Pyjamas

What to do between Christmas and New Year?

It is a strange period of days.

A bit of a lost opportunity when there may be some free time from work and routines for most of us but little motivation, inclination or justification to make anything of it.

It is a time for those with families to be together which may not be possible during the rest of a hectic year. Relatives can be visited or hosted which keeps the communication, reminiscence and inheritance channels well and truly open, particularly where there is no regular connection through Skype and other third party portals.

It can be a sad period of reflection for the loved ones of those who have departed during the year or just with remembrances of past Christmasses. It can be a time of getting away from it all, an escape to a rented cottage or ski chalet. For those left at home long walks are planned but a combination of the invariably damp and dreary, rather than bright and crisp seasonal weather and jam packed semi-interesting TV schedules makes for easy persuasion to stay indoors.

A trip out to the Boxing Day and New Year Sales sounds an option but then you recall the misery of the previous 3 month cynically Full Price run-up , being  herded through the shopping centre, jostled in the checkouts and with a feeling of being ill at ease at an involuntary participation in a kettling manoeuvre in the multi storey car park.

It is quite normal therefore to find yourself in this seasonal doldrum sprawled out on the living room floor, surrounded by ravaged boxes of assorted chocolates , indicipherable instruction booklets for electronic toys, half opened and sniffed toiletries, a stack of weighty but trivial books, amongst a crime-scene type body outline consisting of puff pastry flakes and feeling that irresistible compulsion to go and have another root around in the fridge. There is still the soft underbelly of the roast bird to have a go at.

I have seen a Poll Result for this year where only 59% of the UK population expressed an intention to participate in any celebratory plans to see in 2013. It can, truth be told, be a bit of a drag watching the clock from, say, 10pm to Midnight, and relying on a loose arrangement of musical guests on the TV to evoke what should be a more magical moment. Even the prospect of an early night to bed is less of an attraction in anticipation of the outbreak of the end of year barrage  as Big Ben strikes its last of 2012.

Religious significance and the relentless passing of time apart you would expect there to be a commercial and political campaign to separate these two key dates in the calendar. Imagine, keeping the Birth of Jesus where it is but moving the celebration of New Year to the middle of the year. They are already two separate events in our perception and understanding and indeed in our ever increasing consumerism at this time of year many may regard it more of a case of  "buy one get one free", which can only cheapen, one or the other depending on your conscience and persuasions.

The motor industry successfully implemented a similar strategy by creating two new car registration periods per year rather than just the longstanding mass release of brand, spanking new vehicles every 1st August.

In moving New Year to the summer months there are many, many advantages that I can see. It may not guarantee good weather, in fact it may be more likely to be bright and crisp than damp and dreary, but an outdoor celebration, wearing shorts and a 'T' shirt,  barbecue smoking and with Chinese Lanterns drifting up into a warm, dusk sky sounds idyllic compared to the archetypal Northern European event we are acclimatised and resigned to.

I can see tremendous benefits to the economy in a July New Years with spiked sales figures for the food industry, a surge in numbers of packs of beer (if indeed at all possible), small chiller fridges, outdoor gazebo's and lighting, deckchairs and patio sets, children's paddling pools and trampolines, gardening implements and plants, conservatories and portable coconut matting covered cocktail bars.

Where before, as a nation we have envied the Southern Europeans and Australians and their natural assimilation with the great outdoors we can now fully participate, perhaps hesitantly and reserved at first but then claiming it as our own lifestyle invention. We did it with Pizza and Tikka Masalla didn't we.

Of course, the powerful lobbying interests for Travel Companies and Airlines will object strongly on the grounds of loss of revenue to the Government as a New Year in July reinforces the attraction of a staycation rather than an overseas vacation. Turkey farmers will have to completely rethink their strategy to ensure the availability of birds in the summer or alternatively produce barbecue friendly turkey meat products. Do sprouts readily switch from a winter crop to a summer harvest? If not, this would not in my opinion constitute a great loss. There may, on the downside, be an increase in civil unrest and anti-social behaviour from over-indulgence in a warmer average temperature and an additional strain placed on neighbourly relations as a consequence of the British character flaw of one-upmanship in all things in plain sight in gardens and on driveways.

Having considered all aspects I can see the beginnings of a populist movement towards a summer New Year. It will take better minds and intellects to weigh up all of the pro's and con's of such a radical proposition and of course, to consider the viewpoints of minority groups such as Scottish revellers, Jules Holland, Gymnasiums, Personal Fitness Trainers and Druids.

This line of thought could be a Resolution to take forward on this, the last day of 2012 . Let's get busy in the planning of this revolutionary idea, no time like the present to lay down the foundation for a new order new year.  Now, where did I leave that gift of a year planner complete with detachable ball point pen?  I'll just see if it is under this pile of magazines . Ooh, wait a minute, The Radio Times promises a great day of continuous justifiable viewing and when it gets dark at 3.30pm I am perfectly entitled to put on my Christmas pyjamas and pull up the drawbridge. Perhaps, next New Year would be better to ponder such things after all.

Play Nice!

The English do not like open plan or undefined things. It appears to be a singular character trait not otherwise found amongst our European neighbours.

Give an Englishman a bit of land, perhaps a few square feet on a beach anywhere in the world and some sort of demarcation line or a boundary will soon appear around it. The same happens in public open space, be it a park, a picnic area or what remains of the great outdoors.

Take a modern housing estate. Most Developers will have included restrictions in the original sales contract about the erection of fences and markers on property frontages with the intention being to maintain a nice and tidy uniformity through a street. It is not too long after the first residents take up occupation that the initial attempts at making a barrier are made- call it pushing the boundaries.

Low cost efforts appear in the form of small white or green plastic edging strips, or a low post and chain affair- again all in metal effect plastic. If there is no redress or request to remove said items, and for which there is a legal enforcement protocol ,then those who got away with the semi permanent markers go for an upscale to a stouter post and rail fence or good old brick walling. Before long peer pressure and neighbour competitiveness creates a frenzy of one-upmanship actiivity. A standard brick wall develops into a wrought iron railed landmark with columns, copings and embellishments. This is closely followed by the installation of an electronic gate with the psychedelic blue glow of the control panel becoming another distraction on our residential streets.

There is one more stage. The fitting of controlled gates to the whole street to create what is quite a new estate agents mantra of ' .....in a gated community'. Gates serve a dual purpose in keeping people out but also locking people in. Gated Community sounds a bit like the longhand and very Anglo-Saxon for ghetto.

Although a simple example the issue does serve to illustrate an aspect of the mentality and social composition of the UK that must alter significantly if we are to be able to cope with the ongoing challenges of zero carbon living, pressures on resources and incomes and to prevent a fracture in society from such factors as fuel poverty and poor housing which threaten to create an underclass.

In short we must all learn to play nice.

These issues have been reinforced in my mind by a recent visit to a new housing development in the area. It is a joint venture by a well respected and time served Social Trust and a speculative high profit motivated house builder. Not, at first glance, natural allies but there is definitely a nurturing relationship there, a bit like a flower and a bee.

The development, in a parkland setting but within an established and typically suburban area of a regional City, is founded on Eco-credentials. The houses and flats are built to meet high thermal efficiency requirements, zero leakage of precious energy and with capability to be almost self sufficient in utilities or otherwise at low annual cost. A community Bio-mass plant in the core of the eventual campus style setting pipes hot water to the individual homes. The properties are to improved Social Housing standard with spacious rooms, large glazed areas to capture solar heat , high ceilings and pre-wired for a stairlift and pre-plumbed for a wet room to extend longevity and function for occupiers. The properties are actually multi-generationally friendly so that there may be less pressure in having to sell up and move at different life stages as is the case with modern mass produced housing where design and layout are not so flexible and understanding.

The ocupancy of the housing will be on mixed basis. 1) Social Rented, 2)Shared Ownership and 3)Outright Purchase. This is where the ability to play nice will be paramount to the harmony and longer term success of the experiment. Whilst the Social Trust, who will oversee the day to day running of the development, have no real sanction the ethos is to lower dependency on the use of all forms of energy including motor cars.

Many modern housing estates now resemble a badly organised car park with multi vehicles per residence on kerbs, verges and block paved gardens. The big idea for this project  is not anti-cars but pro-less car use. The incentives include a car hire scheme on an hourly unit basis in order to pop to the shops as one example, good levels of public transport, wide boulevard walkways and a subsidy for each household towards a bicycle. Critical to the similar but disastrous experiments in housing of the 60's and 70's is the empowerment of the residents by giving options. The systems and tools are therefore in place.

However, the ultimate success and the means to quantify the lessons and benefits of this particular project will be dependant on its ability to overcome the deep set prejudices within and between these three designations of the occupiers.

1) is regarded as being the lowest category by 2) and 3).
2) is quite similar to 1) but aspires to be 3).
3) feels entiltled to belittle 1) and tolerate the intentions of 2).
2) and 3) are fearful of 1) who represents a socio-economic threat.
1) both envies and admires 2) and 3) out of jealousy and the need for a role model
2) stresses to 3) that low cost is not low quality and 1) agrees
The attitude and behaviour of 3) influences 1) and 2)

In most UK villages, towns and cities there is some demarcation between 1), 2) and 3).This is usually on  historic, geographic or economic criteria. There is fluidity and mobility between the groups but they all know and tend to seek comfort in their respective places and standings. A set of boundaries, real and imagined is always there.

Starting from scratch the new project will be very much an open plan arrangement in every respect. It will form a pioneering model for development in the future and will be closely studied and monitored.

It is important to play nice.

(Updated following trip to see how the Germans live-December 2012)

Mousetaken Identity

The mouse who has taken to darting across our kitchen floor at just about the same time every evening appears to have a personal vendetta against me.

It is now getting beyond a joke that it continues to evade my best efforts at capture. I do promise that if I am successful in this battle of wills the mouse will be carefully driven to a better and more affluent postcode area and released. The prospects, to my mind, of a higher calibre lifestyle for the rodent far outweigh any pride issues of being outwitted by a human.

I have been taunted by the determined dash from fridge freezer to a small gap between the kitchen base units and the wall which is only enacted if I enter the room. The movement is perceptible to the eye but so swift that if afforded the luxury of a second glance it is as if nothing has happened and I am left questioning my observational skills and my sanity.

It is obviously quite big though. This introduces the possibility of a slightly different breed of the common house mouse and some anxiety in my mind about genetic mutation and the development, beneath the floorboards, of a super-mouse. Either that or it is just very unkempt and the perception of size is solely a consequence of an afro-type hair do, rather matted, unruly and sticky.

The route taken by the mouse is always from fridge freezer to units which must be a return journey to its home but strangely I have never witnessed it making the outward journey. I have ignored the possibilty that I have seen not a sole mouse but a continuous flow of mice as though the back of the fridge freezer is a portal or escape hatch for the whole neighbourhood.

In a bid to catch the mouse I had a notion to stuff crumpled newspaper into the hole at the unit side of the kitchen. The first few twists of newsprint did not take hold in the hole and fell through behind the kicker board but eventually I was sure that the usual daily route was now fully blocked off. This was later proven to be the case when my wife, upon entering the kitchen saw the hairy rodent make a dive for the hole, bounce off the paper stopper and then, a bit shocked, make a mad run at my wife with resultant shrieking and hysteria. I would probably have the same reaction when faced with the very random, darting movements of a creature intent on making a bid for escape with no regard for human sensitivities.

The mouse, after its frantic run around eventually disappeared under the cooking range and from there, no doubt, to an extensive network of alleys and channels beneath the house. I eased the paper out of the hole but now with a better indication of the regular route of the mouse I set to another plan for its capture.

The humane trap from B and Q works on a see-saw principle in that even the gossamer hollow boned lightness of a mouse entering in search of food or just out of curiosity will cause the stunted banana shaped container to tip on its axis causing the hatch to snap shut.

I had a very wide choice of patented versions of the humane trap at the DIY outlet which indicated that mine was not the only conflict between mice and men. There were also a number of bait boxes and poison systems but my determination to trade a better life for a mouse free residence remained resolute.

Mice have evolved somewhat in their dietary preferences with cheese being relegated to the status of urban myth. The manufacturer of the humane trap recommended usuing chocolate or peanut butter as a bait.  I had been successful a few years ago with the corner of an after eight mint and could appreciate the attraction of a choccy based morsel.

The trap was smeared with Tesco peanut butter, the crunchy type. I was not sure how much constituted enough of a temptation to enter the dark space of the trap or whether I was providing enough to sustain a few months diet. Lying on my belly on the cold tiled floor of the kitchen I eased in and set the trap paralell to the back wall under the cooker. This was directly in what I felt was the mouse way.

Next morning there were no signs of activity. On subsequent inspections however strange things had happened overnight. The trap was sprung but empty. It had been spun around as though struck by a fast moving and largish object. It had moved a percptible distance from where I had placed it. Perhaps a larger trap was required if the disturbance had been from this rodent getting stuck, wedged into the opening and out of frustration trashing the set-up and positioning. He/she is very clever and a tricky adversary.

It was and still remains Game -On between me and that mouse and I will keep you informed of who it is that wins out in the coming days and weeks. Perhaps I should consider withdrawing the offer of relocation to an area with a better standard of living if it is not going to be appreciated.

Reproduced from sometime last year

Toll Hunter

I would like to own a Toll Bridge (See 'Wishful thinking at Christmas'- December 24th Blog) .

A fanciful and vague notion you may think.

An actual opportunity to get involved with the day to day running of a bridge may be rare enough but to have a chance to buy and own one outright may be virtually impossible. This is because of

1) the strategic importance of crossing points nationally,
2) where old Toll bridges have been by-passed by modern structures and road networks and are no longer viable for income generation ,
3) the perceptions of potentially prohibitive costs of repair and maintenance costs, and
4) the inevitable insurances and liabilities.

I would hazard a guess that, in the UK, there exists only a single figures number of bridges that could even be marketed for sale.

A recent high profile example was the 1779 built and 1797 rebuilt Whitney on Wye Toll Bridge in Herefordshire which a couple bought, funded by the sale of their own house for £400,000 in January 2012.

The initial motivation for the acquisition appears to have been an instant emotional connection with a romantic setting, a beautiful piece of 18th Century civil engineering of Grade II Listed status, a 2 bed toll-keepers cottage and a landed area, including riverbank, of 1.1 acres. The bridge has had comparatively few owners in its history and one family managed to hold onto it for 180 years. The sellers, a company, had spent around £300,000 on restoration and overhaul of the single carriageway crossing point following their takeover in 2002 which will have been of major reassurance to the buyers. There is little threat from competition in that the nearest other crossing points are 4 and 6 miles up and downstream respectively.

What brought the case to the attention of the media was the financial return from the ownership of a Toll Bridge.

The unique circumstances of Whitney on Wye gave it the profile of perhaps one of  the best investments of all time.

An Act of Parliament in 1774 established a framework to encourage Private Investment in the road and transport infrastructure of England. The Prime incentive, sweet and sugar coated was a complete exemption from taxation to any individual or consortium who funded a project which would benefit a local, regional and national economy. Any and all taxation was included.  A wise strategy for a Government of the time but now very much a massive loophole for the current administration some 233 years later.

The Wye bridge crossing is used on average by around 200 vehicles a day, mostly local traffic movements but in a tourist area and with a wide and fluctuating seasonal volume. The tariffs were at the time of acquisition 10p per bike, 20p for a motorbike and 80p for cars and light good vehicles. In the summer months the income levels were reported at £2000 per day.  The gross income is reputed to be around £100,000 per year and with the concessions from 1774 still in place, the only outlay is for maintenance and man-power.

The investment returns speak for themselves putting many Buy to Let propositions and schemes which seem too good to be true- (because they are) into the category of a reckless gamble.

Having to continuously leave the cottage to collect tolls could constitute a down-side for the business of owning a bridge unless sit-ups,  meeting people and accounting are three particular life-skills to be enjoyed. The previous owners did bring the operational side into the 21st century with an automatic coin operated barrier leaving more opportunity for the subsequent incumbents to enjoy the notion and location of their small, idyllic and cash-cow empire.

Thunderbirds are gone!

Who is Hiram K. Hackenbacker?

There may be some interesting answers.

Try, did he invent a game involving a small seamed leather ball that you juggle and attempt to keep up in the air or between multiple players?. No That is Hacky Sack.

Was he the inspiration behind of a type of guitar used, for example, by Paul Weller, amongst others? No, that is Rickenbacker.

Is he, by chance the namesake founder and former Mayor of a town in New Jersey, USA? No. That is Hackensack.

It is a tantalising name but yet if you are a lifelong fan of the 1960's TV Series Thunderbirds you will instantly know that it is the real name of the highly strung and a bit nervy prodigy, Brains.

His name has come to the forefront in the last 24 hours with the death of his creator, the Supermarionation genius, Gerry Anderson. I grew up in the halcyon days of children's TV when there was no real competition or distraction from other media. No computers, Video Games, Apple products, etcetra  and a childhood consisted of only sleeping, eating, playtime and education.

This was the perfect environment for imagination to take hold and run riot and a major catalyst in my own formative years was Thunderbirds.

The distinctive countdown, in my memory missing out the first "F", therefore "..ive,....four.....three.....two....one....Thunderbirds are Go!"was the introduction to a completely enthralling part of my day. It went further than that though and the individual  episodes and subsequent adventures gave many, many hours of play value over the following days, weeks and months.

I was obsessed with Thunderbirds, the characters and of course the amazing equipment. International Rescue, the organisation founded by ex-astronaut Jeff Tracy was dedicated to getting the stupid, reckless, misled and unfortunate out of tight situations and in what style!.

Of course, now approaching my 50th birthday I may question how Mr Tracy managed to fund and sustain his charitable operation which must have involved an annual budget even in the 1960's of millions of whatever currency the off shore paradise of Tracy Island affiliated to. I hate myself for this totally cynical attitude and in some way it is a betrayal of my fascination with and complete trust in International Rescue in my early years. However, Gerry Anderson second guessed this later life inquisition with a convincing back-story of a personal fortune earned through the hard work and speculative ventures of Jeff Tracy in the construction industry on his retirement from the space race. All this and, as a widower, bringing up a large family.

The obituary for Gerry Anderson brought back a long forgotten memory of mine of a TV series he devised called Twizzle. This was originally broadcast from 1957 and unfortunately only the very first episode appears to have survived over time. I recall watching this programme in my pre-school years with my Mother and siblings and although I cannot actually summon up any bits of vision or dialogue I do have a very warm and comforting feeling from knowing that I saw it.

The output of Gerry Anderson and his wife Sylvia continued to be prolific with high tech puppetry (although I hesitate to use this term for the Supermarionation process) and also real life productions.

In no particular order but also representing avid viewing on my part were Stingray, Captain Scarlet, UFO, Joe 90, Fireball XL5 and Space 1999. The latter caused me considerable panic at the age of 36 which fell in that fateful year of the exit of the moon from earth's orbit. I was pretty relieved to get through that time with no incident, a bit like last Friday and the predicted Mayan Apocalypse.

The imaginative currency of the Anderson's productions was reinforced considerably by the clever merchandising which with hindsight would give the much criticised catalogue of the Star Wars franchise a run for its money.

I grew up under a Thunderbirds bedspread (ask your parents what one of those is, clue- it predates continental quilts ), I went to sleep after drawing my Thunderbirds curtains. I slept in Thunderbirds pyjamas. My favourite toys were a heavy metal Thunderbird 2 (The chubby green one) with the amphibious Thunderbird 4 in a removable pod, a larger plastic Thunderbird 5 and a diminuitive rocket model of Thunderbird 1. I also collected, from a brand of cereal, the small gawdy coloured plastic figures of the main characters. The aforementioned Hiram K Hackenbacker was a multiple swop and must have been heavily overproduced in some distant Hong Kong factory compared to the others.

A particular thrill when staying with my Grandparents was the sighting at a visit to Luton Airport of a full sized replica of the pink FAB 1 Rolls Royce of Lady Penelope, the racy and in a strange pre-adolescent mind, sexy family friend of the Tracy Family. I was genuinely disappointed to see it being driven by a mere mortal human and not Parker, the rather dodgy, skeleton-in-the-cupboard chauffeur.

In the playing out of the adventures of International Rescue I was always Virgil. It was not that the other four brothers were any less charismatic. Scott was alright but being the oldest a bit serious, John was just a bit invisible, Gordon too much of an enigma  and as for Alan, there must have been a reason why he more often as not seemed to be banished to the earth orbiting space and communications centre that was Thunderbird 5.After all, he was a typical 19 year old.

The further science fiction creations of Gerry Anderson kept up with my demands to be entertained and though my under 10's and early teenage years I also collected and duly  overpainted with Airfix enamel paints and then demolished the merchandising range of Captain Scarlet, UFO and Space 1999.

My own children were able to enjoy regular re-runs of Thunderbirds although the movie was mighty disappointing. Captain Scarlet was faithfully updated in recent years and no doubt captured a new generation of fans.

Even in schoolboy humour the characters featured. I still remember the story about Lady Penelope saying to the dour and expressionless Parker, "Take off my coat", followed by "Parker, take off my dress", then "Parker, take off my underwear". The punchline was "and Parker? ", to which he replies "Yes, me Lady",  "don't let me find you wearing my clothes again".  Classic.

The passing of Gerry Anderson has really pulled on my heartstrings.

Box in a Day

The box is not of the best quality wood, far from it, a sort of thin matchwood that would even be rejected as the back panel for a piece of Ikea furniture.

Excepting its cheap manufacture it was purpose made, possibly in Portugal because it came to be in my house as the packaging around 6 bottles of Port Wine and some Stilton cheese given to me by a client, perhaps now 15 years ago.

The contents were gratefully received and consumed in a phased assault between Boxing Day teatime amongst the cold cuts, pickles and pork pie and lasted until New Years Day supper.

The unveiling of the box had prior to this been a bit of an event and the children, the eldest being 7 at the time, watched with great interest as it was manoeuvred out from under the settee where I had hidden it from prying eyes a few days before Christmas.

As boxes go, it was quite large and rather than a conventionally expected square shape it was flat, long and wide in its three main planes and therefore rectangular. The flimsy wood was a bit scuffed and worn from transit across a continent from vineyard to quayside, ships hold to Vintners shelf although most of the damage originated from my own poor handling of it between my office, car and the selected hiding place.

As I slid the box out it caught, in its rough surfaces, bits of raised carpet tufting and had to be extricated with a small patch of wool mix fabric hanging from a splinter.

The white wood of the box was, after its tortuous journey, surprisingly clean and bright which captured the attention of the children. Their small hands enthusiastically tugged at the object as they helped to move it into the centre of the room. The dimensions of the box were sufficient for all three of them to get some purchase and sense of contributing to what was, by now, almost qualifying for an elaborate ceremony. A missing element was a fanfare or soundtrack, I thought Thus Spake Zarathustra, or Chariots of Fire at first and no doubt the children would be opting for more like Bob the Builder or the theme from Teletubbies.

I explained to the eager congregation a convincing back story for the box and they were quite enthralled although I could not help but thinking that they had probably seem similar in the Food Hall at the local supermarket when on a shopping trip with their Mother in the run up to Christmas.

A fire-branded crested or monogrammed  mark, smudged beyond recognition caught the imagination of the children. My long-winded history lesson on trade between the Iberian Peninsula and our country was just that. Long and windy. I had misinterpreted their fascination in the scorched logo as an opportunity to show an informed but altogether limited knowledge of the subject of Port Wine production, marketing and shipping before the big reveal of the contents of the box.

The children, however, were scaring themselves on their assumption that something was trying to burn its way out of the box. I knew then that they had been too young to watch Raiders of the Lost Ark which had been a pre-Christmas broadcast on the BBC. A near state of self generated hysteria had to be nipped in the bud as it was already distracting my wife, busy baking in the kitchen.

I slowly pulled the top panel toward me and in a smooth action it slid out along the groove. The utter disappointment in the actual contents of the box was clear to see on the faces and in the mannerisms of the children. "Bottles", those amongst them who could speak, uttered.

There, resting in a nest of straw-like material were the six skittle like dark brown glass vessels and a wax-paper wrapped wedge of strong, mould veined cheese.

At this point the actual box became the main focus of attention and I had to remove the items to enhance its play value. That Christmas we need not have bothered to undergo the process of buying toys and gifts for the children because the box was capable of being all things to them. Laid on its longest side the partitioned compartments could hold Barbie Dolls and accessories. Horizontally and flat it could hold multiple cars and building blocks. Vertically it was a series of display shelves for playing shops. Firmly closed it could support up to three small children as a temporary seat for watching television.

At the time of dismantling the seasonal decorations, taking down the Christmas Cards and wrestling a balding fir tree out of the living room in a rainstorm of pine needles there was considerable debate over the fate of the big box.

It was too good to be broken up for kindling for the open fire. It's allocation to one specific child was not an option as this intimated favouritism. My wife did not want it just lying around the house, cluttering up the rooms or serving as a trip hazard for small legs.

That post- Christmas dilemma of how to package up the tree baubles gave the perfect solution to the problem. The six slim compartments were ideal for the safe storage of the fragile glass decorations, the metallic globes, novelty figures, the special ones brought back by relatives from trips to German Markets or seen in High Street Emporiums and there was also a coveted, supervisory space for the Fairy extracted from the very top of the tree.

Destined for the dark recesses of the attic for the duration of the next year the children felt it best to differentiate the box from other stored items, in spite of it being completely unique in size and form. An afternoon of painting the lid with poster paints served to prolong Christmas a little bit longer. There appeared a layer of snow, two fur trimmed red felt stockings, large decorated trees in falling snow, piles of presents beneath and all under a large, Merry Christmas greeting of regular brush strokes achieved by that essential artistic skill of concentration with your tongue hanging out.

The box emerges every year with its precious contents. All of the family must be present at the time of the big reveal of the familiar, tactile and memory steeped baubles and the Fairy but this is becoming an increasingly difficult thing, what with the children all now young adults and making their own way in the world.

Address to The Nation

I am not going to give my "Address to the Nation" this Christmas Day because last year a few people wrote it down, came around to the house and it got a bit awkward.

Wishing the World a very Happy Christmas,

Speak soon,

Me

Wishful Thinking at Christmas

Everyone asks 'What do you want for Christmas this year?'

To tell the truth I can think of nothing that I want or need. I am well provided for in all things for life and living.

I am thankful for a roof over my head, a means of warmth and sustenance and for those around me who keep me rooted in reality. That is all good.

I am not however immune from a bit of daydreaming and I have compiled a bit of a top ten fantasy wish list of what I would consider to be bang-tidy presents. These are not in any particular order of preference, practicality or cost.

A Toll Bridge

A Roll of Sellotape that never loses its end

A Time Machine

An Everlasting Packet of Jacob's Cream Crackers

A Perfectly Silent Washing Machine

A Football Team

An Elephant or a Dinosaur

Shoes with Laces that never unravel themselves

A Balance of Calorific intake and output

The Last Ever Dandy Comic (Thank you Gillian for making that possible)

The Bald Facts

I laughed heartily at the story of the local man who, in an attempt to disguise his rapidly receding hairline used to fill in the bald parts with black boot polish. All well and good in the winter but with an altogether different story in the hotter seasonal months when the patch-up work was seen to melt and run down his face and neck as he strode proudly down the High Street going about his business.

Quite sad really and even more so because I am at that follically challenged stage in my life with a very visible, best found in a monastery style, bald patch.

This has not crept up on me unannounced but rather I have been in denial. The periodic perusal of the archived family photo albums, with the luxury of hindsight, do hint at my thinning crown, particularly in my mid to late twenties.

In my teens I had a very thick and unruly head of hair and it was an in-joke that it had never seen a comb or brush when drawn attention to by relatives at the usual round of functions. My wedding day photographs indicate a lightening of my dark brown hair. If slightly damp then the pink of my scalp is clearly visible.

Genetically I was destined to be bald following the line of ascension from my father and both grandfathers. It was not a problem for them as it was quite rare anyway to see men of their respective generations with luxuriant and flowing locks. The short back and sides was the classic cut and a preparation for the onset of hair loss, followed by the comb-over.  Haircuts just took a little less time each and every time in the barber's chair.

I am monitoring the media on a regular basis however for any Class-Actions against
1) Manufacturers of childrens cowboy hats
2) The Cub Scouts
3) Grammar School Uniform suppliers
4) Peaked cap makers.

I personally suspect a cover up by the Scouting Association of research showing that the soft felt type lining of their distinctive green cap exacerbated a genetic disposition towards baldness. I had to wear a hat for the first couple of years of senior school of the same composition as my scout cap. Cowboy hats which came with a typical wild west  play set were always very good at retaining sweat which could also have contributed to my physical appearance above and behind my eyes.

I had not really appreciated the stigma attached to baldness or at least the magnitude of the problem as seen and perpetuated by those commercial interests marketing and selling remedies and cures.

This hit home during my recent casual reading of an in-flight magazine. This had a full page advertisement for a pill based treatment for bald men which claimed to be the answer to low self esteem, a poor rate of success with the laydeez, supposed overlooking in promotions at work and in other equally damning scenarios where those of a full pate always seemed to, I apologise for this, be ahead. The course of supplements must, the advert stressed, be carried out over a continuous period which was not specified but no doubt lasted a lifetime. Kerrching, as the tills rattle up a sale.

Of course there are the old wives tales about how to arrest and reverse hair loss but personally I have not been keen on having the top of my head licked by a cow, at least not after that last abortive attempt on the local Common.

The flip side is the myth that totally bald men are virile and masculine, no doubt a great piece of propaganda spread and perpetuated by totally bald men through history. In the distant past the loss of hair would in fact have had no male exclusivity and through vitamin deficiency, the likes of ringworm or even the enforced sale of hair in order to survive, both sexes would be so afflicted. The answer would therefore be the wearing of a wig. This cosmetic  necessity would soon become a fashion statement in the 17th and 18th Centuries and a major industry in its own right.

I was interested by a framed print in someone's lavatory dated 1882 from The London Illustrated News which waxed lyrical on the merits of a certain Dr Scott's Electric Hairbrush.

This was a development in tandem with the less attractive sounding Flesh Brush marketed as a "Sure Cure for Rheumatism). The Electric Hairbrush offered a complimentary cure for, it was reputed, not just baldness but also nervous and bilious headache, neuralgia, dandruff, premature greyness and to soothe the weary brain. Big claims indeed and all for the price of 12 shillings and sixpence ( up to £734 in 2012 terms), post free. The Victorians did like the endorsement of products by the great and the good and Dr Scott of The Pall Mall Electric Association Ltd, 21 Holborn Viaduct, London sought this marketing edge by hinting at supplying the likes of the Prince and Princess of Wales, The King of Holland and The Right Honourable W E Gladstone.

Here then is the science behind the product.

The brush handle was made of a new and, but unspecified, unbreakable material resembling ebony which had properties to produce a permanent magnetic current to stimulate hair glands and follicles. In the days before portable appliance testing Dr Scott provided, with each product, a silver compass to indicate the power from an activated brush. The actual brush, as illustrated on the newspaper extract, did look quite a work of art with pure bristles, although if my schoolboy physics serves me well these would not be capable of conducting an electro-magnetic current, and an ornate carved handle. The usual money back promises were made if not fully satisfied with the product or its miraculous properties.

It appears that the popularity of the electric hair brush, in spite of claims of thousands of testimonials available for public scrutiny, was relatively short lived.

The remarkable Dr Scott, if indeed a person rather than just a brand name, remained prolific in his innovations and in successive years was responsible for such gadgets as electric plasters, insoles, rheumatic rings, shoulder braces, throat protectors, nerve and lung invigorators, body belts, wristlets, sciatic appliances, anklets, leg appliances, office caps, and other special appliances made to order.

He also offered electric curry combs for horses. This latter item is interesting as, although I do suspect a degree of quackery surrounding Dr Scott, I cannot ever recall having seen a bald horse.

Bavarian Tales. Final part. Home again.

Spatially and in the flat relief of an internet viewed map my hotel was across the road from the Hauptbahnhof , left a bit, right and then to be found in a block of buildings some 50 metres further. Oh, and with a bloody big red directional arrow over it's location.

Introduce, however, other premises with Hotel written on them, hordes of commuters, vehicles, a tram system, bright lights and a travel weary tourist and things get a bit confusing. A phrase in german to the effect of "where is to my hotel am I going" was milling around in my head but I chose to persevere with my original perception of where it was.

What, on a screen, had resembled a wide boulevard was in reality a narrow alleyway between a large posh looking hotel and a city gymnasium. Doorways off led to commercial kitchens and service entrances, a bit rough looking compared to the edifices facing onto the central Munich street. Creative Elefant was an unusual name for my destination but it met a couple of my criteria for an overnight stop, cheap and cheerful. The other fundamentals for a place to stay in a new city were a roof, walls, windows, sanitation, a bed and a lockable door. I could tolerate there not being a trouser press.

Although a five storey building , painted in terracotta amongst drab white surroundings and displaying a huge signage banner I did walk past the recessed porch entrance. After filling out the obligatory registration card at Reception I was left to find Room 29 using either the lift or the stairs. In the embarrassing period of time it took between pressing the button to call the lift and actually hearing any mechanical motion I made the decision to just nip up the stairs.

My room was a double, but only just if you walked sideways between the bed end and partition wall. Neat, comfortable, very minimalistic and european with a stout door lock. I pocketed the small packet of Haribo gummy bears that I found on the pillow,being one of five children this was a natural reflex action, and anyway the Cream Crackers would be staying in the room whilst I explored. They were a tight fit in the mini-safe in the wardrobe.

I must have been in the room for a mere 10 minutes before breezing past the Night Porter and out onto the street trying to orientate myself to a reverse journey to the railway station. It was still rush-hour and Munich Station was heaving with weary, serious types under heavy formal jackets and top coats, youngsters with headphones, a few elderly citizens, beggars and vagrants keeping warm.

The complex containing upwards of 50 incoming lines was a temple to transport and commerce. The nave was an expanse of cobbles, under a vaulted glazed atrium with coffee, bagel and pretzel kiosks dotted about, each with its own queue waiting to receive communion. The aisles off were taken up with every type of shop, not just those providing goods and services to travellers but chain stores, boutiques and supermarkets catering for all and every requirement for modern living. I must have seemed a bit starstruck to onlookers, a veritable country bumpkin visiting the big city for the first time.

If it were not for very clear and efficient Teutonic directional signs I may have wandered there for the duration of my visit but I headed off to the U-Bahn, or subway system. Three steep, descending escalators later I was on the subterranean platform for U-1, the orange coloured line that on the schematic transit map went upwards from the Hauptbahnhof hub. The smells of diesel, electric traction and, well, underground railways was distinctive and not a little bit exciting in anticipation of an onward leg of my trip.

In appearance the U-Bahn could have been straight out of the 1930's and I imagined the good citizens huddled down here seeking refuge from wartime bombing. This notion was exploded by the information board that the U Bahn dated from 1971 and had been largely part of the infrastructure for the hosting by Munich of the Olympic Games and World Cup within a two year period. The rolling stock was a bit old and fusty and with liberal use of wood panel trim a bit like the dashboard of a British Leyland Austin Allegro Van den Plas in the days when Britain had a car industry before the Germans stole it away and made it work. I hoped I had kept that last bit as a silent thought as I stood in a crowded compartment.

"Mind the Gap" was recognisable in its sentiment but sounded more jaunty and less ominous. My stop and a change of line was at Olympia-Einkaufszentrum and I flitted through a couple of connecting footways , very clean and tidy. U-3 was the blue route and in three stops I emerged out on the pavement.

In front of me was the distinctive shape of the Olympic Stadium resembling the fully deployed sail of an ocean clipper. I ticked it off subconciously from my list of 1001 Buildings to see before I die. That structure was not however the principal reason for my emergence on the surface.

Just a little to the left of the stadium was BMW Welt. In terms of a multi-functional building it was top of the pops. Multi functional conjures up an image of boring cube with a cafe, viewing area, community function rooms and good toilets. BMW Welt is none of these, toilets probably excepted.. It is a statement of utter superiority by a world dominating car corporation, a shameless display of outrageous expenditure, a cathedral to capitalism, a big justified finger to the struggling car industries of other nations and, in the biggest show of vanity and conceit, just a large, brash showroom with a few shiny cars in it. I was dumbstruck by the building, a design by Coop-Himmel and taking 4 years to create, ostensibly out of left over bits of vehicles. Every elevation was different in shape and form. In fact, the whole thing sort of swept around , seamless and with no sharp angles that could be called an elevation. I did not go in. Perhaps it was fear, a feeling of inadequacy, I did not own a BMW and could be known to be a big critic of their current model range. Don't get me started on my unique profile, borne out of actual experience, of a typical owner/driver of that particular marque. Perhaps it was because it was closed to the public.

 I did something else for the next four hours and a link will appear hereas soon as The Boy has posted something up on his own Blog.

By the time I got back to the U-3 it was well past eleven thirty and I was concerned that there would be a thinning out of the train services. The simple back -tracking along the earlier route was denied by the withdrawal of the link westwards and I hastily studied the whatever transit map thing for an alternative route.

There was a possible tortuous and multi-change option eastwards and then south. I had no time to be cautious and reserved as the subway train pulled in instantaneously. The onboard map was stuck to the roof of the carriage and the close scrutiny of it must have made me look a bit manic because the other passengers avoided me. Stops with swift walking to other connections was the pattern to follow and at each there was a gradual thinning out of other travellers until I found myself completely alone at midnight on an empty and draughty platform, still some way from the Hauptbahnhof. Down in the tube station at midnight, that sounded like a good title for a song. What I had thought to be a single flow chart line from my current position in the U bahn network to the hub did not exist and appeared to be a work in progress. A new station was being built. I hastily re-worked my route and eventually emerged at ground level to find the shops still open and busy. As an aperitif to Cream Crackers I purchased a bag of crisps, bar of chocolate and a bottle of mineral water. The mini-bar in the room would not have to be raided after all.

In the morning, after a fitful 5 hours sleep in which I was engaged in a dream being chased, whilst naked by a green Morris Minor around a red brick built British Leyland Factory ( a regular dream for me) I settled the hotel bill and crossed the strasse to be re-acquainted with Platfrom 32.

The 8.20am local train service to Memmingen was not a well patronised route and I was in the company of, at most, two housewives and an old lady with a shopping cart full of old newspapers. Those sights I had missed because of the failing light the evening before were now visible but, after all, a bit same-old, same old in a city environment.

I did get excited by a huge factory ,trackside ,some one hours travelling out of Munich. The car park was full of red-clad employees striding through stubborn patches of snow. This, to me,  resembled a Santa Claus convention. It was actually the Hilti Power Tools plant and a red fleece appeared to be standard staff issue.

The heater at my right leg was pumping out possibly chloroform impregnated air which caused me to drift, once more, in and out of consciousness. Memmingen was soon reached and after buying some beeswax kleine angel candle figures from the Christmas Market I shared a taxi with a Turkish couple to the airport. They were going to spend the Festive break with relatives in London.

In such a small regional airport the sudden appearance of the next contingent of passengers caused havoc. I spent more time in a queue in that check in area than the whole of the journey to date. I still only had a back-pack and the clothes I stood up in but I could not get any concessions or fast tracking as I had at Stansted on the way out.

The aircraft was late and then two arrived within minutes. The other for sunny parts of Spain was a temptation. If I feigned ignorance and a bit of confusion ............ I persisted with my scheduled flight which was surprisingly empty so did that mean we would fly faster?

The pilot, in a matter of fact drawl, informed us of a 40,000 feet cruising height and a journey time of around 1 hour 45 minutes. This was longer than the flight in but then we were heading north and uphill. I again kept my head down and avoided eye contact with the attendants. There was a particularly heavy selling approach to the Scratchcards but understandable if passengers were keen to offload their euro coins.

It was not long before I was back on English soil, through customs and out in the cold, fresh air to take the shuttle bus back to the car. I had been out and back in a period of only 33 hours. It had been a great experience and the tantalus of BMW Welt would soon cause me to make a return trip during public opening hours. Oh, and I would have to retreive a packet of Cream Crackers from the lost property department of the Creative Elefant hotel if they ever managed to blow the safe in Zimmer neun and zwanzig.

Bavarian Tales. Part 2. Onward Travel

These short-hop flights into Europe are no soonest up at cruising altituude as starting to descend .

Of course there is the drama of a take-off which ,with Ryannair, is a bit unnerving given that, whilst waiting and overlooking the aircraft down in the service area you can see the rapid disembarking of passengers on foot , the transfer of baggage and full refuelling within their 25 minute turnaround time. The crew on the flight deck open a window and I half expect them to be handed up Big-Macs and Cokes by the ground crew followed by emptying of a chamber pot over the side, all in the interests of saving time and permitting 6 flights a day rather than the 4 as operated by other less profit-driven airlines.

The plane was completing refuelling with us all on board, a full contingent apart from a sole empty seat which was next to me. Was it just me? I discreetly checked my personal hygiene, for any remnants of Pret a Manger pastries around my face and my trouser flies. Nope. Not me. Perhaps just a mathematical certainty, what with most of the travellers being in pairs or larger groups. Johnny no-mates had possibly overslept and missed the boarding slot.

The Boeing 737-800 lumbered out, in reverse, before jolting along to the main runway. It was a rolling start, throttles open and with that distinctive kick in the pants feeling exclusively found in a powerful jet aircraft although keenly sought in your local streets by boy racer owners of Vauxhall Corsa 1.2 litre SXGTLE's.

I am relatively new to flying for someone of my generation. My late start was partly due to a family embargo on flying following the sad death of my father's cousin, only 21 years old, in a plane crash after take-off from Paris in 1975. Apparently, the door fell off. I had watched the cabin crew go through the procedure of securing the outer door with some interest.

I was on a budget flight with no inclusive food and so was tempted to break open the Cream Crackers. The other golden rule of paying a low fare is to keep your head down and avoid eye contact with the staff because they are fully intent on selling you something whilst you are captive, strapped in your seat. First, newspapers and Hello magazines, then own-brand scratch cards, a range of ready meals of continental theme and finally, perfumes and Ryannair gadgets.

In the free for all for the seating I had managed to get a window. Above the dismal grey clouds of south-eastern England it was a nice day. Doh! On the starboard side and flying south the sun was quite dazzling. I grimaced with part discomfort in the light whilst enjoying the warming effect of the first  rays I had felt on my face since late October.

The London skyline was in view and The Shard punctured the otherwise flat, one dimensional scene. The Thames snaked its way towards the Channel and after a very short passage over water the plane crossed into airspace over France/Belgium/Holland before covering the full depth of Germany.

The cloud cover was solid and beautiful in shade and hue with a few distance vapour trails from flitting aircraft. A clunk and whine momentarily disturbed my high altitude dreaming as the slim and seemingly fragile wings adjusted their flappy bits. The clouds, as we descended, were now grubby and wispy and my porthole window was streaked with moisture. Below I could see vague shapes and forms, possibly mountains and valleys, then a more regular arrangement of pasture and forested strips. What I found confusing were large white patches which outlined the dark areas until I realised these were banks of drifted snow.

I was again alarmed by twitchy movements of the plane as it lined up for a landing. Houses became discernible as we lost height, resembling small white sugar cubes loosely strewn about. Traffic could be seen on the road network. The overriding colour was a metallic blue from hectare upon hectare of ground arrays of solar cells also extending to just about every available surface of domestic and commercial roofs. The twin jet engines whined in resistance ,slowing to an approach speed.

When viewed from the ground the landing of a passenger plane looks quite laborious and painfully slow and in direct contrast to the experience of being on board with all the noise of creaking, rattling and then the thump of the tyres followed by the slight but discernible drift out of alignment before being wrestled back by the pilot. The 500mph to taxi-ing deceleration is very impressive and being Ryannair, the plane just carries on rolling to save crucial seconds and euro's.

The airport at Memmingen is not well known. It had stood out on the Departures board as not quite up to par with the likes of Charles de Gaulle, JFK, Singapore Changi and Schipol. My casual interest in where I was headed for had revealed that it had been a Luftwaffe base followed by a period in American occupation until handover in the 1950's. A single runway flanked by old functional buildings. some camouflaged, and still in military use and in sharp contrast to a very modern terminal building.

The development of the airport had caused considerable political conflict locally between the Greens and the Progressives. The latter had won but perhaps the huge solar energy farms had been a bargaining chip and conciliatory gesture. One thing, the summers in Bavaria must be scorchingly hot and windless on the basis of the solar panels and the complete absence of any turbines which are becoming increasingly common sights in my home area.

I began to think in German as soon as my feet hit the ground at the bottom of the ramp but with a schoolboy vocabulary at my disposal I just hoped that everyone was called Herr Topolski and drove a VW. I could get by if that was the case.

The Border Control were very paramilitary looking and the slim, blond female officer who welcomed me and giggled at my passport photo was affable and armed. I strode out of the terminal with confidence and immediately conversed with a taxi driver with a single phrase "Bahnhof, bitte". He hustled me into the pale yellow Mercedes. He too would be hoping to emulate Ryannair with 2 or 3 pick-ups from the new arrivals and he drove very quickly into the town, 4km away. He turned up the talk radio channel so as to discourage me from entering into further dialogue. I was alright with that and gave him a decent tip in appreciation of the means of avoidance of making a fool of myself.

Memmingen, also from research, has Roman origins, a city wall, Renaissance buildings, squares and narrow alleys, large market places and a canal stream through the middle. I saw a few of these notables but paid more attention to the shops which included a Woolworths, Inter Sport, Subway and many euro-wide brands. I was interested to see that it is not just UK High Streets which are dominated by discount stores. The windows of one large retail unit advertised all products at one euro, which by my translation, meant  an undercutting of a British Poundland by at least 20 pence. Keeping the Cream Crackers, now seasoned travellers, intact I sought out some food.

A Grammar School Education had given me a working knowledge of the products of German bakeries, butchers shops, fruiterers and restaurants and how to ask for them but I instead opted for a Kebab and small pizza from a Turkish Cafe. This transaction was achieved mainly through my pointing and the ability of the proprietor to converse with an English tourist, thanks possibly to a Turkish Grammar School Education.

After eating in and pretending to read a discarded local newspaper I remembered the phrase for "how much", paid up and left. I had a couple of hours to kill before catching a train onwards to Munich, about 60 miles east and this was taken up by a few laps of the town centre. The Green Party influence was strong with largely excluded traffic from the streets and favouritism for cycles and pedestrians. This did lull me into a false sense of safety and I had to remember to take into account the approach of any stray traffic from the wrong side when crossing the roads.

The city was trimmed up for Christmas with real trees on the lamposts, nice lighting, a huge display of bells strung between buildings and a dedicated seasonal market with gifts, decorations and foods. Shamefully to admit, but out of anxiety of missing my Deutsche Bahn connection I elected to spend most of the free time in the station waiting room and then out on the chilly platform.

Now 4pm I was amongst commuters and schoolkids, the latter chattering away and I recognised the names of Bieber, Beyonce and i-phone in their engaging dialogues. A group of older boys on the opposite side of the tracks were smoking and taking swigs from a bottle of Blue Nun. Typical teenager behaviour but then they spoilt my stereotypical judgement by leaving their loitering position clean, tidy and debris free by using the recycling bins provided by that Green Party lot. On a second take, the nosiy school children were actually doing studying and homework and making best use of what would, amongst their UK contemporaries, be an idle time.

The station was very busy, a bit of a hub for trains from the wider Swabia Region and the not too distant Austrian border. Red DB engines and carriages drifted through with local services , there were frequent non-stop expresses and long, groaning chains of heavy freight wagons. It was now nearly dusk and getting a bit cold on the open expanse of the platform. A train approached from the wrong direction for Munich but was definitely the one I wanted. I accepted German efficiency in good faith and boarded.

The carriages seemed wider than UK stock but, totally geekily I knew them to be the same standard guage of 1.435 metres. The impression of roominess was from bench seating for communal travel rather than the demands of the British travelling public for individual personal seats and private space.

A wave of heat hit my cold extremities from a very effective appliance just at my right ankle from my sitting position. I had fully intended to use the last remaining daylight to avidly study the trackside country views and absorb the sights of Bavaria but the comfort and warmth of the carriage had me in a bit of a drowsy stupor in no time at all.

I was quite happy to succumb to that luxuriant feeling in the knowledge that all trains stopped at the Munich Terminus and I would not find myself in the Russian Steppes or further west upon awakening. My Cream Crackers could be felt through the top of my small rucksack and with this reassurance I drifted off. The return journey next morning along the same route would be the opportunity to look out of the window a plenty.

Rural Bavaria soon made way for the outer suburbs of the City. Large residential blocks were arranged neatly and with communal Christmas trees occupying a central position in the open squares between. There followed out of town retail parks and offices, part built developments and semi derelict structures heavily daubed in graffitti. The scene was very much like any found along a rail corridor in any large urban area. A Mercedes badge topped out a very large and grand tower block and around it groups of either offices or up-market apartments. The train rattled over points before stop-starting to allow others to pass by either in or out of the central railway station. With a jolt the onward travel ended and I fell out onto Platform 32 and made my way under the glass atrium to find my hotel. It was now rush hour and I was definitely going against the majority flow as the workforce made their way home. After the sweltering heat of the carriage I found myself shivering in the chill evening. On the other hand it could be just my excitement and anticipation of being in an iconic european city at night.

Bavarian Tales. Part 1. The Up and Down

There are many ways to start off an adventure to another country.

Some advocate a last minute, impulsive purchase of a one way ticket and just to wing it, upon arrival, to find a place to stay. Others may be too timid to undertake anything less than a full board, door to door accompanied trip amongst a like minded body of people, initially quiet, reserved types but by the end of the fortnight, becoming life long penfriends or at least willing to trade cards on birthdays, anniversaries and at Christmas.

I, personally, fit in between the two categories of travellers.

I like to have a definite schedule but am quite prepared to self-assemble the different phases of the journey. This does give control over proceedings but can mean an equivalent period of time spent on-line and watching that loading symbol to the trip itself. It is amazing what can be accessed and acquired on line as part of an excursion. Going direct to the national timetable for Deutsche Bahn can be a bit intimidating in the planning of a shortish cross country rail trip. It is a bit easier when noticing and activating the english language version but only after largely completing the transaction in german. Of course, many german words have some similarity to english, what with common historical associations, but it is not always a good thing to guess and agree to accepting a term or condition because it looks like it might be useful to have on phonetic grounds.

The outcome of many, many hours of browsing can be condensed into a large brown envelope in the form of printed off tickets, passes, vouchers, coupons and policy documents. There are specific instructions from issuing organisations to use bright white standard guage A4 paper when reproducing the important pieces of information and in good clear ink. This facilitates, at the ticket barrier and boarding gate, the identification of a barcode or encrypted data to, in theory, speed things up. The airport official at one check in showed equal amusement and contempt at my thick card sheet overprinted with my flight reservation details which had to be folded, scored and folded again before the instruction to "tear along the dotted line" could be attempted.

3am on the morning of departure.

Not much sleep from 10pm bedtime because of a fear that the ordered paper contents of that brown envelope were mischievously shuffling each other about so as to be completely out of sequence. As a back-up I did empty said envelope and write out on the front of it a potted summary of the main travel details but then had to dash to the office to make a photocopy of it to go in a second envelope containing copies of the originals. Did I need copies of the copies of the copies?

Even at the hour of setting off from the house to the airport I recalled that horrible realisation, only a matter of weeks prior, that my passport had expired. A ten year passport, at the time of taking it out, seems perfectly adequate for what is a foreseeable future. The photo of me at 39 years old resembles me a bit but a decade does play havoc on facial features doesn't it?

I also remembered that the passport had been for my first ever long distance holiday abroad which I feel is a bit embarrassing to admit to what with the relative ease of foreign travel. My defence at being challenged about my apparent fear of flying was that I had still not visited parts of the UK yet alone on a worldwide basis and these should take priority. As it is, that long planned trip to Aberdeen remains shelved with other notions of going to Cardiff, Liverpool and Cadbury World.

The over-used saying about any journey starting with a single step was dismissed in my mind and replaced with 'getting the car started'. The actual three hour, at least, drive to Stansted Airport from East Yorkshire was actually my main cause of anxiety in the whole logistical exercise. This was principally because it was reliant on me in making sure the car was roadworthy, fuelled and driven safely. In all other legs of the journey I could devolve the power to others.

Two recent things were worrying me in motoring terms. The front offside tyre was losing pressure over a seven day period and with reference to a VW chat-room my car was showing typical signs of middle age mileage stage which meant, like humans, slow starting and a grumbling reluctance to get going. I gambled a bit on the tyre after a quick foot pump session and just tolerated the fitfull and lumpy progress up the road until the engine temperature guage moved off zero.

In all my last minute preparations I had forgotten to have any breakfast. I had allowed 5 hours for what the AA Routeplanner assured me was a three hour and one minute travelling time. I could probably get by for the duration on my body fat deposits.

The M62, M180 and A1 were surprisingly busy at 5am with a strong representation of unliveried white vans and lane-drifting overseas juggernauts. The A1 is a good route down the eastern side of the country although quite historic in its dual carriageway status and frightening in the amount of crossroads between small hamlets at which, invariably, a tractor sits waiting to drag itself across the thundering flow of fast moving, blinkered traffic.

At regular intervals in an otherwise pitch black rural surround are the bright and brash petrol stations and american style diners to which motorists are attracted like moths around a lightbulb. Beyond the arc-lights and signage however are the sad sights of former roadside pubs, transport cafes and slightly more upmarket versions of greasy spoon establishments. The Little Chef's persist but look a bit dated and sedate compared to the new kids on the block.

I remember, as a child, wishing for my parents to pull into a Little Chef on the way to or from a family holiday but with no realisation about how much it would cost to feed our car-full of five kids and two adults.

The terrain for much of the 180 miles due south is flat and boring but with some quaint placenames alluded to out of sight by grubby, unlit road signs. The sky is becoming less dark as dawn approaches and then as though instantly it is daylight.

To my left is a vast flat expanse of the Fens and if it were not for the ancient hedges I am sure that you could make out the curvature of the earth. The first traffic congestion is around Cambridge but it is after all the early morning rush hour around 7am. All vehicles have single occupants heading for work, perhaps into London which is a shortish commute. The M11 does carve a way straight into the East End after all.

The junction for Stansted looms up quickly and it takes a few moments for my lane-groggy eyes to focus on anything in peripheral vision such as a large directional sign. I miss the turn on first approach and career around the large traffic island for a full 360 degrees before getting the right exit for the Mid-Stay Car Park. This was another on-line booking, last minute being an oversight. The brown envelope was disturbed to extricate the printed sheet and as foretold the equipment at the barrier recognised my number plate and payment details and let me in. I silently congratulated myself on getting to this point in one piece and with three correctly inflated tyres.

As I climbed on the Shuttle Bus I could not recall locking the car after disembarking. In an action common to half the males on the bus I made the futile action of pointing the key fob in the direction of the parking bay and pressing the locking button many times. I was too far away to see any reassuring flash of side lights.

 Infrequent use of airports does instill confusion in my mind about what to do and what not to do and in what order. First call is always the large information boards. I panicked at seeing that my destination was now boarding. It took a rifling through the brown envelope to reassure me that I was on schedule and the flight shown was the earlier one I had dismissed as an option in the planning stage.

I had checked in a week before, on line, which I found unnerving. Could I really vouch for my bag not being tampered  with before I had even packed it?

The queue at the Ryannair desk was already snaking through the cordoned off lanes but a helpful staff member, upon seeing my small rucksack baggage, gave me free passage straight to security. There are distinct advantages in travelling light. Who needs soap, towels, deodorant and a full change of clothing anyway?

I had forgotten the procedure, again from infrequent use of airports, for correct negotiation through security so I just followed the practice of others. Shoes off, coat and bag in the plastic tray, empty pockets of metal objects, phone out. I was fascinated by the machinery for scanning and could see the Operator skillfully studying the X-Rayed images of my rucksack, notable by the large outline of a brown envelope containing a wad of dense papers and also a packet of Jacobs Cream Crackers. This was an emergency supply in case the plane came down in a barren area between Stansted and Bavaria and I had to fend for myself until rescued.

I came to my senses when the metal detector activated as I walked through it. My belt was removed in the close presence of two members of Border Control and I was escorted into the full body scanner. I seem to remember the controversy around the introduction of this high-tech piece of equipment in that it left nothing to the imagination. Fortunately, at the beginning of my trip I did have on my best underwear.

After a technical breach of my Human Rights, I was then through and accepted into the glossy environment that is the airside lounge and shopping area.

To the impressionable, such as me, it was a wonderland, a real Whickers World of high living and sophistication where it was possible to purchase every manner of gadget and fashion accessory to accentuate the experience of globe-trotting. I was not sure, however, about the role and function of a piece of Swarovksi Crystal unless it was particularly good at signalling to passing rescue planes in a single handed action whilst eating Cream Crackers with the other.

I opted for a coffee and Danish pastry from Pret a Manger. Everything is home made, apparently. The waiting areas in an Airport are fascinating for watching people, not in an intrusive way, but out of casual interest. A week before Christmas and many student types are heading home, to visit relatives or just escaping to warmer climates. The lumbering of my flight along the runway, later, will indicate a cargo hold full of presents for loved ones.

The listing of my destination creeps up the board and reaches penultimate status in terms of the 'Go to Gate' instruction. It is a case of hovering around with there being not enough time to get another coffee or make a downpayment on a Swarovski ornament. Click, the board gives the go signal.

Some 12 minutes and possibly two miles distant through corridors and up and down escalators is the boarding gate. Prority passengers have their own queue but still have to walk out across the rain soaked apron and climb the steps like us mere mortals.

It is a free for all in terms of seat choice for the majority. Like me, a good proportion of fellow passengers  have read that crash survivors have tended to come from seats between the wings and there is a bit of a beeline made for these positions.

Assured by the packet of Cream Crackers in my possession I sit anywhere,but still close as possible to the strong spine of the aircraft. In true Lord of the Flies fiction that prized Jacobs product could prove invaluable in a batte for survival after the downing of the plane in the forthcoming one hour and twenty minute flight to Memmingen, Bavaria.

(disappointing, yes, but to be continued...............)

Mere Indulgence

Over the last 3 days, and bearing in mind we are nearly in October, the weather has been astounding recorded at  27.5 degrees centigrade even at as late as 5pm.

I don't know if this is just an anomaly as a) the world climate shifts to counter global warming,b) the solar flares expected for 2014 are already happening, c) the Mayans prediction of the end of the world for 2012 is early or d) it's just a spike in temperatures prior to the onset of the next Ice Age.

I am holding fire on whether to adopt the following actions. (paragraph lettering as above applies). a) buy a grapevine and a hot tub. b) Dig a large underground complex in the back garden and panic buy essentials. c) Cancel all standing orders and direct debits and let Barclays Bank know what I really feel about them d) order large supplies of rock salt and a dog sled team.

Regardless of what actually transpires I have one major regret that, this year, and for the first time in many years I have not hired a boat on Hornsea Mere and rowed out to and around Shit Island.

Hornsea Mere is a wonderful stretch of water. Here's the A level geography explanation. It is Yorkshire's largest natural lake and an inheritance of glacial activity many millenia ago. It is a striking feature and a haven for fish and wildlife.

On the other hand, Shit Island is ,in the words of someone who did A level geography, a pile of kak deposited over many years by roosting and nesting birds.Canada Geese in particular have attempted to form a new land mass in the name of that former colony. It is a smelly feature and a bit of a toilet for wildlife. The Mere does represent a challenge though.

I am reluctant to hire a boat for longer than one hour and through initially calm but increasingly frantic rowing it is possible to complete a circumnavigation of the island well within the tariff of £4. The booking office forms part of the low timber sheds of the combined boatyard and cafe at the eastern end of the Mere. I think the operation has been a family business for many years and although producing a sustainable income for at least 3 current generations there has been little inward investment.

This is not a Dragons Den criticism. In fact it would be an interesting sociological experiment to maroon the current Dragons on Shit Island and see how long it would take them to establish a chain of office supply shops, casinos and health clubs, transport hub, telecommunications network and whatever that rather dour, sour faced lady dragon does for her beans. The charm of the place is the lack of change and progress. The boats are in sturdy hand crafted wood with a deep varnished hue. They are all named after sea-birds or flowering plants in copper plate lettering. They seat 4 persons normally or a large family of eight from  Leeds as long as they have been weighed and evenly distributed over the bow, amidships and stern seat benching.

As a concession to safety all crew and passengers are given life jackets although these appear to have been salvaged from the last vessel that went down off Hornsea beach in 1915. The brief safety brief consists of 'stay in the boat and don't touch anything that could bite or looks dead' , also ' do not attempt to make a landing on Bird Island (their rather extravagant name for you know where) and ' on no account try to re-enact the antics of Di Caprio and Winslet without relocating Grandma to the stern seat for ballast' . It is a bit tricky getting aboard the boats from the rickety jetty but you are comforted by the fact that the bottom of the lake is clearly visible even some 20 feet out from the shore.

Throughout the £4 passage the lake bed is actually almost always in sight where not obscured by a thick and evil matting of weeds, floating eiderdown and feathers from moulting fowl and seasonal poisonous algae. The oars are rough hewn boughs but worn smooth by the sweaty hands of labouring visitors or frequent periods in the water if lost during a momentary lack of concentration by designated oars persons, thrown at rampaging swans or menacing Pike or where courting couples attempt to join the Hornsea Mere equivalent of the mile high club known as the two foot above sea level club. I think that rowing a boat should form a compulsory element in education not just for exercise and health benefits but to develop co-ordination and teamwork.

This would have very obvious longer term benefits for those living in areas at risk from coastal, alluvial and pluvial flooding which, frankly, includes much of the populated areas through East Yorkshire. I am not advocating that the Air Sea Rescue helicopter is mothballed as my master strategy for self-rescue would only apply to currently inland but 'at risk' areas. There is a point in the one hour boat hire when a decision must be made to turn back. If the whole reason for expending £4 is not acheived then there is sadness and blame becomes apportioned on those in control of the oars or navigation. I have seen many mutinies amongst those previously enjoying the waters, a few court marital enquiries but no keel hauling, the latter only because that sort of disciplinary practice is now frowned upon in polite company. On the return and surrender of the boat there is a great sense of well-being which far outweighs any residual dampness to clothing  or disappointment in rowing prowess amongst us menfolk. I always promise to come back soon. This year has been the exception and I will be sure to address this next season. If the weather holds out as per the current phenomena I may keep Boxing Day afternoon free.

(Reproduced from 2011- one of my favourites)

Kick it hard Lily

The second highest career goalscoring record behind Pele is from a much lesser known player whose games were played over the years 1920 to 1951. Lily Parr's total of over 1000 goals is remarkable enough an acheivement but even more so given the turbulence of the times which covered the implications and complications of two world wars, a major economic depression between and the emotive political and social events for the acceptance of women in the male dominated world of just about everything.

The mass and necessary recruitment of women as a labour force to cover for the conscripted male workers into the first world war drew the attention of the Government to the wider health and welfare issues of women. A healthy and happy workforce were a productive and less troublesome and potentially militant group.

The Preston, Lancashire based manufacturers Dick, Kerr and Company had been established in 1900 specialising in the tram and light railway sector but switched to essential war work in 1915 making ammunition. The factory employed a predominantly female staff on the production lines and within the remit of keeping key workers fit and healthy a football team was formed taking the company name.

Rival industrial and manufacturing companies also former their own teams and around 150 were registered within what became a very competitive league structure. The Munitions Cup, played for in 1917, by the Munitionettes as a wider descriptive term for the participating ladies teams was watched by a crowd of 10,000 at the ground of the great Preston North End. The crowd attending raised £600 for wounded soldiers.

The ladies game was not confined to the war years and by the early 1920's it was well established and experiencing its halcyon days. The Dick, Kerr Ladies were prominent and played 60 competitive matches during the 1921 season in front of an aggregate attendance of 900,000. A crowd of 53,000 was present at Goodison Park in Liverpool to watch the Dick, Kerr Ladies beat close rivals St Helens Ladies.

The success and genuine support for the ladies league caused grave concern amongst the crusty old Football League administrators and in a calculated but spiteful move they issued a ban on the use of any League grounds for the playing of ladies matches. In their expert evidence to support the ban various medical practitioners were produced to express concern over what dangerous impact playing football could have on fertility and femininity. The ban remained in place until 1971.

The Dick, Kerr Ladies continued to flourish and amongst their honours were multiple league titles, International victories including tours to France and the USA and reaching a pinnacle in 1937 becoming World Champions. Against the well entrenched establishment and remnants of the austerity of the Victorians which still dominated society and attitudes the team were the first in the womens game to wear shorts. Archive photographs of the team resemble a line up of dancing girls, nimble,graceful and lithe but wearing heavy leather football boots and with a bit of a sun tan. The team fell out with the bosses over some undefined 'tut-trouble at factory' and reformed as Preston Ladies until 1965.

The significance of the acheivements of the Dick, Kerr Ladies cannot be understated. They were brave pioneers at a time when women had no real voice in politics or society. They rose above the pettyand what would always be temporary concessions required by the circumstances of the first world war and continued to excel and attract a very good following and fan base through the heady days of the 1920's. The names of Lily Parr, Florrie Redford and Alice Kell amongst all of the players have tended to be forgotten apart from dedicated archivists who maintain an excellent web based resource. The stars of the team were inducted into the Football League Hall of Fame but as a gesture it was too late and a bit patronising.

Lily Parr was challenged by a male goalkeeper to try to score a spot-kick past him. He had observed her obvious footballing skill and ability, in particular her reputed very hard shot, but was under the impression that it only looked to be a hard kick in the company of other women team mates. Taking up the challenge Lily was seen to smile when the unfortunate chauvinistic keeper was taken off to hospital with a broken arm from the impact of her penalty kick.

(Another repeat....but no excuses because it is a good one)

Mums and the aisles of Iceland expedition

Men of Great Britain. It is Official.

Well, if it is depicted as the norm on TV then it must be official.

We, as a gender, have been sidelined for Christmas.

The supermarket giants and multiple wannabees are in an advertising war and in order to acheive that much coveted Number One trading position in foodstuffs and seasonal goods over the Festive period they have all targeted Mum as the planners, plotters and grafters.

I am not denying that this is the case because it invariably is. Perhaps the collective viewpoint, top of the wish list of the male population has come true, specifically, "just get on with and tell me when it's all over".The point is that we do not appreciate this being made common knowledge through the media  for all to know.

We do have certain undisputed roles, these usually being when the turkey needs carving, batteries need sourcing for toys and games,lifts are required to the Boxing Day Sales or there are items to be returned.

What I find astounding by the food marketing war is the complete alienation of men. At least in the glossy adverts for perfume, clothing and even those very helpful products from JML there is a token male lurking about in the background, perhaps sniffing a swan-like neck, admiring a well dressed zero sized model or demonstrating the general usefulness of a non-stick pan.

Not so in the food fight. In the respective campaigns by Asda and Tesco the menfolk of the house are mere shadows, totally inept at any domestic chores and completely absent when it comes to helping out with the shopping, preparations and even the traditional once a year offer to do the washing up.

Instead they are found asleep in front of the TV, obviously drunk, snoring  and with no intention to partake in any family activities such as Cluedo, games on the PS3 or baiting the in-laws. One enthusiastic token man of the household is seen to be eager to get to the shops but it turns out this is only because there is a sale on.

So, in the eyes of the marketing moguls we are not only idle but also mean and thrifty. Sainsbury's seem to strike a reasonable balance in that the family fits a recognisable model of convention and behaviour and at least the man appears to be showing a willingness in participating in Christmas.This is however a minority view.

I find the approach and spin by the advertisers to be cynical and manipulative in the extreme. They are really tugging at the heartstrings of mothers through their apron strings to imply that anything less than a totally materialistic and excessive celebration is a failure in the eyes of their family and loved ones.

There is the use of suggestion and blackmail to coax mums into the consumer trap in that they could, if they comply, find themselves the proud recipient of a washer-dryer, solid oak dining set, i-pod docking sofa, flat screen television or whatever Brad Pitt is involved in selling. I think it may be something to do with cosmetics.

I am fully expecting that the post-Christmas period has a high representation in the very frequent commercial breaks by an equal compliment of advertisements for strong pain killers and Divorce Lawyers.

Disgruntled from Blubberhouses

To; The Letters Page
      Yorkshire Post Newspaper
      Leeds

From: Arnie Heginbotham
          Blubberhouses
          West Yorkshire

Sir,

If you and your readership think that the Tour de France coming to Yorkshire, God's own Country, in 2014 is the greatest thing to happen since the discovery of coal under them there hills then I beg to differ.

Men on push bikes, in my experience, are an indication of a deep malaise in a nation either riding to and from poorly paid manual labour or looking for somewhere to lock up their cycles before jumping off a parapet to top thereselves out of not being able to withstand poverty and hardship any more.
For one, I would not like to see my home county associated with such negativity.

I will be the first to offer my congratulations to the likes of Bradley Wiggins (sounds like a Yorkshire name) for his sterling efforts and export drive through biking but frankly, it is not a proper job is it? It is more of a serious pastime or hobby. I hope that he is, in the out of season times, able to find gainful employment to tide him and his family over.

My objections to the hosting, by Yorkshire, of the Tour de France are manifold.

In the first instance I fear it is a subversive way for this Tory Administration to replace the pound with the Euro. I have already seen, at first hand, this dual pricing policy in my local Aldi supermarket and find it confusing and insulting. I do not think that the entourage for such a large scale event would even bother to go to the bureau de change to obtain British currency and a flood of funny money into the Yorkshire economy could be destabilising. I particularly fear for the likes of Betty's Tea Rooms, Harry Ramsdens and our other great export, Aunt Bessies batter puddings.

The tarnishing of cycle sport through drugs is another concern of mine and I hope that measures will be taken to remove all Lucozade products from sale for the duration of the race on our doorstep so as not to corrupt our youth.

The impact of the Tour de France on traffic will, in my opinion be nothing more than disastrous. The gridlock will make that experienced in the opening weekend of Meadowhall Shopping Centre and Ikea (Leeds) seem like a minor inconvenience. Me and Mrs Heginbotham regularly drive out to the rolling countryside with a flask of Yorkshire Tea and your respected Yorkshire Post and park up randomly on a verge to sit in perfect silence for a good few hours when we can. I fully anticipate to lose this aspect of my fundamental human rights as a starter for the duration.

I am also concerned about immigration controls in that I understand that the majority of the cyclists are from those countries in Europe in a state of austerity and a few from the former Eastern Bloc countries. What provision will be made to prevent those intent on seeking political asylum from doing so?.It has happened before in sports events. The last thing we need as a nation is foreigners coming over here and milking our benefits system. It is not as though a cyclist is a reserved occupation anyway.

On a positive note, perhaps the only one I can see in the whole debacle, is the revealing to the world of the beautiful Yorkshire scenery through the media. I have not yet seen the finer details of a route for the pedal pushers but I would hope it would take in the nicer residential areas of Leeds, avoid Bradford altogether, perhaps go up on the high moors and then out to the east coast. Scarborough is very photogenic although the organisers may wish to clear the South Bay beach of undesirables who make up a good proportion of bathers in the peak July weeks. I mainly refer to my compatriots form the industrial areas of South Yorkshire who flock to the resort in the factory shut down period and go a bit mental showing too much pale flesh and tattoo ink for my tastes.

Personally, as for the Silver Jubilee in 1977 , successive Royal Weddings and recently the Queens Diamond celebrations and the Olympics I shall feel reluctantly obliged to vacate the country. I will reteat to my second home in the Dordogne where all of my neighbours are English and we will have none of this French nonsense to deal with,

Respectfully yours,

Munchengladback

I have been role playing in recent days.

This has entailed  putting myself in a number of different scenarios. An airport arrivals and customs area, a taxi rank, provincial railway station, on an express train, ticket barrier, curried sausage street stall, hotel foyer, subway system, concert venue and a merchandising counter.

Quite, at first glance, a strange selection but, in logical order, representing a forthcoming trip for me and The Boy to Munich to see the last date in the Final Sting Tour of The Scorpions. The who?, no, The Scorpions.

You know, think the downing of the Berlin Wall, soft focus shots, a whistled intro, melodic guitar and the strap line of "the winds of change" although confusing with a mention of Gorky Park in the lyric as well. No?, try small frazzled haired lead singer, jaunty cap, obviously European in his pronunciation of English. Still no?, I despair- where have you been! - just look them up for goodness sake. Scorpions, The; Rock band.

Founded in 1965 and with one constant band member, Rudolf Schenker , they have been pretty much prominent in rock history over the proceeding 47 years and still going strong with a homecoming gig from a very extensive World Tour. The tickets were booked way back in the early part of the year and originally for a November date but ,due to the demand of their public, a few extra venues on different continents were added and we are now doing the two day return trip just a week before Christmas. I hear the Olympiahalle is nicely trimmed up.

Me and the Boy had planned to drive the 1800 miles there and back thinking that the combination of milder weather, although still winter, and Teutonic efficiency in all things motoring would make it a pleasant and educational trip taking in the autobahns, ring roads and by-passes of some great Cities and through picturesque countryside perhaps partaking in local cuisine, or failing that, just counting on Ronald McDonald indeed having a global empire of restaurants.

However, the calculations for fuel, North Sea Ferry, food , the lack of a Sat-Nav disc for central and southern Europe and the fact that I would be the sole driver for the epic road-trip soon made the Ryanair alternative look quite attractive.

Budget flights do imply a degree of compromise and in our case this relates to having to almost parachute out over Bavaria into a local airport, some 60 miles south west of Munich.

The ongoing travel to get to our concert will involve some use of my schoolboy German. Given that my last exam at GCSE level was, I think, in the summer of 1978 I am concerned that, with the natural and fluid evolution of language I may be speaking the equivalent of a Middle Ages dialect to modern 21st century Germans.

I did opt for two languages at the age of 15 with biology being sacrificed for the sake of a workable timetable and study programme. Some aspects of human physiology are still a bit of a mystery to me, for example, I would have to make a stab in the dark on the matter of procreation.

One reason for my choice of German language was the enigma who was the Head of Department, Mr Barker or Herr Barker.

The scheduled lessons were conducted entirely in German and it was not until I collected my 'B' Grade some two years later that I heard him congratulate me in my own mother tongue. He was a short figure but he held himself very upright, shoulders back and on more than a couple of occasions I am sure that, when making an about turn on his characteristic struts up and down at the front of the classroom, he clicked his heels. Of course, he may have been simply perpetuating the myth, held by us as impressionable, stupid pubescent teenagers ,that he was either a fugitive from the war or a refugee forced to flee under the same circumstances.

If a passage in the text book dealt with a common everyday situation, such as Herr Topolski going to a bakery to buy bread then Herr Barker would become all nostalgic and avail a rather disinterested class with stories of his own experiences in Germany. The images he portrayed were ,and this is strange even thinking about them now, in black and white and it was always snowing. He must have lived there for a good proportion of his life.

We were otherwise , as a body of students, distracted by subversive browsings of New Musical Express under the desks, swapping cassettes of Dire Straits, squeezing zits or trying to catch sight through the windows of Miss Raven, the new Science Teacher who was widely held as hottest teacher on the lower school site. Worrying, because I seem to recall she was the only female member of staff in an all Boys Grammar School. Some issues being bottled up there then.

Having now conducted an audit of my language range for the forthcoming trip I have no confidence whatsoever on getting by in German.

My particular trait, annoying in the extreme to my family, for pointing at things and talking loudly does appear to be my best option to knit together the impeccably planned and timed itinerary put together by my wife.

I do know the correct names for, here we go, flughafen, taxi, bahnhof, fahrkarten, and for politeness, bitte and danke and at least two of Santa's reindeer Donner and Blitzen which I may be able to work into a seasonal conversation somewhere. It is Christmas.

I did get a credit in my Oral German (Oxford and Cambridge Board 1978) when I impressed the external examiner with my correct phonetic pronunciation of 'Fau-vay' for VW in a loosely arranged recounting of a family holiday in our parents Squareback Variant Estate.

This now faint recollection of language prowess is a definite possibility for opening up a dialogue in Germany as in "Look, a Volkswagen", or "Goodness, there are a lot of Volkswagens", or " In my country I own a Volkswagen" or "Umm, nice Volkswagen- can you give me and The Boy a lift to Munich because we have missed our connection- do you now of The Scorpions? No? . I despair again!"