledge, clammy skin or gaseous side affects nor reliant on eating food groups of the same colour on certain days. There is no strict combination of proteins or carbohydrates and I am not required to drink the equivalent of my body weight in mineral water or those pea-green coloured detox suspensions. I can tuck into a favourite cheese sandwich when the urge arises and succumb to the moorishness of a good proportion of a packet of biscuits at will.

There are noticeable results in that my chin count has diminished towards single figures. I do not now, some 4 months into the regime, struggle to tie up my shoelaces whilst in the drivers seat of my car- try it. Items of clothing at the back of the wardrobe which have strangely shrunk in recent years do actually almost fit which is encouraging and have been promoted to the front. Cliche's apart, I do feel that I have more energy but this has only made me aware of how unfit and unhealthy I must have been before the regime.

The plan?

There are just two key points. Cycle 100 miles a week mostly through mud or uphill. Eat less.

The bathroom scales seem to approve but then you would expect a bit of flattery from a new bestest friend.

Geriatric Ram Raider

I got a phone call in the early hours of the morning.

It was, even after making allowances for sleep induced stupor, one of those disorientating calls because the voice on the line obviously knew me on a one to one basis. I could not place it.

I feigned recognition in generalities until my memory bank activated and found a perfect match in the folder

 >people: not family: friends: neighbours: acquaintances: people who live in the same street as my office:<.

It was Alec. He lived two doors down from my workplace.

His house was a beautifully and sympathetically restored 1830's built terraced which had resisted acquisition and conversion into offices or consultancy rooms, a fate that had befallen the majority of the properties on John Street. In the 1970's the survival of the inner-city block was in the balance. To the rear there were proposals for large scale demolition and clearance of old back to back and semi derelict dwellings that had, to that period, managed to resist poor original construction, intermittent flooding, gnawing by rats, bombing by the Luftwaffe, arson intent small boys and the misguided ambitions of town planners with aspirations of creating a Utopia in Hull, oh, and a ring road.

The fact that John Street was one of the last of its type in the locality worked in it favour and it was saved from the wrecking ball. I was frequently accosted by Alec on the pavement outside my office with pleas to do a bit more by way of authentic improvements to the front elevation. He was the champion of the application of black gloss paint over the lower courses of brickwork. My building, a functional office, had a rather sun-faded matt black finish which had been painted once, perhaps, in a decade.

We agreed to disagree. After all, we had been awarded a Civic Society Award for the renovation ten years before and were rather sitting on the laurels of it. The visit by two ladies from said Society to adjudicate what we had done was, to my fuzzy memory, very much conducted in a fine sherry atmosphere and playful joviality. I still think we attained the award for being entertaining hosts to the somewhat tipsy, impressionable blue rinse delegates rather than on the merits of the property.

Alec, on the crackling phone line, said that my presence was urgently required. He was a diligent and attentive neighbour and in return for periodic use of fax and copier he kept an eye on our building. Over the years we had been burgled, had the lead stolen from the porch canopy and had to fit a stronger spring to the letter box in the front door after someone (male, possibly) had urinated through it on the way back from a bender at a city centre pub. I did not enter into any detail and was soon driving through the deserted suburbs and into Hull.

As I turned into the Victorian town square, of which John Street formed the northern side, I was not sure what to expect. There was no sign of flames or smoke. Given that the Central Fire Station formed the eastern leg of the square I had not been too concerned about a conflagration being undetected or allowed to run riot. Alec tentatively waved me into a parking space directly outside my office. He said that I had better follow him and we walked past the Old School, now flats, and then a sharp left turn and left again onto the back road which serviced the homes and businesses and a couple of surface car parks.

Where I expected to see our eight foot high palisade gates there was instead a scene of devastation. A blue Ford Fiesta hatchback was firmly wedged not just into the metalwork but through it. Both gates, amazingly were still padlocked together in the middle but useless as a deterrent having been forced up and mangled by the impact of the vehicle similar to trying to open a tin of tuna with a blunt object.

Had this been an opportunistic ram-raid or a means to clamber up and over the gates from the car bonnet and roof?

The actual story was hard to comprehend.

The elderly owner/driver of the Fiesta had come into town for some shopping on what was the usual thursday late night opening. Unable to find a space in the municipal car park she had tried the surrounding streets. The signage for the surface parking at the back of John Street had caught her attention. Driving the sharp left and left again, that I had just walked, she had become disorientated. As her car mounted the kerb and bounced off a wall she was confronted by a large explosion and was immediately shrouded in the air bag as it emerged forcibly from the centre of the steering wheel. No one had told her that the Fiesta L model was equipped with an air bag and so its deployment was even more of a shock, A natural response was for her left foot to hit the brake pedal but instead it had stamped down on the accelerator.

The outcome was now in front of me. It was almost a work of art, Anthony Gormley would be proud with the welding together from speed induced friction of motor car and double gates.

The unfortunate old lady had required hospital attention for minor bruising and injured pride. She also now knew about air bags which must have been a first for her generation. I spent a further two hours waiting for a recovery vehicle to extract the hatchback. It was a difficult operation with the usual bumper mounted tow bar points being at a ninety degree angle to the road. It was easier to lift up the gates with the chains and hooks on the commercial vehicle and with the pressure relieved the blue car just rolled out, or rather was spat out of a teethy metal mass ,looking a bit sad.

It was then elevated onto a low loader and taken away.

Alec and me stood surveying the scene. It could have been a lot worse for the lady and the damage to property was not materially significant. I walked back to my car. Alec, sensing that I was vulnerable, commented that the brickwork on the front of my office would look really good in gloss back. At that time in the early hours, tired and cold I think that I agreed with him. That consensus would be difficult to renege on in the harsh light of day, in about five hours time to be exact.

Snow Excuse

The worst thing is to be caught totally unprepared for anything. Especially the weather.

There can actually be no excuse for being caught with the proverbial leg covering garments down around the ankles, bits of free range hen produce on our faces or just being left high, dry and helpless.

This is because of the undeniable fact that there is a vast amount of information available at our fingertips to give early or advanced warning about such phenomena as adverse weather,power cuts,  food shortages, petrol tanker drivers industrial action and even through to what is the 'must have', and totally 'in' toy for Christmas.

Being of a certain age I find weather quite interesting.

I will intentionally linger around the morning TV broadcasts before going to work, channel hopping in order to see a definitive forecast for the day, and hopefully for the forthcoming days. I have, usually no specific or special plans that would cause to be shelved by precipitation, storm winds or a heat wave but such things are nice to know.

Invariably the foretelling of wet or dry spells, high or low pressure are at odds to the actual weather experienced in the proceeding period  but I still find myself drawn towards a good 5 day forecast. 

I am well prepared for the standard English seasons if they perform to type but this has not at all been the case in recent years. Damn you Global warming.

We have had drought inducing spring, very wet summers, a very late and protracted autumn and , so far this year, quite a mild and reasonable winter. There are of course local and regional variations and exceptions and I am sympathetic to those who in the last two days have been flooded out, battered by hurricane force gales and lost bits of their gardens to landslip.

Currently, I am trying to seek the general consensus on what to expect over the period of late November 2012 to January 2013 in terms of climate. (Assuming that the Mayan prediction of the end of the world around 21st December is woefully incorrect) .My hanging seaweed and sensitive garden foliage are not being very helpful in providing hints and indicators of what to expect. I missed the actual day that our resident Swift family vacated the soffit nest site and so cannot say in what direction , as a portent of approaching weather ,they went.

The nearest but not necessarily reliable fortune teller source comes from my local Tesco Express. It has stockpiled handy sized bags of table salt available in the external lockers between leftover soggy disposable summer barbecues and the solid fuel requisitions.

Why table salt and not gritting salt?

I have not been able to extract any answers from the shop staff either because they i) do not know  ii) do not care or iii) they have signed a gagging order from Central Tesco Command not to enter into any speculative conversation with consumers because of the criminally exploitative level of mark up and profit in selling a cheap commodity subsequently marketed as an essential and potentially life saving product.

The big freeze of 2010 was something for which we, as a Nation, found ourselves wholly at the mercy of. The severity and duration of the great chill paralysed the activities and livelihoods of our society and economy for many weeks much to the amusement and consternation of our Northern European neighbours who just glided gracefully and competently by in their de-misted, heated seat, snow chain tyred cars into territory that even a common or garden UK heavy duty 4 x 4 fashion mobile could not contemplate.

I spent a good part of that time, certainly a  few working days digging my car out from my driveway, on the roadside if having parked up or got stuck and from the office car park. The remainder of the period was in helping others, remarkably even less prepared than me, in similar embarassing situations.

I did learn a sober lesson from that feeling of complete and utter helplessness at the icy hands of nature and to over compensate, as always a British character trait, I have, well after the event, maintained snow and freezing weather kit and provisions in the car. I find that I have to justify this level of expeditionary supplies on a regular basis to those who remark about how heavily weighed down the boot on my car now looks. I have not, as yet, been stopped and searched by the Police on suspicion of carting around a body or the main part of a church porch lead roof covering. How unreassuring is that to a council tax contributor to the budget of the local force?

One major lapse, and for which I may pay dearly come the really adverse weather, was my succumbing to a nagging temptation and eating the Kendal Mint Cake bar on the hottest day of the year in August. Still, that did result in some levelling up of the rear suspension and a noticeable improvement in fuel consumption and the performance and life expectancy of my Continental Snow Tyres.

Salmon-ella Feasts-How to Entertain

It was a plate of something.

It challenged all my powers of identification because it was not clear what it was.

Something on a plate is, to my perception, usually a foodstuff but the object had no clear origin.

Any physical characteristics to place it in its correct category of animal, vegetable or mineral were blurred by what resembled a fluffy white cloud but was obviously a large, fine tendrilled and organically active mass of mould. Smaller fruiting bodies had attached themselves in roundels of dark bluey green but shortly to launch themselves off in a billion spores into the atmosphere.

The soft, fluffy texture was interrupted by a shiny metallic protrusion which was not, at first glance, instantly recognisable as the handle of a fork but evidently was . The pronged end could be traced under and through the fine misty body forming an ingrowing element to whatever was lurking under the fungal growth.

The whole thing was out of context as although in a kitchen, the rest of the room was spotlessly clean showing that the occupiers, students, had been brought up proper.

I poked the object with the end of my ball point pen, at the same time making a mental note to avoid sucking the same in one of those thoughtful but at the same time absent minded moments later on in the day.

The fringes of the object were light brown in colour, possibly crispy at one time but now soggy and fetid. The underside of the mass, where sticking out over the rim of the plate was darker and with a pearlescent quality and made up of tiny slivers of material, a bit like bitumen felt shingles on the side of a garden shed.

Through the silvery texture was a discernible yellow strand, deep set as though engrained as a genetic identification of a species, human, animal or other.

The flowing lines of the amorphous shape were broken up by long rectangular shapes, pale and off white and with a different composition, dense and starchy.

So far my investigation of what it was on the plate had been visual and textural but I was no nearer identifying the object. It was necessary to crouch down and sniff. Quite unpleasant but essential for analysis. The overriding odour was that found in the darkest deepest recesses of a mountain cave, damp, fusty, primordial soup-ish or commonly found in a wardrobe onto an outside wall of an old house. It was tinged with a fresher bacterial cocktail which starter to irritate the finer receptors at the back of my throat and the sensory parts of my nasal passage. My own experience caused me to at least identify an acidic taint.

I was now in a position to give a name to the object. Piecing together all the evidence I had come across a six week old plated up portion of cod and chips liberally doused in vinegar, abandoned to the elements of natural decay, disgusting to see but nevertheless an interesting talking point to grace any modern kitchen.

Lighting up

It is that time of year, and still much too early even for mid to late November, when we keep a watching brief and high state of alert to spot the first house in the city to put up and activate Christmas lights and decorations.

From past experience there a couple of properties that consistently compete for the dubious honour and one-upmanship brownie points and even if not strictly on our route to and from work, the shops or general errands we will nevertheless make a detour to check who has been victorious between them.

We disregard, of course those households who have left the fascia dangled illuminated icicles up all year round and the student properties where a fake pine tree in a window, lit up from the new term in september, is part of the general kitsch.

It is though Christmas proper begins only after your front door has been visited by ghouls, vampires and pirates (yes, I know???) and thereafter announced formally by the explosion of fireworks. I do not have much of a working knowledge of the Bible and the run up to the birth of Christ but I am pretty sure that trick or treating and bonfire night are not mentioned as main catalysts to the events in the stable. Everyone knows that it truly begins upon finding a holly shaped chocolate novelty behind door number one on an Advent Calendar.

The last few years has certainly seen a proliferation in very public seasonal exhibitions on the front of private homes.

These have in some cases been very extravagant. There have been multiple strings of lights, still, flashing, rhythmic and pulsating, neon bright outlines of festive things such as sleighs, reindeer and oversized stars , inflatables of a bulbous Father Christmas and also that icon of the giving season, Homer Simpson. Natural features of trees and bushes have been draped with twinkling pinpoints and coloured lanterns. I have sensed some dimming of my own house lights when such civic scale installations have been fired up in my neighbourhood.

The policy of affixing as much illumination as physically possible on a house frontage is unfortunate and particularly so to those, like myself, who appreciate a bit of symmetry and regularity. A few kindly souls make a collection for a charitable concern with a bucket attached to a gatepost for loose change and this should be applauded. Others just like to put on a swanky show of unrestrained expenditure to aggravate the neighbours.

I will not even think about this years display at our place until mid December. We are quite modest and conservative in our efforts but feel this is right and fitting for what is still, when we last looked, a religious celebration and festival and not a riot of consumerism and materialism.

Cereal Thriller

In the days pre-awareness of choking hazards it was always very exciting to discover, either by accident or intentionally, what free giveaway gift was lurking in the breakfast cereal box.

The decision over which type and brand to purchase was usually made on the basis of the freebie rather than on any nutritional grounds. 

This could result in a near riot down the cereals aisle of the supermarket from competition amongst siblings to get first choice and, importantly, be the first to get their hands into the depths of the inner packet to retrieve the action figure, self assembly toy, booklet or even a vinyl record disc amongst many other items on promotional offer.

I always felt it was a shame when the perfect packaging was ripped apart, squeezed to bursting point and the contents roughly emptied out into a receptacle in the mad search for the non-food item hidden amongst them.

I soon developed a process whereby the open topped box and inner transparent wrapper could be rhythmically and steadily shaken which coaxed the freebie to work its way through the Sugar Puffs, Cornflakes, Rice Crispies, Coco-Pops, Golden Nuggets and other small grained foodstuffs up to the top for extraction with minimal disturbance or insanitary handling.

Unfortunately, the percussion and maracas sounds from the exercise made it impossible to do it without attracting the unwanted attentions of the rest of the children in the family and another predictable riot and cries of 'It's not fair'.

There was also no guarantee, without having the luxury of X-Ray vision, that the concealed and yet eagerly awaited incentive to purchase, would not be one of the same already now lying around the house, discarded from boredom, damaged or not swappable amongst schoolfriends or neighbouring kids. If a set of figures or booklets formed the promotion you could always count on the phenomena that there would always be a single, unnattainable one thwarting an enviable full set from being collected.

The best things that I can remember to come out of the cereal packets were the likes of Thunderbirds figures of the main characters (We had more Brains than anyone else), clip together models of cars from other TV series, Zoo Animals possibly from Animal Magic, aeroplanes, toy rings and joke shop items. One of the strangest was from Ready Brek and consisted of a long, thin ribbon type plasticised strip which, when pulled through a small aperture in the bottom of a Baked Bean can or other metal container, gave forth the authentic speeches of famous historical figures, Neil Armstrongs' words upon the moon landing being a favourite. I cannot seem to find anyone else, from introducing it casually into a conversation with strangers, who recalls this particular free gift and I am beginning to think that it was a product of my imagination rather than a real, tangible thing. (Letters and messages of support in the comments section below- please....please)

It was necessary to open up the cereal box flaps with some care because they could sometimes be overprinted with tokens or vouchers to be collected towards a larger toy, recreational plaything or money off a day out or another purchase.

In such a way our family were the proud owners of a metal climbing frame, rocket shaped, from Kelloggs, which was a permanent feature in successive gardens even after a series of house moves with our Father's work. I seem to think that the alternate red and blue ladders and bars of the frame first arrived in about 1970 and provided many, many hours of imaginative play and scabby extremities for at least ten to fifteen years before our body weights into teenage years caused the, by now, weakened metalwork to just sag and distort if sat upon or there was an ungainly attempt at a hanging bars swing or somersault. 

It was a sad day when the remains of our very own Apollo shaped climbing frame were carted off to the local tip. It did look small and insignificant.

There seems to be very little by way of a similar type of promotion today with the emphasis being on reward schemes, money off leisure activities, free phone minutes, vouchers for treatments, personalised slimming plans or trips to Disneyworld.

These cannot match in any way, shape or form  that feeling of excitement that I remember well upon seeing the offer of a free gift inside the cereal box packaging and the fear and trepidation that my own brothers and sisters would get to it before me.

Name Dropping

He has no perceivable form of income.

Yet, he resides in a hillside property which, if profiled on Zoopla, has an estimated market value of one and a half million pounds. It is a grand design of a place in the true sense of the word.  I suppose it is conceivable that he may have remortgaged it or even sold it and has a rental contract to occupy it on favourable terms, hence the impression of self sufficiency in monetary terms that comes with being cash rich and solvent.

He may have invested the capital receipt in return for an annuity. I cannot hazard a guess as to his age, perhaps anywhere between 30 and 120 years old and he could be drawing a pension if in the latter part of that range.

His impression of affluence may be based on an inherited fortune from his family but apart from a bit of agricultural activity there is not really any sustainable employment in the immediate area of the local shire.

I am aware of some great wealth on his mothers side, herself a great character and benefactor in the countryside, villages and towns and much admired and loved for all that. Although to all intents and purposes a self made man and with more than enough leisure time at his disposal he keeps himself active and engaged with his neighbours and friends, although one and the same.

A small circle of longstanding and trusted acquaintances regularly call in at the house and are well received with cups of tea and home made buns and cakes. There is no faulting his sense of occasion, tradition and hospitality. It must be difficult, however, for him to be truly at ease with a degree of local celebrity because at heart he is a very shy, retiring and private person.

The philosophy by which he leads his life is just to be kind and receptive to others as you would expect yourself to be treated by them. On warm, sunny days he can be seen sat on his terrace with a well stoked pipe and obviously enjoying the precious moments afforded by his status.

His eccentricities are characterful whereas in others they would be regarded as fairly revolting. Shoes have never dressed his feet and from the tramping of many miles the soles are leathery and hard and the uppers with matted, dusty and very, very thick hair. Fashion wise he just blends in with the locals , tweed and check dominate in his attire. The cloth is of exceptional quality but nevertheless shiny and threadbare to the elbows and knees.

You could set your pocket watch by his routine and behaviour not just to the second, minute and hour but to the decade and not beyond the imagination, to the century.

It was therefore a bit of a shock to me when I called around to his house to find a note to the effect that he had left on an adventure. That was most unlike my good friend Bilbo Baggins.

They should Legislate against that....

Do not get me wrong.

I like dogs, in fact they are my most favourite of all domestic pets.

After all we did as a family, and with young children, have two dogs over a total of 18 wondrous and enjoyable years and were enriched by the experience. Our two daughters and son grew up with the dogs in very close attendance and they co-existed very well with no dramas,and certainly no doubts in our minds as to any level of mutual misbehaviour or danger.

There were, granted, some moments of unwelcome tail whip from the big German Pointer, Toffy ,and whose bulky 6 stone frame was clumsily victorious every time against a toddler in a rush to find out who had rung the front door bell or upon a broadcasted announcement of the offer of chocolate-drop goodie treats.

Yes, we did weigh her using the method of i) human on scales unaccompanied by canine, ii) human on scales wrestling to hold onto canine iii) repeat of ii) a few times to get reasonable level of consistent reading, iv) try to work out differential in figures expressed in imperial terms from i) and ii), applying modesty ratio upon discovery of a heavier human weight than believable (even with all that dog walking and buggy pushing) to arrive at, funnily enough and as always, a figure of 6 stone.

That dog must have had an unusually dense skeletal frame or beefy ligaments within that svelte, lean and athletic exterior....or, no,was I perhaps...no, that is unthinkable....

The other dog, Elsie, taken on from the RSPCA Rescue Centre, after having been found abandoned as a puppy was one in a million. She had total empathy with us all and could be found with children asleep on her soft, hairy Chewbacca type coat or nuzzling up to us grown ups if she sensed that we had just had a bad day.

It was a wonderful combination of dogs and humans because we knew each other and respected the space, behaviour and requirements within such a modern, mixed species family.

With this rich inheritance I therefore felt bad today as, upon sight of a dog running loose on the footpath I had some instinct, deep set, to afford some protection to my groin area in case of an unwelcome attack.

There was actually a whole steady procession of those dog breeds which through no fault of their own have been thrust into the public perception as being dangerous, unpredictable and easily capable of inflicting damage to soft tissue and popular bodily extremities.

The fact that they were being exercised on a remote footpath did initially raise my awareness that this must be for a reason. A glance at the person or persons supposedly in charge but with attentions elsewhere by virtue of a head encased in sound or a half a bonce attached to a mobile phone did nothing to reduce my trepidation, in fact my feeling of self preservation only increased.

Of course, the dogs, every single one of them were otherwise engaged in pursuing an interesting scent, the faint promise of a trail, rolling in the remains of a dead animal in the long grass or searching out somewhere to relieve themselves. Their concentration on canine activities may even have rendered me invisible to them.

As I approached I tried to act in an affable and nonchalant manner towards the dog and politely indifferent to the owner. Both parties got a nervous smile and a nod of acknowledgement that I had seen them followed by the mutual action of passing each other as far apart as could be possible on a footpath only three feet wide.

I really had nothing to worry about from the calm, affectionate hounds whose upbringing and nurture by responsible and doting owners did not make them at all menacing although I expect that ,upon their return to their respective homes, a strange tale would be told about a fat man on a bike, observed riding erratically, one hand clutching his goolies and apparently trying to strike up an overly familiar conversation with a succession of pet dogs.

All in black and white

I like a gritty drama, or what was termed social realism or just a kitchen sink story in the heyday of such productions in the 1960's.

Nowadays we are quite numb and unresponsive to issues which some 5 decades ago were still not mentioned, brushed under the carpet, undertaken behind closed curtains, just did not happen or remained very much taboo subjects.

The pioneers of this New Wave in British Cinema tackled the heavy subjects of abortion, prostitution, homosexuality, the early days of a multicultural Britain and inter-racial relationships, alienation, alcoholism, extra-marital affairs and deprivation.

Perhaps most striking was the move away from a London-centric setting and with the colourful frankness and face value honesty of regional dialects rather than the plummy, upper class tones of the home counties. It is common now for the conclusion to a contemporary TV drama to include a telephone number to call if afflicted by or exposed to the same traumas as seen on screen, even before the 9pm watershed. I have not been tempted to jot down the freephone number because I lead a comparatively quiet, reserved and sheltered life but no less satisfying, fulfilling and demanding for that.

I do have a few favourite gritty dramas filmed in the essential black and white , typically unbalanced audio with a lot of peripheral noise and local interference, bright natural light or conversely very, very shadowy and with action taking place in the dim,grim darkness, everything is left up to the imagination of the individual.

Many of the films of the genre and period were set and posed but so naturally as to resemble a real-life documentary. It is fascinating now to see the detail in the streetscenes and crowd scenes, very much a priceless and authentic social and economic record of the times. The row upon row of densely packed terraced and back to back housing, streets clear of private cars when such items were an expensive luxury, lines of laundry across back yards, the corner shops, men wearing hats, women in long formal coats, large prams and a lot of bicycles.

Classics such as 'A Taste of Honey' show its Salford and Manchester locations ,warts and all and even though some 20 years after wartime damage and with some recovery from post war austerity there is very much a depiction of urban decline, dereliction and squalor. This is set against a backdrop of heavy industry, belching smoke stacks, a majority going to and returning from work and the recreation of a hard working population.The children are grubby, scavenging urchins with no educational or employment prospects. The story is one of a young girl, in the care of an alcoholic and selfish and downtrodden mother,who becomes pregnant by a black sailor, shares a flat with a gay man and is constantly in a state of war and rebellion with her elders and the prejudices of society. I recall I first saw it late one night when in my teens and babysitting for a neighbour and re-visiting the film today, even after being exposed to a much more desensitised world, it is still strong, vivid and poignant a very stark image.

Other late night screenings were a regular feature of taking on babysitting duties and I was able to see such classics as 'A Kind of Loving', 'Saturday Night, Sunday Morning', 'The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner' , 'This Sporting Life' and 'Billy Liar' amongst many others on other peoples televisions. As a typical teenager it would be some years before I  realised that the films had been based on books and plays but I did get round to enjoying them in their original format, eventually.

No doubt these films are now studied and analysed in microscopic detail on socio-economic, physchological and multiple levels in intellectual and academic circles but they remain as a superb record of how we used to live and the perception at that time of what we now regard as commonplace and mundane, part and parcel of everyday modern life.

It was all just black and white then but so much more colourful in every aspect.

Mid Life Retrospective

I was, at one time, just 'young'.

Then inevitably I became a 'young man' and in subsequent processes, just a 'man' but assuming the sub categories of 20 year old, 30 year old, forties and then middle aged.

If you are careful in terms of your health, body shape and hairstyle (remaining that is) the actual duration of the middle age can be very much exploited  and prolonged and can take you right through to early retirement or even pensionable age.

I have however discovered that I now assume a position within an entirely new and emerging classification.

I AM VINTAGE !!

I have deduced this status, and it is quite a trend setting position, out of casually window shopping from the pavement outside of the greatly proliferated number of shops and outlets dealing in retro and vintage clothing.

It is uncanny that I have the same feeling of familiarity in staring vacantly into the well lit display areas of a High Street retail unit as I do from opening the door to my wardrobe at home.

My adult offspring have marvelled at what fine examples of clothing lurk in the depths of my drawers and cupboards. These include T Shirts bought at gigs in the 1970's and 80's with the same bands coming out of dotage to tour again now, Paisley print shirts which in the same decade were an open invitation to get you beaten up for being a poofter , fashionable zipper tops from Joe Bloggs and other populist labels amongst officianados of Top Shop and independent fashion retailers and even heavy cable knit jumpers that brought about enquiries, when worn in public, of "when is your ship scheduled to sail?".

These garments, ironically had quite a short period of use even in their heyday because they became so quickly out of style. It was the best thing for them to be secreted away in storage or bagged up and elevated into the loft because in the scheme of things and with little useage they are now firmly back in demand.

I am not sure of the actual market sector driving the vintage market. It could be a renewed interest  from a curious younger generation who like to protest against the rapid pace and evolution of, typically electronic products, by purchasing retro gear. There is something quite revolutionary in their perceived world in carrying around the latest Apple product of extraordinary computing power and applications in a cheap and retro vinyl shoulder carried sports bag.

However, I suspect that a good proportion of the market is amongst my generation and age group buying back items that their own parents threw out or disapproved of back in the day.

As I adopted my usual position on the pavement outside one particularly well stocked emporium the other day I was conscious of being just beyond, but nevertheless identified with a group of 40 something males like myself but a bit more furtive and dodgy for all that.

I observed their brash accosting of young kids intent on entering the premises and with some sort of negotiation and transaction taking place between the parties. A typical overheard conversation was

"Hey, kid.

Can you go in and buy me some retro-clothing, original Lacoste or Kappa, size XXL?

I have the money and you can keep the change

I can't do it myself as I'm over-aged"

The Device

We called it "The Device".

It was a name that suited our sense of mystery and excitement as young children making the most of the play value of our local environment.

Before the realisations of stranger danger and the like we roamed freely through the town streets, back lanes, fields, woods and any private property not protected by anything that resembled a physical barrier to inquisitive minds.

The Device had appeared one afternoon. We did not see how it came to be in our domain because for some part of the day we were required to be at school. In reality, two men from the Council had arrived in a van carrying the apparatus.

It consisted of two paralell cables, thick, rubberised and secured to the road with hammered in brackets through the tarmac. Fairly ordinary stuff to us who had experience of quite technical things from prising the lids off gas meter boxes, leaving metal objects in the path of Municipal Grass Mowers  and throwing old bicycle inner tubes onto the large buzzing transformers at the local electricity sub station.

We stood on the kerb and verge and weighed up The Device. The ends of the cables were just that, ends. Squatting like a golfer in the planning of a long putt we squinted along the full distance of the strands. They were perfectly aligned and with regular and solid fixing to the carriageway. A stout stick, wedged under the sections between the brackets was unable to dislodge anything to any satisfying extent and we soon lost interest.

The road itself was a busy one. In our short lifetimes to date we had seen the traffic levels increase significantly as our town continued to expand with new housing, shops and business premises. When at one time it was possible to just sit on the kerb, feet on a drain gully for a good proportion of a summers day the same practice now ran a real risk of being run over or tossed up into the hedge in the bow-wave and slipstream from a large articulated lorry. One of our number had been hospitalised after having his toes crushed under the wheels of a delivery van for Liptons Stores.

A project in school about the olden days had included studying a yellowing parchment type map, or even a bit like linen on a gauze backing. What was now the busy road had been, some 100 years before, but a single line rough cart track going and coming from nowhere in particular.

Times had certainly changed. In a lull in the otherwise constant movement of vehicles the braver amongst us mimicked a tightrope walk along one of the cables or straddling both. As the black lines lifted up over the far kerb they disappeared from view into the unkempt grass of the verge. A scuffing action with our feet cleared the vegetation where it covered the cables. It was at that point that we found the main part, the brains of The Device. It was a small metal box.

Our Mother had a Tupperware container about the same size which could easily cope with a full packet, although of shortlived existence, of digestive biscuits and remnants of former wrappings around Custard Creams, Abbey Crunch and , my particular favourite, Bourbons. The sizes of the rectangular objects were compatible and perhaps Mother should have followed the example of The Device by fitting a large, imposing padlock to the biscuit container to prevent it from being opened.

Even the best tempered steel was not strong enough for the impact of half a brick and the lock was easily demolished. Inside we found some sort of mechanism and a dial display of black numbers around a series of white drums. As we stared at our discovery there was a whirring and a clicking sound. The right hand digit increased by one. The same sounds and process repeated on a regular basis and the counted total increased each time by a single increment. I think we must have been a bit thick because it took some time for us to realise that the action of the display was caused by the passage of a vehicle, along the road and  over the cables.

In a collective expression of "oohh, The Device counts traffic" , thoughts of mischief and mayhem flooded into our young and active minds.

In the following weeks and at every opportunity out of school and having completed any domestic chores we all took it in turns to jump up and down on The Device.

It was quite a logistical operation involving most of the kids in the area. There were those keeping an eye out for cars and lorries using the road. Others were witnesses to the increasing count of the dials. On a strict rota all of us, bar none, showed great energy and commitment in jumping up and down.

Initial curiousity in increasing the digits on a steady, plodding, marching action basis soon developed into very intense competition to acheive the highest count in any sixty second stint. Quite maniacal behaviour ensued and the All Comers Best Record for counts per minute changed hands, it seemed, just about every time someone took up the challenge.

Within twelve months that stretch of road had returned to its mid Victorian status as a quiet and sleepy lane, going from nowhere to nowhere because the town had a brand new, dual carriageway by-pass.

Apparently the Council and Highways Departments, after undertaking a structured and authoratative traffic survey had grossly underestimated the amount of vehicle movements in proximity to the housing estate and what was evidently a very popular open play area for the local children. The original 10 year plan to create a safe, family orientated environment was accelerated in the interests of safety and amenity.

Even today, some 40 years later, when I drive along the 'A' Road that runs around the periphery of my town I have a sense of misguided civic pride.

Graduandad

Message

I am out of reach of the keypad today attending the

Graduation Ceremony of youngest daughter,

a joyous family occasion.

Equity Release

I had been to the bungalow before.

In fact, when I had seen the familiar address in my work diary I checked back through my records and this would be my third visit over a nine year period. I remembered it well. Two fields away and rapidly reducing from the crumbling cliff top on the east coast.

My inspections were for the purpose of reporting back to a Finance Company with whom the owner occupier had taken out an Equity Release product, a form of loan secured on the property, usually to provide a supplementary income to their existing private pension and interest earned from savings and other investments.

This type of product had been aggresively sold in the 1980's when clearly inappropriate in some cases and had subsequently come under the scrutiny of the Financial Services Authority, consumer watchdogs and the media. Those who had been persuaded to sign an agreement must now have felt a bit misled and betrayed by a smooth talking salesperson whom they had initially welcomed into their homes as the advocate for a potential solution to an income shortfall.

Controversy and shennanigans aside I had developed, in a 30 minute visit every 3 years, therefore amounting to one and a half hours nearly every decade, a form of friendship with the elderly individuals and couples under such schemes. I remembered each and every such visit clearly and easily recalled previous circumstances and situations of calling around.

It was often the case with memory in advancing years that the occupiers had no recollection of who I was, which was a bit sad. It also became apparent to me that the longer the burgeoning policy had run, the more aggressive and dismissive towards me I found my long term acquaintances.

I did find it upsetting when subsequent instructions to carry out an inspection were no longer in joint names as one of the partners had passed away at some time in the preceeding three year period. The loss of a long term spouse clearly had a huge impact on emotions, motivation and day to day living for the surviving one of the relationship. My arrival after a bereavement did sometimes cause some distress, not from my personal demeanour I hope, but in awakening memories of happier times when I had tried to spend a little more time than my diarised  slot to enjoy the company of and listen to the interesting stories and experiences of my elders. Always a rewarding and humbling event for someone of my generation.

I was therefore a bit distressed when, nine years into my friendship with the almost cliff edge bungalow dweller ,I found myself being followed around by a surly bloke with a video camera recording my every move.

I should have been alerted to quite a different welcome by the attitude of indifference and hostility from my host as he opened his front door. I was told plainly and with no ambiguity that I was attending at the time of a long running dispute with the Finance Company and was allowed access only because legal action had been threatened if I was prevented or obstructed from carrying out my work.

The cameraman struggled to keep up with me under the weight on his right shoulder of what , some 20 years ago would have represented the cutting edge of video equipment but would now have an equivalent in a handy palm held wonder.

I tried to engage him in conversation, or more of a running commentary of what I was doing ,but he was obviously an exponent of the silent film genre. Out of sheer badness I did a few laps of the bungalow, with frequent stops and backtracking supposedly to study a piece of gutter, wall, window frame and path. The large and irregularly bulbous  shadow of the one man film crew was never far behind but flagging.

For the first time in the nine years since my first inspection I actually walked all the boundaries and then stared wistfully, as though it was the money shot, over the open fields which stretched into the distance beyond the back fence.

I was, in my moments of artistic contemplation,  making a few assumptions as to the recording capacity of the video cassette being used and also the remaining battery power although the size of the camera suggested an energy source large enough to sustain a small village.

At all times in my 30 minute and  very theatrical performance I remained polite, factual and the perfect professional even when attempts were made to implicate me in the dispute through the posing of heavily loaded questions. I mimicked a gracious bow at the front gate before half running back to my car and leaving. I doubt, sincerely, that I received any applause or ovations.

I smiled to myself at the thought of the subsequent playback of the video which would certainly resemble a cross between a juddery, erratic live broadcast from a war zone and a video nasty. Perhaps I should just run a broad search criteria through You Tube just in case my antics have gone global and viral.

21.12.12 Nice combination.

This year has flown by.

The countdown to the end of the world has crept up on me and now I find that there are only 5 weeks and four days to go.

As usual, with an important date looming on the calendar I am not at all prepared. I should, many months ago have put a reminder on my wall calendar to supplement current regular entries of when to put out the different coloured recycling bins, pay the newspaper shop and, specifically for this current month, arrange for the death of a free range turkey.

The forthcoming 21st December 2012 is going to be a hellishly busy day by all accounts.

I expect, that with the end of the world falling on a friday, it may be an opportunity for many to finish work a little bit earlier and either go to the pub for a drink, head off home for an early tea or just hang about to see what happens.

Of course, a  few employers may be broad minded enough to offer an extra days vacation on an unpaid basis if individuals express a desire to put their affairs in order.

The impending armageddon is a bit inconvenient because I am confused from what direction, quarter or actual apocalyptic horseman the final blow will be dealt.

The doom-mongers, religious extremists, anarchists and just the rather pessimistic are all trying to hijack the day for their own interests and egos.

Some say that the end of the world will be caused by an economic meltdown. The total collapse of the worlds markets and currencies. I do not find this helpful and would appreciate a heads up whether I should pay my mortgage for the month or just enjoy a bit of extra cash in my pocket with which to pay tribute to that Nostradamus bloke. I will try to ring the Moneybox radio programme on this subject but lines always seem to be busy on more mundane issues. The conspiracy theorists have advocated that the Contract of the Federal Reserve in the USA is up for renewal on that very day. At least we will have some idea of the earthbound whereabouts of Mr Branson on that day.

Others are looking to the skies for a galactic trigger to the ecological gun barrel that we have already manoevred into place against our collective heads. This could take the form of a solar flare ( remember to cancel my monthly direct debit at the tanning salon), a stray asteroid or a shift in the axis of the earth because it is so much out of sorts with itself.

One strain of thought is that the end will just come.

No drama, no warning, no waiting. It will just happen and all the lights will go out.

The trend of oneupmanship exists even in a global catastrophe situation as I hear that a sect are gathering together in a French village on the promise that they will be rescued and evacuated by aliens to recolonise some distant planet. Unfortunately, the gullibility of those with this belief does not, in my opinion, augur well that they represent the keenest, brightest and best examples of humankind from which to repopulate the species.

The App Store do have a product which runs a countdown to the end of life as we know it which appears to be selling well, but then again Crazy Frog offering redemption and forgiveness to those willing to repent their sins and misdemeanours is also a popular listing.

I have left, intentionally, December 22nd free of appointments and commitments just in case......either way.

Spring Chicken

Comfort food.

Not a Yorkshireman's reason for calling in at a restaurant but something that makes up a good proportion of the experience of eating.

The recent proliferation of TV programmes and magazine features on baking, home cooking and practical culinary, such as 15 minute meals is, I feel, an indication of a longing desire to return to basics, the food we associate with our childhoods and home life.

This is very real to me as my wife has just, beautiful and technical language excluded, boiled up the remains of the chicken from yesterdays tea.

This was something my mother always did and a decent sized chicken could meet the dietary requirements of a large and always hungry seven person family as part of a huge sunday roast, provide a cold filling for sandwiches on a monday and be distilled and crafted in a big pot on the stove all day tuesday to provide a nourishing and reassuring broth.

Todays soup was absolutely delicious and served at about 3pm after a busy day for us all I do not expect to feel hungry again until possibly midnight. (Check we have some cheese for about that time)

It was a complete meal in itself.

None of this nouvelle cuisine of the 1980's which under the same description will no doubt have consisted of a micro dot of stock infused with the essence of carrot, scent of onion and a near trace of goodness that only a spectograph in a Pathology Laboratory could detect with any certainty. I do recall a frantic search for a takeaway pizza late one night after my wife and I had attended a dinner of that food genre but had expended more calories in chasing a solitary pea, carved beetroot rose and sliver of sirloin around a platter made out of a slate- you can imagine the impracticalities of gravy on a surface with no raised edge.

The soup of today was fragrant and enticing. Perfectly cooked chunks of carrot, thinly cut mushrooms, transparent and abundant onion, a stick of celery, well seasoned and with a faint and enigmatic hint of a green thai curry around delicate pieces of fleshy chicken. I could feel the warming liquid permeating my very soul and especially the extremities of my body on a cold November day when the sun had barely been able to break free from its shroud of grey, all pervading cloud.

If there could ever be a perfect antidote for the onset of depression when it gets dark at 4pm and especially on a sunday with a return to work looming my wife has found it.

I have worked out that the purchase of a dozen or so huge canteen sized tureens ,a  production line of a hundred or so chicken carcasses a day and a tipper lorry load of fresh vegetables will see me, the family and half the town through until the breaking light of next spring. Now that is a comforting thought.

Accreditation of a Nation

In the early decades of the 21st Century many aspects of  society were under attack.

In the enforced conditions of austerity and frugality the economy faltered and the population readied themselves for not just the projected double dip recession but a long, deep and prolonged depression.

Those fortunate to maintain employment were reluctant to spend their hard earned income on anything but staples and necessities. The megalomaniac supermarkets reeled people in with 'two or more for one offers', cashbacks, spend £40 and get £5 off your next shop over £40, and get 15 pence off a litre of fuel with every big weekly shop. The largest of the hypermarkets were the beneficiaries of every £1 in every £8 spent in the country.

The less fortunate, those made redundant and the long term unemployed were left to fend for themselves. This sector of the population, destined to be forever more described as the underclass were born survivors. Their resourcefulness and sense of camaraderie and social responsibility led to the birth of a thriving and workable black and grey economy. Cash in hand, work in kind, barter and favour became the extended legal tender.

The wealthy classes either left the country in a carefully planned ,phased retreat or hid away in their gated communities patrolled by private security guards. The large, imposing gates only opened under supervision to receive the deliveries of goods, release the children on a termly basis to attend their stronghold boarding schools and permit a steady stream of stout, earnest and determined cleaners and housekeepers, vetted and tagged.

The majority of the population fell between the two but somewhat dysfunctional classes. Fettered into a system of failing banks, burgeoning mortgages and financial contracts from cars to phones, Utilities to charitable giving, this middle sector felt the squeeze and in most cases were hapless and helpless to do anything about it.

The buzz word of 'downsizing' rattled around the gloomy workplaces as though it was the cure all for woes and difficulties. Some made it and were never seen nor heard from again. The term 'downsizing' soon became a codeword for fantasy escapism and that unattainable aspiration of financial solvency. If actual downsizing was not possible, after all youth unemployment and a longer and healthier living ageing population meant that offspring and parents were more likely to require accommodating in the family home, then the only option was to thin out and sell anything surplus to daily living.

On line selling flourished through the portals of E-Bay, Amazon and Gumtree who soon became so dominating in the economy that the High Streets of the towns and cities slowly became vacant, boarded up and then died to make way for retail outlets of larger than hyper proportions.

Cash was king, the oil in the wheels of a new social order. A deal for cash became an opportunity for the keepers of the purse to steal away houses from the repossessed, gold and precious jewels from the hard-up and a dual tariff system emerged. Prices displayed on all manner of goods from bananas to luxury, high performance cars showed two disparate figures for credit or cash.

The search for loose change ramped up. Large, agitated queues developed wherever a Coinstar sorting machine was located. The paper receipt, totting up denominations and a total became a form of legal tender.

The principal obsession of the majority in the middle of the austerity sandwich was in the defence of their credit ratings. Where before people conducted their lives to the letter of the law and highway code to avoid the accumulation of points and sanctions the all pervading motivation was to maintain a good to excellent credit score.

Individuals and families rose or fell on the basis of the financial and other identity information held in the super-computers of the number crunchers and data gatherers.

Boxes of personal documents, agreements for finance, overdraft, hire purchase and the monthly payment fashion catalogues were scrutinised for any potentially disastrous credit liabilities. Sophisticated systems were available to the public, on a subscription service (in itself a form of credit agreement) to provide an early warning service if anyone was searching the personal records either in preparation for a dreaded purge of a late or missed regular payment or just snooping on a lifestyle and spending pattern in a form of moral judgement.

If it became an unavoidable necessity to apply for credit or a loan for a life saving procedure, essential repair or just to meet outgoings and commitments then the credit score became critical. Anything less than an unblemished record for the previous ten years gave the excuse to the Banks and Building Socities to decline an application. In a mopping up operation, the data gatherers sold the lists of unsuccessful applicants to the second level of finance providers who pestered and cajoled by phone call, text and alluring TV adverts until an APR of three thousand percent looked to be an escape from the persistent pressure. Pay Day and emergency loans were easily obtained but insidious and demoralising to maintain.

Credit ratings, good ones, were soon available to purchase on the black market but at extortionate prices.
The purchase and re-selling of credit scores became a major service industry in its own right. 

Those intent on going it alone and slowly paying off and settling debts suffered accordingly in lifestyle and health. The painful process soon assumed a form of pennance,righteous purge, retribution for poor stewardship, punishment for extravagance and what now seemed to have been a reckless and irresponsible path to ruin but yet had been a normal, everyday and acceptable life.

Money Makes The World Go Round

I am of the opinion that everyone will know a millionaire.

These are more likely to be the new crop of the financially advantaged sourced from lottery wins, those cornering and capitalising on a niche sector or skill, a few who invested in and got out of property before the crash and the inheritors of long since accumulated wealth.

The traditional landed and titled millionaires can be a bit more aloof to the general public and with their status being based on the class hirearchy there may not be too much day to day contact with the grubby masses.

The amassing of great wealth does bring in its own special implications.

The principal and perhaps dominant one being how to avoid losing it.

This brings in a necessity for the super rich to be as tight and frugal as those who have to do it because of lesser levels of liquidity. The moneyed sector has fuelled and funded its own industry of advisors and hangers on who are intent on reaping the commissions and prestige by association. Some do good work in the distribution of wealth, some do not.

Not much will have changed over a couple of millenia in the funding of social progress by the rich through a genuine philanthropic desire or to make amends for their misdeeds and mischief which may have assisted greatly in their grab for cash.

Syndicates of the well heeled have contributed much to facilitating development and projects in the post crash years when banks and traditional lenders have not been present in mind, body or spirit to lend funds.

There are of course tax and other advantages in participating in such schemes of investment and supply of capital and over the long term the yields and returns will be pretty healthy. Those presenting opportunities to the new capital providers will be numerous again as a reflection of the reluctance of traditional funders to entertain even the lowest risk propositions. With a combination of due diligence, plain common sense and natural instinct for a good deal the representations can be filtered and reduced to a shortlist of the very best with which to run.

Millionaires therefore have to work with their fortunes and the image of an idle, extravagantly self indulgent and selfish membership of the nouveau riche and old monied sectors is farther from the truth than you would imagine. Poor things.

Flat Pack Lifestyle

I came across a group of quite exceptional people today.

Exceptional because of their individuality and non-conformity arising from just being left to pursue their own lives with very little outside interference for the last 15 years.

They were all tenants in a very striking Italianate style house in Scarborough, North Yorkshire. The property had certainly seen better days, no doubt in its halcyon years leading up to the second world war but had been sorely neglected for the last 60 years. Last purchased in the 1930's and even then in advanced years it had been a very large single family house, pebbled dash rendered and with indications of a former and splendid white colourwash finish but now very much tarnished and grubby.

The inter war owner, a longstanding occupier lived there with his family, but soon found the place too large and with the majority of rooms surplus to immediate requirements. It was a natural process to split the property up into smaller and self contained flats on the three floor levels. Careful thought created a total of seven units, all two bedroomed and with their own living room, kitchen and bathroom. This number in itself clearly illustrated the sheer size of the accommodation. The house resembled a terraced block.

Four of the flats had their own front doors. The flats were easily filled and provided a good and welcome source of income for the surviving family members. The last of kin relied upon the rents for her sole subsistence and had a good living but only because nothing more was spent on repairs and renewals for a couple of decades.

As the condition and calibre of the flats declined so followed, in a spiralling downward motion,  the rents and a sort of equilibrium was arrived at where tenants did not make any fuss about the damp, mould and draughts because they knew they were on a winner as far as their monthly accommodation costs were concerned. It would have taken one whistle blower, tired of scraping the fungus off their shoes and clothes in the coldest of rooms, to bring the Environmental Health Officer down on the place like a seagull on a bag of chips but the situation and motivation never arose.

The tenants were left alone and in a quite unique and un-engineered way their diversity, eccentricities and characters flourished. In the absence of any regular inspections and checks the creativity of the occupants had been allowed to nurture and develop in an unrestrained manner. To say that all of the flats were happily cluttered and chaotic was a gross understatement.

The resident of Flat 2 was the spitting image of Tony Iommi, guitarist from Black Sabbath and he knew it. From floor level up he was clad in cowboy boots, leather trousers, wine coloured shirt, waistcoat and sunglasses. The walls were hung with prints of Red Indians and as I walked through the hallway I brushed against dream catchers and tribal memorabilia. My eyes did take some time to acclimatise to the terracotta paintwork and dark blue carpet.My throat began to react and close up in response to a thick and sickly atmosphere of burning incense candles and joss sticks. The furnishings followed the decor with black leather settees and dark wood furniture. It was hazardous moving about in a semi darkness even though all curtains were drawn and it was a sunny day outside. I was glad to return to the entrance and breathe in deeply the fresh and clean autumn air.

Flat 3 was very much lived in. It was one of those very full properties with just a narrow walkway from room to room, one person wide and tortuous around furniture, bulk purchased supplies and a multitude of personal possessions and knick-knacks. It was also crammed with people and I was not sure if the majority were just calling in on the off chance of a cup of tea and something to eat or did actually reside their full time. The ambience was clearly a happy, social and cheerful one although on reflection there were no clear seats for anyone to sit upon. All assembled seemed to be on the perpetual move fetching and carrying, cooking, eating in the first of many shifts or walking about with a definite purpose.

Flat 5 was entered under the fleeting and flapping wings of a loose parakeet. I was immediately dive bombed by the bird. The whole thing caught me by surprise and I had no time to react either badly or indifferently. The bird left it at the single swoop. I was obviously no fun. The occupiers left me to tour the flat  and on my return to the living room the bird was perched on the tenants shoulder in true piratical style. Again the flat was full from floor to ceiling with belongings and paraphenalia but looked ordered and in a form of mad methodology to those who had arranged it so.

The tenants of these three flats even though secure in their own paralell universe behind their own front doors co-existed harmoniously and easily together. The communal gardens were tended on an informal rota basis and were tidy and well stocked. In fact the external areas were the best kept elements of the otherwise sad looking property.

Things were however set to change as there was a new owner and landlord.

The micro-nation and its human and bird-life contents had been purchased in its entirety by a builder who was systematically working to improve his acquisition. The other four flats had already been refurbished and were let to, in comparison with the sittng tenants, quite ordinary and boring folk.

The new broom had however been very sympathetic and tactful and an immediate rapport had been struck up with what, under a more heavy handed approach, could have been a major source of conflict.

Having seen at first hand what has obviously been a  most successful free range social experiment I hope that the colourful residents are able to maintain their individuality of life and living against what can be a relentless tide of what many call progress but is in fact a destructive and insidious wave of tedium.

Don't Panic

It was, on reflection, a masterful piece of play-acting.

So convincing in fact that I was surprised, very surprised to hear of the death today of Clive Dunn.

In the role of Corporal Jones in Dads Army broadcast from 1968 to 1977 he portrayed a veteran of the Sudanese campaign of 1896 to 1899, making his onstage age, by my reckoning, about 75 years old.

His make up and demeanour were so much in character and sympathetic that I was, as a young and regular viewer, entirely persuaded that he was just an old actor playing an old man.

What I am trying to say is that I thought that he must have passed away many years ago even if attaining a ripe old age beyond the 75 years of his on screen persona.

In fact, Clive Dunn was only 48 when cast as Jones, local butcher, an affable and compassionate resident of Walmington on Sea and only 57 when the last series aired.

He contributed a great deal to a production that caught the nostalgic interest of a Nation and his traits of being the last of the Platoon to stand to attention or at ease showed a fantastic comic timing. His frantic and manically agitated movements and 'Don't Panic' exhortations are firmly amongst some of my personal all-time comedy moments and a catchphrase much used today.

A Very Civil War

The barrage really began at about 6.30pm. There had been some sporadic action beforehand, a few distant single sniping shots and trails of coloured traces up into the darkening autumn evening sky but it was nothing compared to the main event. From a hundred different locations within a tight local radius, independently but as though at a pre-arranged signal all hell was unleashed. Such is the wrath that is bonfire night in the UK.

Me and The Boy sat facing the red hot glowing opening of the very tatty and rusty chimnea and took it in turns to feed in, charred inch by heat scorched inch, a large piece of timber extracted from the summer house a few weeks prior, now soft and damp from being rested up against the garage wall in all weathers but still very combustible in the searing heat in that conical apparatus.

Wood was in short supply after an enthusiastic clear out in the summer of 15 years worth of offcuts, old shelving, failed DIY projects, IKEA furniture and other scraps. It was something I now regretted in the scramble to find something to keep the fire going. I had already used up all the kindling from the domestic fire stock , a couple of logs and lengths of planed timber which just fell apart from rot when moved from the bottom of the garden.

The night had started off cold and clear.

Familiar constellations were still low in the sky but rapidly losing their brightness and definition in the swirls of smoke from surrounding back gardens and that distinctive odour of spent gunpowder. A loud explosion and Disneyesque star shower over our house indicated that the people across the road had ignited their largest array of rockets. Our own efforts had, in comparison, been a sorry affair with half a dozen fizzing tubes found in a tin on a garage shelf from I know not when but excitingly unpredictable for that. The traffic light flares from a firework called Red Mist struggled to reach any height and sounded unenthusiastic about being released. Crystal Cascade was well within the scope of the Misdescriptions Act from its actual behaviour. Against all safe practice I returned a few times in an attempt to light up a Thunder Burst before giving up completely with it.

We sat on the bench, with cold backs and kidneys facing the house but comfortably warm faces,chests and abdomens, fireside, to enjoy a  free sky full display but at significant expenditure to others. The larger and more impressive concussions and chrysanthemum bursts were cheered and an estimated monetary value attached as they reduced to just whispy clouds, silence and darkness. A banshee like screaming, sustained over a few minutes from the next street made me think of the eerie images of Katushya rockets from my World at War box set covering the Eastern Front.

Not wanting to lose an opportunity to extract some educational value from the outdoors event I remarked to The Boy that I could imagine the sights and sounds to be of some similarity to warfare. He groaned in anticipation of a lecture on military skirmishes, campaigns and sieges. In the distance another large explosion and reverberation of sound between the houses. The Boy chipped in that the outer defences were surely under sustained attack. Smaller concussive waves and flashes were followed by more noise. We could imagine the destruction of the landmark buildings and sites in our home town. Staccato rhythmic shots rang out. We were surely well illuminated by the fire glow and an easy target for a snipers bullet.  The assault was intensifying and our predicament worsened as we realised that our position was surrounded by the unseen forces intent on destroying our very existence.

The scenario was rapidly turning from mere speculation to a reality that we both found very disturbing. Having seen media reports of conflicts in urban settings not dissimilar to our own the sights, sounds  and smells of the night were becoming just too intense.

The fire in the chimnea was diminishing in a final hot, red glow of embers and we took this as our excuse to pack up and go into the warm, quiet and safe indoors. We were running away but felt happier to call it a strategic retreat.

No smoke without fireworks

Last thursday evening I stood briefly in the hallway of the birthplace of Guy Fawkes in York.

I was not on a pilgrimage or following in the footsteps of the cult hero and stylish beard wearer but stepped inside because it was a cold night and the building has for many years operated as a bar and eatery and was warm and inviting.

A good proportion of those shopping, posing or just wandering about the historic city seemed to have the same destination because there was no available seating, hardly any standing room and certainly no prospect of getting served at the bar, already four deep with persons, each trying to persuade the single indifferently cool barman that their displayed and waved banknotes were any more acceptable as legal tender.

Just resting the back of my legs on a scorchingly hot radiator for a few minutes was as much a reviver as a stiff drink and so much less of an outgoing.

I was in a good position to just gaze casually around. Perhaps the place had not really changed all that much since Mr Fawkes had lived there and the decor, shabby chic, suggested a fairly minimal amount of cash had been spent internally, but why should it be necessary given the pedigree and provenance of such a place. The wood panelling was stained black which accentuated its old age although there was some suggestion of charring and scoring from fire damage whcih I speculated may have been from some early-years arsonist tendencies from the former celebrity resident.

My visit to High Petergate was five days before Guy Fawkes Night or just bonfire night as it is referred to in non-contentious, neutral political and inoffensive speak. Already and every night for some preceeding days there had been regular jarring disturbance from exploding fireworks of every conceivable tone and reverberation as mischievous youths and anarchic adults could not wait for the actual night of commemoration/celebration.

I had noticed that this year there was no problem whatsoever in tracking down a supply of fireworks with seemingly every sales outlet offering discount prices and special offers. The austerity and, until last week officially, recessionary conditions affecting the UK economy seem to have by passed the fireworks industry. There remains and contrary to all trends and frugality a  willingness of the general public to spend their hard earned cash in large amounts  on items that explode and disappear in a puff of smoke and possibly not as satisfyingly loud a bang as you might have hoped for ,given the outlay.

The purchase of fireworks represents a great opportunity for one-upmanship, unfortunately an extension of other but less noisy forms of competition in everyday life. It also represents the highest form of rebellion without usually incurring the attention of the law or other Civil sanctions. As a means of acting in an anti social manner in the setting afire of things, bombarding the neighbours, terrorising local animals and handling explosives it cannot be rivalled. I speak from personal experience as a red blooded male with very few activities left available for misbehaving and acting my shoe size (Imperial not Continental Sizing).

The actual reason for 5th November clouds into insignificance amongst the commercial hype and merchandising.

The date in 1605 represented a difficult period in the history of this Nation and although it is one of those stock dates firmly entrenched in memory from schooldays I would challenge many of the current population to providing a reasonable explanation of why it was significant enough to have lasted beyond such comparable events as (in no particular order) , 'Canutes wet sock day', 'Alfred burn the cakes day', 'King John's Lost Treasure Day', 'Is that something in your eye, Harold day',' Queen Victoria's not very amused day' and other historical milestones.

I am not trying to appear superior in my knowledge of the Gunpowder Plot but wasn't it just an amazing coincidence that Guy Fawkes' fellow conspirators were called Billy Bonfire, Freddie Firework and Robbie Rocket.