We have to talk about the children

A recent Report from The Children's Society in the UK expressed concerns that teenagers are becoming increasingly unhappy with their lives.

Amongst the reasons cited for the disgruntled mindset of the current youth of the country are school, appearance, choice and freedom.

I am the first to accept that we are living in very different times. There are economic undercurrents, Environmental issues, World Unrest, we are up to a NOW!85 album for goodness sake  but when I was a teenager I never had time to even contemplate if I was worried about anything because I, like my peers, was just too busy getting on with things.

From getting up early to going to bed, early, the day was simply packed with activities.

Of course, during school term time there was the effort to get ready which in a household of 5 children was only kept from being chaotic by good adult supervision and a rota for the bathroom and the breakfast table.

We were always well turned out in school uniform, washed and brushed and with clean shoes. This enabled us to follow our Father as he strode off down the street to take on his role of Manager at a bank in the town. We would straggle along before peeling off at the top of the road to the school although on more than one occasion my younger brother just doubled back when out of sight and went home.

We did range about quite freely in our teenage years whereas with the modern phenomena of paranoia around stranger danger and the perception of crime many of todays young adults are driven about everywhere by over indulgent parents.

We stayed for dinner at the canteen. This was not one of these multiple choice affairs which feature in State Schools today and rival a reasonable bistro but with a menu that you could set your calendar by. Monday was fish fingers and chips, Tuesday liver and onions, Wednesday some form of meat in a pie, Thursday cold salad and Friday some other form of meat in some form of gravy. There was dessert  including flapjack, treacle sponge pudding, spotted dick, chocolate sponge and Angel Delight on a strict rotation basis whether or not complimentary to or inducing an adverse reaction when combined with the main course. All washed down with tap water and ,oh yes, pink custard.

As for lessons, well we just stuck to the basics of the three 'R's as they say with a smattering of science, languages, arts, crafts, music and strenuous physical exercise. There was none of the variation found in the current curriculum such as multi faith studies, media studies, citizenship and vague arty-farty subjects for which everyone gets a certificate of merit.

There was a level of mutual respect between the teaching staff and us pupils although it was borne more out of fear and retribution rather than anything enlightened. I do not think that I ever knew the Christian names of any of my teachers in senior school unless bastardised into a nickname or if it was unusually hilarious and capable of being sung or put in an offensive rhyme.

We did have a clear objective in our schooling years whether to go on to a University, Polytechnic or College or go straight into employment. I can appreciate some of the anxiety of the current teenagers about what to do with their lives post-secondary education given the lack of meaningful full time jobs in the UK economy.

As for money in our pockets, well, I only had my pocket money which until I got a paper round was based on one new pence per year of age. This did not go very far other than my monthly comic/magazine, goodies and my flirting with being a smoker, briefly, one rebellious summer.

I was never a saver and shamefully this still applies into my 6th decade on the planet.

In the absence of personal wealth the only option was to make your own entertainment and this we did large.

What was better than having competitive foot running or bike races around the housing estate with your mates or going into battle armed with home made bows and arrows against the kids from the nearby council houses?

The local streams and ponds were teeming with sticklebacks, frogspawn and newts providing endless hours of fun from daybreak to dusk. Just take a net on a stick and a jam jar.

There were trees to climb, gardens and allotments to trespass through, small shops ripe for a five finger discount if in enough of a group to constitute a distraction for the proprietor, things to set alight and wait for the fire brigade, doors to knock on before running off, people to follow at random through the town just to see what they were up to, Bob a Job week once a year with a licence to wash cars and use all of my Father's chrome polish on gleaming bumpers and hub caps, animals to stalk and worry, girls to chase, catch and kiss, small kids to impress with bravado and daring near the railway line, river and on the bridge over the by-pass.

It all now sounds borderline delinquent and illegal but I like to think that all of these things were enacted in the right spirit and with not a malicious thought in our heads. Some friends did get arrested or died though.

Any prowess at sport, in music or in performing arts was hard earned through many hours of practice and sacrifice of time and effort. That was probably why I never did much in any discipline in my teenage years. Todays youth are just waiting around optimistically to be discovered by talent spotters whether singing flatly and nasally under their headphones at the Mall ,on a You Tube video or through posted onFacebook.

I can sense their frustration if by the age of 17 they have not signed to a record label or modelling agency or are not otherwise entrepreneurial millionaires.

Teenagers today are very fashion and image conscious. We were never too concerned about our appearance. Take a look in the family photo album from my mid teens and you will know this to be true. My idea of style was a pair of Lopez jeans, formal shoes, button up shirt and a cardigan. Pretty square you would be entitled to say but I can assure you that I did not stand out as being any different to my contemporaries. My hair style, or lack of it, was a bit of a basin cut, floppy fringe and with the later mature growth of sideburns which, if shaved off after the summer, just left a white stripe down the side of my head.

Perhaps we were innocent and naïve compared with the current crop of teenagers who have multi-media and Wikipedia at their fingertips. Perhaps we were happy to look up in a book or just wait if a question was needed to be answered rather than demanding immediacy. Perhaps we lived in a time of guaranteed employment and a job for life. Perhaps the world did not seem such a scary place because we were not force fed scaremongering news on a 24 hour basis. We did, it should not be forgotten, live under the threat of nuclear world war, civil and social unrest and turmoil but the key factor to maintaining our sanity and off setting those very modern ailments called childhood stress and unhappiness was that we knew how to play and have fun.

Full English Lardy Dah

£3.75 for an all day breakfast! I am not sure it that is possible. The food was great but I was consumed by fear and concern that the seaside cafe was operating not out of commercial principles but charity. I can imagine the Bank Relationship Manager on the nearby cliff top ready to jump out of exasperation for the irrational business plan. Further along the precipice is Ronald McDonald who at last has found his match for the breakfast meal even though he was fully confident  that day would never come.
I felt it necessary to examine the economic facts of my breakfast meal and carry out a risk assessment on the financial status of the owner/proprietor and the ongoing viability of their livelihood. I did so not want the venture to fail because of me and my compatriot customers. Looking around the dining area I could see that the future prospects for the town were also dependant on the income from the budget breakfast with a group of out of town contractors from the new supermarket site, young mothers with a tangle of laden buggies, two obvious social workers discussing a case , the council street sweeper on a chat-up mission with a lady called Pearl (of a certain age) and with the remainder possibly family members or close relations of the owner and the one member on the staff, my hero the short order cook.
The oval serving plate with a suspiciously familiar Trust House Forte logo on it (therefore nil cost to my exercise), contained, from left to right, 2 mushrooms head side down, a tinned peeled tomato, two nicely thick bacon rashers, a perfectly fried egg, slightly dried sausage (suspected to be quorn) and around 50-60 baked beans of uncertain variety but in decent tomato sauce. In orbit of the main platter, a smaller side plate (no corporate logo) with 4 slices of toast and a separate saucer with a mug of coffee. I would estimate the cost of materials to be around £1.50 but open to challenge if anyone has the actual time to pricecheck. I did not get a tour of the kitchen so I have added a further 20 pence to cover the cost of lard for cooking. Therefore £1.70. Production costs have included a few micro-therms of gas sourced from Russia (conversion rate as per today for roubles to pounds sterling), electric light for the duration of kitchen operations, wages for the cook on a pro-rata basis and a small allowance for depreciation and wear and tear. Say, a figure for these inputs of £1.65 with sub total so far of £3.35. Main overheads have been considered as follows. Business Rates but subject to small business relief, equivalent market rent for the lock up cafe for the duration of my patronage and outgoings for PAYE and national insurance, say 40 pence. Aggregated total to provide the £3.75 all day breakfast- £3.75.
Just as I suspected from the start. The cafe is not a viable business at face value but priceless for service to the community with a menu of compassion, kindness, refuge and friendship. I may find it difficult to find a table next time I am in town.

Pros and Cons

There is always a very lively debate over which of the two is the better. Opinions can be split down the middle quite easily. Some who have experienced both will certainly hesitate over a definite choice because each has its merits and faults. I express sadness for those who had tried only one and have a blinkered outlook with no intention whatsoever to be swayed into experimenting with the other. I could be talking about a political party, equally about a breakfast cereal, brand of car or even sexual preference. I am in fact perpetuating the debate over Robin Hoods Bay versus Staithes for the best and most attractive place to stay in a rented cottage on the North Yorkshire coast. Fans of Runswick Bay are excluded. It's rubbish.

Robin Hoods Bay cannot fail to woo and impress, if only on its name which evokes magic and mystery although the origins of the name beyond having no apparent link at all with the famous outlaw are vague.It sits out of clear view just about restrained on the crumbling cliffs to the north of Scarborough and just below the whaling port of Whitby. It is a secretive place shrouded in folklaw, legend and the dubious title as one of the busiest smuggling ports in the UK in the 18th Century. Perhaps the duty evading residents were just fulfilling the expectations of the wider public for those from a village named after an historic champion of the underclass whereas the occupants of 'Payourway Bay' and 'Honesty Cove' went about a much less illegal lefestyle. The cobble road from the car park into RHB is calf and ligament straining in the extreme and even more so if struggling with a suitcase and provisions for a holiday week. Those who take a vehicle down the very steep and narrow incline are faced with very little room to exercise a three point or reversing turn at the slipway or where the road loops up to one of the public houses. On one day trip we saw the aftermath of the rampage of a runaway digger that had only been restrained by burying itself into a shop front on the first tight bend. The peak of summer is a good time to avoid the village as it overflows with visitors and cottage renters to the point of being claustrophobic. In the autumn or early spring the village is ghostly and empty but the echo of footsteps and the whistle of the wind through the streets gives the impression of being sole survivors of a global catastrophe. It takes a few years of out of season stays to become familiar with the footways and back alleys but they form an intriguing exploration of the ginnels, courts and dead-ends always with the accompanying smell of wood smoke from a hundred or more chimney pots. We have had the pleasure of renting four or five properties ranging from a double fronted Georgian townhouse with ghost to a cottage with a burrow like almost subterranean kitchen, and a draughty and damp clifftop cottage with exceptional views. At high tide the slipway throws the North Sea into the heart of the village. At low tide the beach and rock pools provide an extensive playground.

Staithes is north of  Whitby and tends to be disregarded over the more picturesque and accessible RHB. There are similarities of a steep road down and a busy car park but Staithes is actually a functioning place and not so much a time capsule. It is possible to buy a postage stamp, a latte and groceries without a tourist premium or being swamped with seaside souvenirs and frivolities. The harbourside is broad and open and in the early morning sun, even a wintry one, it can be very pleasant sitting out or leaning on the railings watching the lifeboat drill or the reeling and mewling gulls around the cliff head. The harbour wall can be followed to the entrance over large concrete stepping stones or the huge sea defence boulders and rocks clambered over if living dangerously floats your boat. A small stream feeds into the sea under a footbridge giving endless hours of pooh-stick potential. With the tide out the stream can be followed a few hundred metres inland around the brightly coloured hulls of small cobbles and smacks. The village was the home to Captain James Cook in his formative maritime years from 1744 and it is easy to imagine that period with very little having changed in terms of buildings and atmosphere. One of the cottages we rented was down Fishermans Terrace, just off the main street and close to the pub.Other holiday breaks were higher up the escarpment  with rooftop views over red pantiles streaked with guano and blackened by a few chimney fires from those getting a bit carried away with their first introduction to solid fuel without an instruction manual or in the strangely welcome absence of a signal to allow consultation of the smart phone and tablet. After the day trippers have wheezed up the steep hill to their parked cars it is quiet and very peaceful in the village. Activities in front of a roaring log fire include putting together a well worn jigsaw puzzle,  building a large tower out of bits of kindling wood or steadily exhausting the cottage collection of VHS cassettes and trashy paperback novels of romance on horseback. Staithes is a place for genuine tradition and authentic living and you are more likely to strike up a conversation with an actual resident than an accountant from Slough slumming it up north.

I am completely divided in my allegiance to the two wonderful places. They have both, in their own way, excelled in meeting expectations and requirements for a family holiday at different times and in different circumstances. When something special has been called for to revive flagging spirits and energy levels we have not been left disappointed- not like those who chose Runswick Bay 'cos it really is a bit rubbish.

Low Cost Meals for the World

It was quite an amusing story some years later but at the time it must have been traumatic and concerning.

It involved a van load of friends going down country for one of the big open air music festivals.

A rather overloaded van in the days before rear passenger seat belts. Everyone was loosely arranged in the back amongst the camping gear and personal baggage. In the atmosphere of euphoria and excitement over the trip some semblance of common sense was easily overlooked.

Nominated drivers took a turn in handling what was a very heavy and cumbersome vehicle, some with more experience than others. The inevitable happened and on a sharp bend on a minor road not too far from the festival site the van careered into a ditch in a moment of lack of attention by the duty driver.

All aboard suffered bruises and abrasions and were understandably shaken and in shock. The driver was the only mobile member of the group and in staggering up the slope to summon help from passers-by he had the misfortune of swallowing a bee.

Ironically the victim of the insect was the only person to require a stay in hospital following some degree of swelling from an allergic reaction.

That brings me nicely to avail you with the rather disturbing fact that we each consume, albeit unknown and accidentally, about 500 grams of insects per year.

Many will be thinking what?, When?, Where?, How? in having no recollection of ever having eaten an insect.

That may not be strictly true as I doubt that for one thing anyone riding a bike has not inhaled and consumed a flying bug.

There is of course that terrifying prospect of swallowing a spider whilst asleep or an army of ants entering your brain through an easily accessible orifice if you happen to doze off in the great outdoors.

I have had the uncomfortable experience of walking through a dense cloud of swarming midges and gnats and finding a good proportion of them on my teeth but representing themselves only a small percentage of those I have actually eaten unwillingly.

The annual consumption figure does, I admit, seem a bit high and therefore open to argument as to its accuracy.

The figure has been arrived at by Food Standards people who must be in the know.

Harvesting of crops from grains to fruits can be a reasonably technical process with quite sophisticated machines designed to maximise yield and minimise collateral material in the system. However, an ear of corn and the stone of a peach, for example, can also provide shelter and sustenance for all manner of insects and these are caught up in the gathering-in stage out in the field or orchard.

Filtering can remove a proportion of bugs and creepie-crawlies but the Food Standards people make allowances for persistent occupation by such creatures. A permissible level for parts of insects per volume of foodstuffs has been set and it is consumption of this disguised residue in our corn flakes, fruit juices and tomato ketchup that accounts for the level of intake.

I can appreciate that a few of you may have that deep down wretching sensation at this very moment. Get used to it because insects as a staple food for a good proportion of the World Population is a very real prospect and within the very foreseeable future.

There is already speculation that the combination of global warming and population explosion will, in some nations, mean that resources to sustain meat production for human dietary requirements are not sustainable.

Genetically Modified foods whilst ethically shunned will have to be ramped up in use if we are to provide for our kind.

We will also have to seriously consider alternative foodstuffs , hopefully not to the extreme of Soylent Green, but certainly involving the farming, harvesting and processing of insects.

Certain species have high natural protein and are rich in the constituents which could contribute to a healthy diet. We are not unfamiliar with feasts of insects through high profile TV reality shows such as "I'm a Celebrity" and indeed in a Poll carried out by a research company it appears that 30% of those interviewed said that they would be prepared to give it a go. In terms of public opinion that could be seen as a green light to go ahead with a menu for change. Come to think of it they used to serve, at school dinners, something we referred to as Fly Pie.

Living Your Life in Canary Yellow

The Post It Note.

A small yellow rectangle of paper can surely not have played such a prominent role in modern life.

It was actually, or at least the low tactile adhesive, designed by accident before, eventually, much thought on a practical use led to its marketing as a product to ease the burden of commerce. Wholly unintentionally it has become the curse of the office environment. This is even where there may be a sweeping Mission Statement making various jargonistic allusions to a specific business running as a paperless operation.

I have always said that the paperless office and the promise of increased leisure time represent the biggest falsehoods in the late 20th and early 21st century workplace.

The Post It Note is more likely to be used as a tool for bullying by the stronger elements in the workforce against the weak. In fact, a critical, biting or just plain cruel comment circulated on the small slip with or without recourse to the self adhesive strip can be soul destroying for the hapless victim or target of the campaign.

Whatever it's intended use it is, at the same time, loved, feared, loathed and tolerated.

The office is of course the natural environment for the Post It Note although I have come across other and more unusual applications in the course of my own working life.

Take the large terraced house in the University District which was occupied by a group of First Year Students from overseas.

Many of the intake had arrived in the late summer, some weeks before the beginning of the academic year for the purpose of having a practical grounding in the English language and a working knowledge of the main customs and conventions.

The majority will have had no command of the language beyond their equivalent of secondary education and will have been heavily influenced by the lyrics of pop songs and videos posted on various social media sites. This gives them a slang based perception of English, perhaps not altogether a barrier to communicating with their peer group amongst UK and other overseas students but certainly in more formal surroundings where a sentence or trusted phrase is necessary and more appropriate.

The walls throughout the student house were littered with a rainbow arrangement of Post It Notes which I soon realised accorded with the different nationalities who resided there. The Chinese contingent, and I kid you not, were using the original and best known colour of the product, in canary. The Africans had adopted the green, a flamboyant nucleus of students from southern europe were pink and those from the nations of the former Soviet Union persisted with the red.

What had drawn me to the conclusion of the colour coded segregation was that each and every Post It Note was affixed to something and bore the name of that object in the respective native language and then the English.

This made for quite a welcome splash of colour to the otherwise and typical use of neutral and drab shades to the decor.

It seemed to be a good and practical system based on the rapid rise to fluency of the household by the first few weeks of the academic term.

The other application was, I found, sad and not a little bit disturbing.

It was a family house. Living there was a nuclear family unit of mum, dad and 2.6 kids which in reality can be rounded up to a full 3 offspring.

I am not sure of the back story of the family but my arrival was obviously at a time of a significant breakdown in relations between the parents and their children.

This was clearly illustrated by the proliferation of Post It Notes throughout all of the habitable rooms. They were written on in a grown up script and the bold text was intended to act as guidance, instruction and a warning to what must have been a mutinous, lethargic, sullen and downright useless group of children within those four walls.

The kitchen was most plastered in yellow slips bearing such orders as "Shut fridge door after use", "Wash up any plates and cutlery immediately", "Do not lick spoon after dipping in food", "Load and unload the washer if it is empty or full","Sweep the floor of crumbs", " Only boil enough water for use" and " Do not take food without asking", "Last person in to lock the door".

Hallway, main reception rooms, cloakroom, landing, bedrooms and bathroom were similarly festooned in almost military commands. One from each covered such disciplines as "Leave shoes in a neat pile", "No eating in the Lounge", "Set the dining table for meals as per rota", "Flush loo after use and WASH HANDS!", "No pushing on the stairs", "Make own beds in the morning", "Remove dirty plates to kitchen", "Do not leave towels on the floor". In fact the tone of intsructions was very much like those found commonly in a Guest House, Bed and Breakfast Establishment or a Remand Home.

The whole situation was quite oppressive and depressing.

This was compounded by actually meeting the three young members of the family, the beleagured element who, to me, seemed just like normal kids just demoralised and confused.

Their parents on the other hand had lost it and were resorting to desperate measures to, in their minds, regain a modicum of order and control in the house.

I was a bit mischeivous but felt it my moral responsibility to try to resolve a wholly unsatisfactory and unhealthy domestic situation.

So, out of sight, I scribbled on a blank Post It Note the contact details for Childline which I had Googled on my phone. I said a silent prayer that upon seeing such a cry for help, ostensibly from their youngsters the parents would come to their senses and just talk in a rational manner with perfectly rational children and return to what must have been, at one time, a happy home.

London Olympic Retrospective

Reproduced from 12 months ago on the eve of a trip to see the London Olympics

The Olympic Games take some organising.

Almost as much, in fact, to the logistical operation to get three fifths of our family to see the road cycling events in lush Surrey which start tomorrow with the Mens Event and through into sunday afternoon when we have tickets for the Women's two laps of the picturesque Box Hill.

My wife spent the equivalent of a day, some months ago now, logged on to the on-line ticketing system for London 2012. A bit of a marathon in itself with a few false starts through the obstacle course and on more than one occasion the final hurdle was reached only for the system to refer her back to the start before any prize could be had.

She was succesful in getting the sunday race tickets and these formed the main part of my July birthday presents .

It is now friday lunchtime and we have all been up since 5am getting everything ready for the 4 hour, optimistic, drive down to the accommodation. It will be late and dark when we turn off the M25 into deepest, darkest, decadent Surrey and so I have familiarised myself with the cross-country route using mapping and satellite systems-yes, I am that only person in the UK without a Sat-Nav sucker-stuck onto the windscreen.

I will undoubtedly misidentify the junction to the minor road which forms a short cut to the hotel as an aerial view on a lap-top often bears no resemblance whatsoever to the three dimensional, real time and horizontally propelled world of the car actually on the road.

I have a poor record of this type of preparation and application in a journey. A few years ago this resulted in my driving almost into the abandoned but rather militarised Turkish Zone of Cyprus whilst trying to find a large resort town on Cyprus for my brother in laws wedding and more recently getting hopelessly lost near Stansted Airport in a search for our booked rooms which were occupied for only 5 hours before my daughter caught a flight to New York. She did notice me squinting a bit at motorway signs which I put down to my age and crusty contact lenses. Still, as a bonus we did get to see the twinkling lights of Canary Wharf and a nice KFC on some High Street, probably Ealing. I can imagine you making a mental note to look up the proximity of the airport to London Docklands and having a giggle at the expense of my poor sense of direction.

We may not actually need to take much with us but in order to be fully prepared for the uncertainties of the British weather in July we have to make preparations for a mini-expedition. I managed to save a compact emergency poncho from being sold at last weekends car boot sale and this may become a key part of our equipment. As my youngest daughter says, there is no such thing as bad weather just a poor choice of clothes. I tend to agree with this.

Our trip is, with travelling, about 48 hours. The travelling part will take up, say, 16 hours by car, train and on foot. Sleeping and eating, hopefully another 24 hours, miscellaneous activities such as queuing at an Official Olympic Souvenir Kiosk and other forms of shopping, around 4 hours. I have allowed 3 hours for human error-mine which leaves the anticipated time to enjoy the cycling events of about 1 hour. This sounds about right as we hope to see the Mens Race flash past on the Dorking Road and the two circumnavigations of Box Hill by the womens event.

I am really excited and looking forward to our experience of the Games.

HGV. Heavy Goods Velo

I was reading a very interesting feature in one of the daily papers about the increasing use of bicycles in the UK as a means to transport heavy goods. These are the Cargo Bikes.

The principle is already well established in Europe with, a high proportion of Dutch families in particular having a custom made pedal powered vehicle instead of a second car. These are used for the big weekly shopping trip, taking the camping gear for a holiday, general removals, the school run and all errands in between.

The machines are large and durable usually comprising a voluminous box formed carrier up front and propelled by a conventional drive train. Their presence on the road is very noticeable because of their size and the handling is compromised compared to a tandem or trike but there are the manifold benefits of being eco-friendly, non polluting and helping to keep an equivalent loaded mainstream car or van inactive. A few commercial courier companies in London are pioneering the use of bikes in order to expand their services over and above letters and small packages. It is unclear if such an application would prevent cycle paths and routes from being adopted as technically the bikes could be classified as business rather than commuting, leisure and recreational.

I would be the first to seriously consider acquiring and using one of these bikes on a regular basis.

This is borne out of a few dodgy moments of overloading my old road bike in the past.

The worst example was when I tied a fishing rod to my crossbar. It was ready assembled for a swift dismount and immediate angling and so extended some three feet in front and behind the saddle and handlebars. I felt pretty clever about the whole arrangement. I left home and cycled down a couple of straight roads towards the river. My theory was found to be seriously flawed when it came to the first bend in the road. The rod acted as a rigid reinforcement of the frame and the bike was not capable of being steered. A thick hedge acted as an emergency brake and allowed me to rearrange. I continued with the fishing rod upright like an aerial but forgot about the low boughs of the trees on the river bank. It was not altogether a successful trip.I can certainly see the advantages of a purpose built bike.

Not far behind in terms of incompetence was my showing off in France of my schoolboy knowledge of the language. On a long bike ride from Dieppe to Rambouillet near Paris I was hungry. A roadside fruit vendor was advertising peaches which would certainly help restore energy levels and assuage thirst. In all of my secondary education french language text books the hapless character would always ask for a kilogram of the fruit or veg in a shop scenario. I did so from astride my loaded up touring bike but the seller seemed aghast at the quantity ordered. I gave hand signals to supplement my actual poor grasp of his native tongue at which he handed me a large wooden crate full to the brim with bright orange peaches.

By now I just wanted to be out of there. With what I tried to convey as nonchalance and an everyday action I wedged the box between the brake levers and rode on. Steering and indeed braking were difficult and for the following days I did suffer the consequences of overdosing on that type of fruit.

Water Performance

I was out on the lake yesterday in a canoe.

I was trying to recall my last such escapade .

 This was mainly to justify my self appointed role as watersports expert amongst our holiday group of which, at age 50, I was the youngest. I do have some experience in that I helped to build and then use a number of fibre glass canoes when I was a Scout. Being the smallest member of the Troop I was volunteered to be shoved headlong into the newly joined top and bottom moulded sections to blather the seam with sticky and pungent adhesive. It was a very, by current Health and Safety standards, injurious to health operation with just a thin gauze face mask to protect my lungs.

 I deny to this day that it was my job to sand down the underside of the cockpits of the four canoes .In the performance of an escape from an intentionally capsized craft this lack of finishing detail resulted in many lacerated legs.

 I attended an Outward Bound Adventure Course shortly after which included more watersports in which I put to use my confidence and new found aptitude for all things involving paddling with an oar.

It must have been in my genes because even before that I was wholly engrossed , as was the entire family as my Father assembled from a kit a single  kayak.

 This was a long and drawn out project and as  my Mother said it was nice for a man to have a project but not ideally one carried out at the far end of the best living room.

The resultant boat was sleek and fast out on the Scottish Loch in the first summer after its completion but took some handling.

 First dibs to use it were initially fierce amongst us children and we had to learn to wait our turn patiently and graciously which I did, I admit, find difficult.

In order to address the demand the family acquired a huge orange coloured Canadian open cockpit canoe. This could take the other members of the family when the single seater was in use.

Size brought with it the inevitable weight. In addition to the sheer bulkiness was the wooden slatted decking with the seating which made it impossible for the boat to be moved, let alone lifted up and secured on the car roof rack and manhandled off and into the water without an army of helpers. The Canadian was only actually used a few times before coming a permanent fixture in the back garden as an improvised flowerbed.

The hand made wooden wonder was stowed up in the timbers of the garage and has remained there for the last 30 plus years.

So that constituted my CV as far as canoes were concerned. Not that impressive in terms of water-hours or distance travelled but enough for me to assume the role of Master and Commander for one hour on Derwentwater. Nice.

Freddie Mercury was right on the frightening thing.

I was in a bit of a debate with my holiday host about determining how far away was the storm that was resonating ominously and noisily somewhere behind the mountain range to the south.

 I had been brought up in the family doctrine that a counted second equated to a distance of one mile.

 This method was well established and persisted in such things as one mississippi, two mississippi when timing a great many things from playing hide and seek to making a Nesquik milkshake, holding a temporary tattoo on your arm or waiting for the old valve operated Tv to cool down. It was our way of making sense in the world.

I had counted to thirty between the faint but distinctive flash of daytime lightning and the next boom of thunder.

It seemed somehow closer but being in a crucible of a lakeland surrounded by the mountains it was very difficult to guage time and distance.

My host was of the school of thinking that three seconds represented a mile.

Being typical men we agreed to differ although as I scrambled for cover from the terrifying crescendo of electric charge  , the artillery barrage and torrential rain I began to question the very basis of my upbringing in the business of analysing storm weather systems.

Some like it hot.

It may be hot and subject to warnings of a risk to the elderly and very young. Wildfires constitute a real danger to vegetation, wildlife and property. Portable fans have sold out completely at B&Q. Unfortunately a few dogs may perish in overheated vehicles and a few boys seeking to cool off in the local canal.

 As a heatwave it does not really figure in the record books and especially when compared to that momentous summer of 1976.

The long dry spell in that year was sustained enough to change people's lives, homes, finances and even the demographic of the nation over the ensuing years. It was a full nine weeks of drought conditions and with those in the South of England experiencing a run of 15 days of daytime temperatures at 90 fahrenheit.

In my home city which wobbles about on a clay subsoil the evaporation rate by natural means and the exploration by tree roots under buildings in the leafy middle class Avenues caused startling incidences of cracking. The activities of Structural Engineers and Underpinning were a common sight for many of the following years

 Hosepipe bans were introduced countrywide and with patrolling officials seeking to guarantee compliance. I remember that summer being one that our paddling pool dried up and perished from non-use.

It was competition time for the dustiest, grubbiest car and many an opportunity arose for rude words and insults to be written with a licked finger on a rear window.

Standpipes appeared in some streets or with supplies brought in my road tanker. Flushing the loo was encouraged using washing up water and many a grimy ring emerged in British bathtubs as family members shared its contents.

The air was filled in almost biblical manner by a plaque of horrible almost transparent green aphids. In response Mother Nature launched an epidemic of the main aphid predators and we had an ever more unpleasant rainstorm of ladybirds.  On a trip to the nearest beach the wave upon wave of red and black insect made driving hazardous from impacted bodies on the windscreen and lights. The black tarmac surface dressings on roads and footpaths melted in sticky, gritty residues that clung on to everything coming into contact.

Night times did not give much relief from the latent heat and as a particularly sweaty 13 year old adolescent I spent much of that summer of freakish weather outside of the continental quilt.

Perhaps the strangest phenomena of that heatwave was the 1977 blip in male births attributed to the fact that the female chromosone is more sensitive to higher temperatures.

So the current spell of weather is not particularly remarkable so for once just enjoy it for what it is.

Holiday Shorts

I have found it difficult to get into holiday mode but this is not too surprising after a welcoming hectic few weeks at work and a particularly pressing deadline to complete a big project right up to Friday evening. It has been a momentous last couple of days what with my milestone, yes, not millstone, 50th on wednesday and a family gathering at eldest daughters university graduation on friday. I have therefore been a bit pre-occupied and in such circumstances it has been up to certain triggers to evoke that feeling of breaking away from the normal and everyday routines. The first was spending some of my birthday cash on a bright blue pair of old mans shorts, a loud shirt and some casual chino's from a Gap Outlet. The old man's shorts were from the same shop and not as it sounds grammatically from a random senior citizen looking to supplement a diminishing pension fund. The next was a new pair of sandals as my vintage pair from a Greek holiday a decade ago look a bit sorry. The mythical wings flew off on a day trip to see the island of Ithaca and the leather has a curious colour from a cocktail of sun cream, olive oil dressing and tomato ketchup. The replacement pair are those sporty looking ones, all mesh and velcro and in no way of biblical authenticity. A third catalyst is the choice of reading matter. This year I have picked up a weighty book which would have taken up the whole baggage allocation on a short haul flight but then again Neil Young has done a lot in his life to date. I may just walk about with it in public to impress. So, with all of my paraphanelia in place I have come to realise that, after all, being on holiday is actually a frame of mind and who you are with.

A little light holiday reading. Day One on the Beach

A trip to the coast holds a special place in the hearts of the English. I have been fortunate in living inland but yet only a comparatively short distance away from the sea in order to satisfy the urge to go and take in the sand and waves. I am not sure if the natural attraction for coastal things is to reinforce in our minds that we are an island race or to emphasise that we can feel a bit suppressed and claustrophobic in our densely populated towns and cities.

In fact proximity to the coast could apply to just about every inhabitant of these islands given the long but narrow physical characteristics of the British Isles. The Ordnance Survey, in perhaps an idle moment between surveying our ordnance, have calculated that the furthest distance that can be attained from the sea anywhere within the UK is only 70 miles. The lucky residents of Church Flatts Farm, Coton, Derbyshire when interviewed about this seemed entirely underwhelmed by the honour. Their nonchalance is very understandable in that there is unlikely to be any actual merit or commercial reward in such a designation for them.  In fact it could be quite a disincentive for any prospective purchaser given the affinity for all things coastal.

Very distant in-laws of my father's cousin from, what was the former, Czechoslovakia were well into their 60's before they  actually saw the sea for the very first time which is something very hard to comprehend when we are but a challenging bike ride away from the coast in our country.

I am very spoiled for choice in my home area when it comes to beautiful coastlines. Top ranking must go to Filey, North Yorkshire. A compact crescent shaped cliff edged bay, established Victorian Promenade, white colourwashed town houses and, to the dismay of my children when younger, no brash or noisy amusements. The thought of keeping 1p and 2p coins in your pockets and out of the needy slot machines and penny falls is infuriating for children who expect such extravagance as a natural consequence of a trip to the seaside. Unfortunately, this younger generation in associating Filey with an absence of fast food and fast living may be prejudiced in their future parenting choices for a day trip out.This matter should be brought to the immediate attention of the Town Elders and Tourist Board as a matter of concern to be addressed in the short to medium term. Disgruntled, frustrated and sad little faces are however a small price to pay for a good bracing walk along the lower Beach road, a saunter past the boat club, a sandwich based light picnic meal below the crumbling cliffs and a striking out with best foot forward through rock pools and interesting geological features to the natural promontory of Filey Brig. This strip of rock on low tide ,separates the genteel Bay from the rough and bullying North Sea. On a breezy off shore windy day there is a faint mist of spray as the aggressive ocean batters the outcrop. It is always advisable to consult the tide tables ,which are clearly displayed on the walking route, when attempting the Brig expedition as, from personal experience, failure to do so can introduce an element of panic when a hasty retreat is closely accompanied by the rapidly approaching high tide. Fortunately I have not had to call into play the services of RAF Rescue. I admit there have been some situations when inevitable Ministry of Defence budget cutbacks will have been sorely tested in airlifting a large family group off the receeding rock shelf, disgruntled and sad faced kids, pockets bulging and weighed down with small denomination coinage,amongst them. There can be lingering anti-parental feelings from unfulfilled ambitions for children to gamble even with the prospect of a free ride in a bright yellow helicopter.

On a poignant and personal note my late father's ashes were just this week spread along the waterline in Filey Bay, a place for which he had a special  affinity. I like to think and am appreciative of the fact that he will be contributing to the eco-system of the Bay in the most natural way possible.

Can you tell me the way to the nuclear wessels?

It is good to have a plan. This can range from a mental checklist of what needs to be done on a daily basis, perhaps a week's worth of places to go, people to see, menu's to prepare,others may have a month to month schedule for larger projects around the home or in a working environment, even a years worth of aims and ambitions and further beyond. I have personally had a ten year plan agreed with my wife for improvements around our house but I am not sure when it actually started or by definition when it is due to finish. In my mind it is decade of fluidity, not necessarily on a real time basis and not as contractually binding as it is made out to be. Most plans within these contexts can be scribbled on  scrap pieces of paper, the back of a used envelope, on a fancy wall chart using coloured stickers and chinagraph pens, in a diary or journal or are etched deep in consciousness. Be prepared however for some element of disappointment as even the best laid plans can be subject to review, postponement and abandonment.

The Voyenno Topograficheskogo Upravleniya are a prime example. With an estimated 51,000 armoured and light tanks at its disposal the former Soviet Union required and amassed an astonishing amount of mapping intelligence to facilitate the potential for a strategic move westwards through Europe and to their, at the time, number 2 nemesis the British Isles. In quite recent years the back catalogue of Soviet Military Maps has been slowly revealed and to date over 90 large scale and very detailed maps of British towns and cities have emerged in the public domain. These were produced during the main Cold War years from the 1950's and even after the break up of the USSR in the 1990's as part of a very extensive global project masterminded for the purposes of world domination but secretive and often intended to mislead the enemy. This is perfectly understandable on the basis that maps of the Russian mainland and home territories were not considered to be truthful until 1998 when otherwise invisible and undetectable Top Secret Installations and locations of strategic importance began to appear on the new editions.

It is important, vitally important when planning a military campaign to have accurate information. The Soviet maps did not spare the necessary detail. The distance between trees in a forest is a good example of useful data, for example when determining a path for armour, artillery and troops .Spot heights are shown for the bridges in the mapped British Cities in addition to sizes of tunnels and even the composition of the road surface. The basis of the maps has been the subject of controversy and legal proceedings in that it is beyond reasonable doubt that they are grounded on the work of the Ordnance Survey. The emergence of the Soviet Maps has been held in contravention of Copyright and the OS, backed up by the legal system, appealed for any such maps to be surrendered for disposal. These are however still available for viewing and purchase on what appear to be legitimate commercial web sites.

There is a clear indication, however, that the mapping is a combination of a number of intelligence streams, again illustrating the large commitment of personell and resources to the project.  Aerial views from satellites or spy planes would of course be available to a Super Power of the time. Annotations show references to Trade Directories in that businesses and industrial sites are named, pocket street atlases have been acquired in order to update records but there is also the scale of information that could only be sourced from quite large numbers of persons on foot and with strong local knowledge and connections. This street-level intel was pioneered to great success in the build up to the Second World War by Germany and Japan. Some anomalies have been indicated through the many academic research papers and presentations on the mapping sheets. Data on railway lines is significantly out of date with depiction of long since grubbed up routes within and between the featured towns and cities. The descriptions in English have sometimes been misinterpreted. A Nature Reserve has been misconstrued as somewhere 'Reserved' or of secret military importance. A sign for a Lorry Park hs been transcribed into Russian as an order to 'Park Lorry'. The maps were produced over the peak years of doctrinal conflict between Communism and Capitalism. This may explain why Racecourses, wide open spaces with racing tracks for the frivolous enjoyment of the privileged have not been recognised as such and have been depicted as airfields. The use of 'Court' in a typical British street address is translated as being part of the legal establishment. Roads appear on the Soviet Maps where none exist on the ground. This has been attributed to the misinterpretation of leafy  lanes and access paths to back gardens which is a very characteristic feature of the suburban housing areas in this country.

The ninety or so British towns and cities in detailed relief include the obvious capital and main regional centres but also a few small, and at face value, not very remarkable places. These are however mentioned for strategic value including Barrow in Furness (Submarines), Chatham (Naval Docks), Milford Haven (Refineries), Billingham (Steel) , Rhondda (Mining) and  Doncaster (Railways). It is apparent that there existed a higher echelon of mapping of Top Secret sites and installations such as the Aldermaston Research Facility, GCHQ at Cheltenham and the old golf ball early warning station at Fylingdales. I am mightily disappointed that my home city, Hull is not on the list given its size, regional importance and value as a shipping and freight port and Gateway to Europe.

The whole subject is fascinating to anyone remotely interested in topography, Cold war and modern history and military campaigning. So just men then.There may be more yet to emerge. The first realisation that what had previously been whispered rumour and hearsay actually existed and in vast quantities was when a Printer in Latvia purchased a pallet of scrap paper from some army types who had been instructed to destroy the sensitive documents.

Shut Your Cake Whole

In time honoured fashion and on the eve of a family birthday we head on down to the local supermarket and the expectant celebrant gets to choose their own cake from the either well stocked or otherwise embarrassingly sparse display unit in the bakery aisle.

In the case of the former stock situation I can only presume that 9 months prior there was little thought or prospect of procreation amongst our local resident population. In the latter sold out scenario I can only attribute this to a baby boom brought on by unseasonably cold weather, a cheap beer promotion in the towns pubs or one of our National sports teams nearly acheiving something momentous enough to arouse the passions and enthusiasms of prospective parents.

There is, on average, a good choice to be had and appealing to the full age range of our particular family unit.

The wife is taken by the Thorntons branded assemblage of possibly sweepings up of chocolates and misshapes pushed hard, by potentially ungloved hands, into a sponge base and then lightly dusted with what looks like icing sugar but could as easily be something dermatologically derived.

I am a bit of a traditionalist when it comes to confectionery based cakes and play it safe with a white topping carrot based product or a classic hard icing cake, you know the multi purpose type that can be adapted for births, marriages or deaths simply by the calibre and food coloured tincture of the piped detail.

The children, again all now over 18 , have in the past opted for the cake of the moment and we have therefore had over the years various creations endorsed by the Disney Corporation, Pixar and Dreamworks.

These are an example of outrageous exploitation and profiteering in that the only attempt at customising a bog standard light and aneamic sponge is with a thin icing patch invariably overprinted in high E numbered food colourings with a character from Walt's studio or the images and persona of Buzz Lightyear or some bulbous and strangely flourescent green ants. The product is glorified with a wrap around cardboard sheath and a clear fronted box which promises much but delivers little.

Other favourites and of escalating cost from the parental hint at £6.99 to the bank busting £9.99 have borne the terrifying face of Darth Maul or a menacing Lord Vader, Jacqueline Smith's dysfunctional teenager stars featured in her book series and more shameless marketing by the Top Gear Franchise.

With the icing off and a finger swipe around the join of the sponges accounting for the jam and cream content there is not much to write a thank you note about.

The cake baking industry is however very active and a specialist shop in the town square caters for bespoke orders for every conceivable function. I nearly fell into the window display after curiously reading the price tag of £60 for a gawdy multi tiered birthday cake for possibly a toddler but sporting the rather antiquated name of Mason. That structure would feature, no doubt, prominently in the family album of Mason's early years as an expression of the love of his parents although I suspect it to be an early apology for many,many years of future bullying on account of a pretentious and frankly, bland and inane name.

Anyway, for my 50th yesterday I was not driven down to Sainsburys bakery section but instead I was presented with a tremendous home made cake which had been devised and assembled by my offspring.

The imperial ten inch diameter dual sponges appear to be floating on a generous, fluid based layer of bonding preservative of the strawberry persuasion. The icing on the top and extruded down the sides is a bright and inviting lemon. The central plateau, showing no signs of the Mary Berry curse of subsidence from the cooking process, is carefully pebble dashed with hundreds and thousands, in fact hundreds and thousands of them. They are coralled by a necklace effect of large blue and pink fizzy bottles . There should have been nine of them but I admit now to stumbling across the Pick and Mix Bag the evening before and carefully lifting out two of them to eat before bedtime.

The remaining seven did well to surround the centrepiece which was a number 50 made out of liquorice sections.

The cross section is well worthy of first prize in any Great British Bake Off. Dense but moist sponge, a nice consistent colour and more hidden seams of rich fruity jam.

I blew out all of the candles in one go. Not I might add a conflagration and eyebrow scorching half a ton of flaming wax but just the words Happy Birthday in a very fast melting material.

I mistook the molten drops of residue as multi coloured sherbert pips but my, on such a magnificent cake everything was eminently edible.

Fifty Years Old today, 50 what?

One of my long time heroes Paul Weller sang the lyric in 'When You're Young' that "I'm 21 and the lights are going out".

This does not show up in any of the actual and many listings of the wording but for those with a vinyl 45rpm, known as a single to those of my generation, you can clearly hear him lament this fearful thought a few seconds before the stylus courses out of the record grooves into that smooth part just within the perforated centre. It is subversive yet striking.

I am not sure when Paul Weller wrote the song but it is evident that he was of relatively young years and the prospect of reaching 21 was clearly something he was not looking forward to.

I can empathise with his feelings and no more so than having attained, today, the ripe old age of 50 years.

The watershed of age in my mind was always 30 and I accepted it willingly and wholeheartedly because it represented a momentous period in my life at the time. I had just taken the plunge into self employment and was a husband and proud father of two girls, notwithstanding a couple of house moves and a relocation to another, although not too distant, area.

This momentous birthday was celebrated in the best possible way, amongst friends and with a live show by Black Lace, them of Agadoo, Superman and Do the Conga fame. Heady and evocative times indeed.

Having reached 50 and in , although I admit it myself, reasonable fettle I have reflected on what advice I would give to the younger me, the person that I perceived myself to be at Paul Weller's doomsday age of 21 years old.

It was 1984.

A date which was greatly anticipated for all of its Orwellian overtones but was actually a bit of a let down.

I celebrated what used to be the old coming of age and the time to collect the key of the door with a warmed up Fray Bentos Steak and Kidney Pie in my bedsit room which was my home during a year's secondment out of college in the real world of work.

It was a lonely existence, a bit like a monastic life apart from getting out a lot on my racing bike and eating a lot of Fray Bentos canned products.

I did not, I admit, make much of an effort to make any friends to alleviate a feeling of isolation in a strange city.

My evenings, when not using a tin opener and oven glove were spent reading, listening to the radio and maintaining my bike which also lived in my cramped quarters. Sad or what?

With the luxury of hindsight and a further 29 years of experience what counsel would I convey to help in the years ahead.

The first bit of guidance would be to be a bit more confident as I was and perhaps still am a bit slow at coming forward. I am not advocating a noisy, bullshit baffles brains type of confidence but just a bit of self assuredness especially when dealing with other people.

Learning to drive a bit earlier would have been helpful as I was left behind compared with my contemporaries with the attachment of a low priority on this essential skill. This was part my own doing and partly down to resources as I was an impoverished student.

Further advice would be to develop more ability in domestic chores. I cooked for myself at age 21 but again, if Fray Bentos did not have it as an easy cook dish I was not interested. I had been a bit adventurous with Ox Liver, Lentils and sausages poached in milk in my student days with an enthusiastic bunch of housemates but when living on my own I became lazy and complacent.

I did need a good diet what with all of my cycling and looking back do not really understand how I survived without falling prone to scurvy or malnutrition.

Having a good and modern haircut would have helped me socially in 1984 but I stuck with a floppy, fringeless look and with seasonal sideburns (now very au fait through the prominence of Bradley Wiggins) but in retrospect a bit , no very naff.

A degree of sophistication would have been helpful to my 21 year old persona and as a way to meet and talk to girls of my own age. As it was my only interaction with the opposite sex was when eating a packet of Wotsits and a shop bought sandwich with the senior ladies who worked in the office where I was serving my year out. We would look forward to watching and discussing the storylines in the TV soap 'Take the High Road' about Scottish people in a small lochside community.

In terms of fashion I was a bit of a throwback. As now, I spent most of my waking hours in the working week in a suit. Other attire was pyjamas or jeans and a C&A bought jumper. 1984 was a defining year otherwise in fashion with big statement making T shirts, baggy trousers, dungarees, part shaved heads and pumps with no socks. I was miles away from this.

I would encourage the young, immature me to think about saving money for the future and take some responsibility for my old age.

I recall that my wisest action at 21 years old was renting a colour TV from Rediffusion for my parents house for when I returned there just about every weekend.

There is no substitute for simple life experience to form backbone and character. I am not talking about being carefree and reckless but simply being attuned to what is going on in the surrounding world. I was none of these things and have no idea how I have reached 50 years old with some semblance of understanding and empathy with other human beings.

At 21 I was immature and stupid. I would not however change those traits at all because they have contributed to what I consider to be my current perspective on life of humour and not taking myself too seriously. Nothing changed then at all in the ensuing 29 years. Perfection.

Moscow Theme Stag Night

For a good few years from the 1970's to the mid 1990's it was commonplace to see the Eastern Bloc manufactured Lada Cars on the streets of Hull.

Not necessarily moving or roadworthy and with a strange mottled paintwork finish largely concealing chronic corrosion the vehicles formed a large proportion of the city's Taxi Fleet and were a viable, although legendarily unreliable, choice for but not always low cost family transport.

That same brand is now regarded as being in that 'Classic' category  but warranting a specific sub category of 'Classic', reserved for vehicles that should just not have survived to attain such status.

For all the many hours and miles covered collectively by Lada's in the HU postcodes over the two decades I can only admit, knowingly, to have partaken in one journey. It was on my stag night. I was in the Old Town with family and friends on a crawl around the famous public houses. Some still survive today. The Black Boy, Sailmakers, Olde White Hart, The White Hart (still old), The Bell being those I remember before I was ceremoniously thrown into the former dock basin, thankfully a shallow water feature but still a bit stagnant, smelly, streaked with bird whiting and very cold.

The impact of hitting the water, I seem to imagine an Olympic standard dive at the time but actually think I was playfully lowered in a bit like a mars bar into a deep fat fryer, was enough to half-sober me up.

The rest of any alcoholic stupor was well and truly purged from my system by the subsequent taxi ride in a Lada, some 6 miles out to one of the villages where my wife to be and the Best Man's wife were having a quiet girl's night in.

It was before the construction of the very long and straight dual carriageways which now make up five and a half of the six miles. The Lada, with its sheepskin coat clad and dour driver and two of us, initially carefree but soon to be frightened, passengers took off from the Lowgate taxi rank as though from the front of the grid at a Grand Prix.

The car creaked and groaned arthritically as it took the first corner to double back down the old town High Street. The sound could quite easily have been the shearing away of the body shell from the chassis. High Street is a legitimate short cut to get back to the river crossing at Drypool Bridge but most of the carriageway is in ancient cobbles. Yet more involuntary loosening of welds and bolted connections was taking place as the Lada seemed to target the areas of most displaced, raised and loose cobble stones. The engine mountings joined in the overall complaining noises of a car that should have long since been retired or scrapped.

High Street seemed to be twice or more of its actual length before the driver swung wildly right at its northern end to merge with the busy saturday night traffic on the inner ring road. Hedon Road was a bit quieter and it was strange to see the deserted roadside parking bays and shuttered business premises on what, during the working week, was a hive of activity with congested lanes, heavy transport vehicles, mobile catering caravans for the workforce and a variety of noises and odours from large scale wood machining to bacon banjo's.

To our driver it was an opportunity to really put his foot down and the Lada gave an indignant surge of power from 40mph to at least 45mph. My senses were heightened by the very real fear of being in harms way and each increment of increased speed was multiplied to twice the actual. I was comforted by the fact that I had read somewhere in the motoring press that this model of Lada only had a top speed of 70mph, downhill and with  freakish tail wind..

As we were driven past the large Eastern Dock complex I glimpsed all manner of wildlife running for the cover of the verge. A couple of urban foxes and something of cat size but definitely a rat. At least they were getting plenty of advanced warning of the approach of the vehicle. I half expected a few twitching curtains from the residences along the road but this was probably quite a regular route for the taxi companies and given the volumes of daytime traffic this was still quite a subdued level of noise even from a single fiendish car.

The good road surface finished just beyond the wide gated entrance to the BP Chemical Plant at Saltend. The skeletal towers of the processing operations always put on a good show of lighting and emissions and when I dared open my eyes I thught for a moment that we were approaching the Manhattan skyline.

Speed limits were evidently suspended for the night as the car threw up dust and litter through the historic town of Hedon. Beyond the built up part of town I knew that the road to our destination village was extremely tortuous, sharp bends, narrow and hedged in and rough surfaced from agricultural vehicle use. Our driver took the straightest, shortest line very skillfully. How he knew that there would be no other traffic approaching through the blind bends was a mystery down to either good fortune or recklessness.

The Lada almost separated again from its chassis in the exercise of an emergency stop outside the Best Mans house. If the passenger door had fallen off in true circus style I would not have been at all surprised. I was now completely sober, shaking and greeted my wife to be with a long embrace and a mental note to start off a life insurance policy as soon as the nuptuals were concluded.

Jim Jam Ding Dong

It's nice to get into your pyjamas.

It evokes a feeling of comfort and safety that originates from my childhood.

I was privileged to come from a stable and loving home and that has been a strong influence in my adult life and in my own attempts at being a parent.

I am grateful for this and have come to realise that the freedom to wear my pyjamas whenever I felt like it, although perhaps seeming a bit superficial, was indicative of an overwhelming sense of well being.

An opportunity to do this on a working day can be few and far between nowadays as there is pressure on those in employment to maintain their status if only to stand still in terms of meeting the basic costs of a normal lifestyle.

It can be a real treat when everything falls into place to allow pyjamas to be adopted as the outfit of choice. The sensation is increased if it is still daylight outside.

This can take some forward planning to ensure that there is food in the house especially as many of the large Supermarkets have for some time imposed a ban on shoppers turning up in their nightwear to do their shopping.

There is a photograph posted up in the office, taken by a member of staff on her way in to work of two women stood on a the forecourt of a petrol station and convenience store at about half past eight in the morning in their dressing gowns, each clutching a loaf of bread and half a pint of steri-milk.

It was a vision of a past age and culture. This will have been a commonplace sight in the urban areas of the UK some fifty years ago in the good old days of the corner shop and therefore only a short dash for early risers to acquire their cigs and consumables straight from their beds.

It is also necessary for full enjoyment of pyjamas that there is a low likelihood of people calling to the house as greeting visitors on the doorstep can be a bit embarassing. I have paid the window cleaner whilst so attired and he has not let me forget it with a tirade of tiresome jokes about my habit which has persisted for a good few years now.

With the necessary safeguards in place it is possible to relax and enjoy the evening without fear of ridicule or intrusion.

In my pyjamas the reminiscences of childhood flood back.

I remember running around in the back garden in my Captain Scarlet jim-jams on those balmy and sultry summer evenings.

Then of course there were the long night time car journeys back home from grandparents when my siblings and I travelled in pyjamas under our clothes so that after falling asleep with the motion of the vehicle we could be just lifted out and tucked up in our bed.

I was a right one for feigning a tummy ache to avoid having to go to school and if successful in convincing my parents I could look forward to a full day in pyjamas on the settee watching television and dining on chicken noodle soup and lucozade. Happy days indeed.

As a student I also spent a good proportion of my time in pyjamas but did feel a bit of a fraud if invited to a pyjama party.

As a parent I am proud to say that my own family have jealously guarded reserving a precious day between Christmas and New Year as an exclusive pyjama day when we just laze around, catch up an DVD's and feast on the contents of the fridge.

We are not by any means complacent and indeed just this year two of the family introduced the Onesie to the occasion but to tell the truth I am not entirely convinced of its role in the proceedings.

Al Fresco and the Barbecue Kid

Cooking outdoors can be a challenge.

There is the weather, unpredictable at best even in the supposed peak summer periods. There is the flora and fauna of the local environment which can exert an influence, those pesky wasps and the scorchable, smouldering bits of dry vegetation downwind amongst many other factors.

Then of course the neighbours may be upset by all that goes along with the outdoor cook such as the blaring and distorted music soundtrack , the inevitable effects of alcohol on sunburnt and frazzled souls and resultant loud voices at last free of inhibitions notwithstanding a drifting cloud of charcoal odours and burnt meat.

These are potential and persistent problems but do not seem to discourage or perturb an Englishman seeking to emulate his Australian and American counterparts who are the world renowned authorities and experts on the art of barbecuing.

My own barbecue efforts are passable in that the food is cooked and edible albeit not a little bit blackened and carcinogenic.

The secret of a satisfying cook-out is not to be too ambitious with the menu.

Stick to the old and trusted faithfuls of quarter pounder burgers and pork sausages and then gradually develop the range to encompass say, a vegetable kebab as an exotic possibility.

I only ever use those cheap disposable barbecues which can be purchased from my local petrol station convenience store and for no more than £4 a pop. It is important to check that they are dry and combustible as in the past I have found them to have been stored in a damp locker on the forecourt and completely unusable even when saturated with highly flammable white spirit.

A good shake and shuffle of the packaging out of the line of sight of the shop staff can determine if the constituents have not fused together over the winter months as part of the previous seasons unsold stock.

I buy two at a time , not because they are on special offer, but as a consequence of them being very small in size to such an extent that the grill is crowded when occupied by only four burgers.

The lighting stage is critical to get an even burn of the irregular lumps of charcoal. Some versions are already impregnated with an accelerant but more recently a sheet of fuel saturated fly-type paper sits on the surface and upon ignition melts and hopefully sets off a chain reaction in the underlying contents.

The maxim of a watched kettle never boils can be adapted to "a watched barbecue never has an even spread of temperature in spite of best efforts to put your face close to the eyebrow scorching heat for the purposes of huffing and puffing to get the embers to glow".

There is a tipping point in the lighting process between abject failure and a rip roaring and perfect cooking medium. Again, a small teacup with about a centimetre of white spirit comes in handy as an encouragement to reluctant charcoal and if applied at an early stage there can be little or no persistent taint detectable in the taste of the food.

I feel part envy and part sadness for those with a high-tec powered barbecue range as everything is so clinical and controllable. Surely that takes away a good proportion of the challenge of having a cook-out but at least more or less guarantees that a palatable and sustaining meal can be produced.

The manageable heat output also gives much increased scope in the menu extending to the likes of chicken thighs and wings, pork or lamb chops and even the odd fish or bit of bivalve seafood.

The downside however is that the purpose built apparatus needs to be thoroughly cleansed and put away as opposed to the glorious value added feature of a disposable barbecue of, as the name suggests, just throwing it away.

Do check that the charcoal is fully extinguished before actual depositing it in a wheelie bin as the pungent aroma of melting industrial grade petroleum based polyethylene thermoplastic can produce a distinctive aftertaste which can rapidly diminish any pleasant gourmet experience associated with that perfectly outdoor cooked burger in a sesame seed topped bun.

Aliens in the Attic

Yesterday's piece was on the subject of a wasps nest.

Today's is on the same subject.

I do not apologise for this as I find it a fascinating and marvellous creation in nature.

I do have first hand experience of the hazards associated with the residence of a swarm in that I had the misfortune to put my foot through one. A neighbour with whom I am not normally on speaking terms even after sharing a fenced boundary for over 18 years drew my attention to the expanded size of my compost heap. It was a tidy example, just about restrained within a compound formed by two of those metal mesh fire surrounds favoured by the parents of infants and toddlers. Intertwined and with wire twist fixings it was quite sturdy and allowed me to pile on the waste from a demanding garden whilst allowing air to circulate and dry it out.

As with many middle aged men amongst whom I number there is quite a feeling of anticipation over the slow drying of grass, leaves and bits of tree towards that critical point when they are fantastically combustible. Stoking and feeding a good smokey, slow burner is a tremendous way for a man to spend an evening and with the added bonus of annoying said incommunicative neighbours if sat out on a social on their patio downwind.

In the pursuit of good neighbourly relations, although reminiscent of perhaps North and South Korea, I agreed to do something about the heap but that was sufficiently vague to pacify them beyond the western fence and not place too much pressure on myself to action anything.

A few weeks later, in an idle moment my sense of philanthropy set in and I attacked the compost mound with fork and an array of garden waste bags. It just seemed like a standard accumulation of organic stuff.

I was enthusiastic and clambered up the slope to get a good fork full but my right leg suddenly plunged through a soft spot and it was only my groin area that stopped any further plummet to what could as easily have been the centre of the earth.

I knew about the presence of rose bush cuttings amongst the soft stuff but the sharp and painful stabbing sensation was something else that I had a vague childhood memory about.

I had unwittingly fallen through a crusty layer into a large subterranean wasps nest and eight of the occupants, evidently on guard duty, exacted their wrath on my hairy lower leg.

The injection of poison from eight barbs soon caused my limb to swell up to grotesque proportions, so much so that I could have been understudy to The Elephant Man.

I was aware of people going into shock and dying from wasp stings and was suitably concerned but managed to resume normal bodily proportions within a matter of hours.

Since that event, for which I received no commendation or recognition from the neighbours I have been more respectful for the artistry of the wasp architects but still a little curious.

A small dessicated nest was found in the rafters of my garage and after carefully disecting it, although not a complex operation due to it's tissue paper fragility , I could appreciate the work that had gone in to it by some of the natural worlds most maligned insects. The matrix of structured cells and connecting passages, even in miniature, was rigid and stable, perfectly functional and I would imagine it to be pretty cosy.

I was therefore intrigued by the discovery just a couple of days ago of what is the biggest wasps nest I have ever seen under the rear slope of a house roof. In Science Fiction Films the same sized cocoon like form usually incubates an alien.

The old lady who owned the house had lived there 50 years and admitted to never having gone into the attic in all of that time. This had created the perfect environment for the unrestricted access and activities of a wasp city, a metropolis of busy creatures.

It was shaped like an upturned tear being secured across three rafters and spreading out over as many ceiling joists to a distance of 2 metres from the eaves.

The wasps will have entered at will from the gap between the lowest course of roof tiles and the guttering. The home to possibly thousands of wasps it certainly appeared to be capable of.

Being an inquisitive type I picked up some bits of rubble lying around on top of the old lath and plaster ceilings and lobbed them, using the light from my torch as a beacon, towards the ghostly mass. The third piece of sand and cement torching hit the grainy surface of the nest and made a strange sound as though being absorbed into mud.

I listened for any reactive sound from the wasp militia on duty but there was nothing. After a couple of minutes and as many more missiles thrown in the direction of the blob I lost interest and retreated down my ladders to the landing and pulled shut the loft hatch.

I found the old lady behind me at the foot of the ladder. She had heard a rumpus and was checking to see either if I was alright or more likely had caused any damage to her property.

I explained that conditions in an old loft space were often unstable and noisy and she seemed happy at that. As we made our way downstairs and for that long promised cup of tea I thought that I heard, above our heads, the beginnings of a distinct and growing crescendo of buzzing.

The Sting

I told the prospective buyer of a house that he had a wasps nest in the void under the floor of his sitting room.

A few months later after he had purchased the property he rang me up and confirmed that yes, he had found it.

It had been active and had taken all the expertise of an exterminator to get rid of the nuisance.

He then expressed amazement at how I could possibly have known about it given that there had been no loose boards or other means of access. The contractor too had been mystified about a call out on the basis of the unqualified hunch of a third party.

I was reluctant to disclose my secret.

I could have spun a fantastic yarn about being a wasp-whisperer. Perhaps I was actually in tune with nature. A hyper sensitive ear could allow me to detect the faintest of insect noises and interpret them as an indicator of the nesting intentions of a swarm. In my youth, having been stung numerous times by a persistent wasps I may have developed a super-hero trait. My favourite jumper had been a black and yellow striped one giving me the instincts and behavioural characteristics of the species. I was a fan of The Police after all.

I managed to maintain an aloof air out of modest professionalism and my inquistor finally gave up. I wallowed a bit in his parting comment that I was just " a bloody good man for the job".

Between you and me I had stumbled across the whole thing more out of accident than a determined investigation.

If you simply stand still for a few minutes outside a house, as I often do, in order to observe the construction and condition, chances are that you will blend into your surroundings and so assume a degree of relative invisibility to the creatures of nature.

This has been the case where a cat has not seen my static form until the last moment when wandering nonchalantly around the corner. The panic and horror is a sight to behold. I am sure it is the same for the cat as well.

I have had a similar experience with birds in flight who have been genuinely shocked to find a human being just stood motionless in a particular position on a regular flightpath around a property.

On this particular occasion I just happened to be in the right position at the exact moment that a swarm of wasps returned from harassing a family picnic or the queue at an ice cream van.

After a brief period of reconaissance they duly filed, in some semblance of hierarchical order, through the regular holes in a clay airbrick, just one of many similar vents around the lower courses of that particular house.

On the basis that they did not re-emerge led me to speculate that they resided there as a permanent home. I may have thought about placing my ear at the perforated hole to confirm my hunch but recollections of those very painful stingings in childhood remained very strong. I just scribbled down a note and in such a simple act established myself as a living legend, at least in the perception of one impressed client.

When the penny dropped

Unfortunately it is a human trait to try to cut a corner where possible, perhaps attempt to cheat the system particularly if the system is perceived to be faceless or too gargantuan in scale for any deliberate deception or deprivation to be even noticed. It is often cited as an excuse, to justify a cheat or render it legitimate in the mind of the perpetrator, that if  no single person has been hurt by a misdeed then it is perfectly OK and aceptable. However and deep down at a conscience level we all know that it is never the case. There is always a human element, a victim, a loss and a potential for suffering.

This was certainly the experience surrounding the school vending machine.

 It was meant to be an amenity for the whole contingent of the Grammar School that I attended in the early to mid 1970's. Any automated purveyor of refreshments was still a novelty in that period and particularly so in an educational environment. Such machines were only otherwise found in a railway station or at a cinema dispensing bars of chocolate, packets of sweets, bags of crisps and always with an adjacent drinks only version for hot beverages although of quite limited choice of tea and coffee,black or white and hot chocolate. It was some years later that the all singing, all dancing chilled drinks versions became commonplace.

The school vending machine was, unusually, located outdoors. It stood under a sloping verandah roof on the western side of a quadrangle of concrete yard, bounded not on four sides as the name suggests but only three and a half, so technically a thralfrangle, a word of almost Viking derivation. The verandah provided an open walkway from the main school entrance to the cloakrooms. Directly opposite and at an elevated height was the staffroom. To the south was the school office. The north side was a short dogleg continuation of the same cloakroom block. It was an area of very high footfalls at the commencement of the academic day and at break times from the timetable the yard was packed with noisy boys kicking around tennis balls in a ranging game of football, the younger intake swopping football cards and the remainder just milling about idly with no determined reason or purpose.

As an area of containment and supervision the yard was ideal. It was quite similar in form and function to the central courtyard of Colditz Castle which was a popular TV series of the time. The staff had an excellent vantage point overlooking the yard. Such was the elevation of the staff room that they could keep watch but with no prospect of themselves being seen other than above shoulder height. Those summoned to the corridor outside the room for chastisement or on an errand often testified to getting a very brief glimpse into a smoke filled den of worn and sagging easy chairs with coffee stain patterns, piles of mugs, collapsible cardboard boxes from the bakery around the corner and even a bottle or two partly drained of their alcoholic content.

We did, over time, deduce a few blind spots such as directly under the staff room windows where inter-pupil transactions and not a little bullying and intimidation could be exacted with impunity. The vending machine was in clear and plain sight of the staff unless of course there was a sufficient huddle of schoolboys acting as a screen and concealing mischief and mayhem.

The standard price for a very flimsy plastic cup filled with scalding hot liquid and a quarter inch of sludge in the bottom was two new pence. This was clearly a much subsidised price as in todays money that equates to only 14p. I do not recall who first discovered that a bolt washer, skimmed into the coin slot in the front of the machine, tricked the mechanism into dropping the cup into the hatch for it to be filled with the dry drinks powder and the boiling water. It was now open season for all and everything close to the dimensions of a 2p coin to be inserted. There was quite a black market trade in the small metal discs found on the building sites in the town which were pushed out of the back plates of electrical sockets for the cabling to be fed through. Trespass and potential for criminal damage could therefore be added to the principal misdemeanour. Many nuts and bolts on street signs, road signs and the property of the Council were loosened and their washers removed to serve as a new , illegal tender in the playground.

Foreign coins were also in good demand although in those days any overseas holidays were the privilege of the wealthy few in our midst so many quite extensive and notable coin collections held by parents, older siblings and even grandparents were raided and looted of the smaller denominations.

For a time it appeared that the whole school were involved and it was necessary for the self appointed master criminals to allocate time to those wanting a go and in strict queueing order. The mass congregating of the school within the quadrangle was ultimately the downfall of the scam. An alert member of staff eventually noticed how deserted the wider school campus was at break times and conferring with his colleagues the scale of the deception and con was soon evident.

There were to my recollection no perpetrators brought to justice because that would have been much too damage for the reputation of that otherwise reputable Grammar School if the whole school were implicated. We really did miss a stodgy and rather stale tasting but nevertheless hot beverage in the winter months following the enforced removal and disposal of the vending machine.

As an exercise in responsibilty, honesty and trust we surely sold our souls for a grubby handful of nothing.

(a repeat from 12 months ago......busy, busy, busy)

Nearside Broadside

A bike ride.

On a bright, dry and windless day what could better as a recreational pursuit combining a bit of healthy exercise with fresh air and a sense of well being. It can be a bit of a return to nature if in the fortunate position of being able to access the open road and countryside . For those living in the heart of a city there can be good miles of cycling on the course of an old railway line ,along the banks of a river or the towpath of a canal.

At first and if new to the joys of biking altogether there can be a pain barrier to break through in the initial weeks but as the miles are totted up there is a tangible sensation of the effort being slightly easier and therefore more pleasurable.

From being constantly overtaken by all manner and form of fellow cyclists you begin to notice that with a degree of fitness this quickly ceases and soon the day will come when you find yourself in active pursuit of someone glimpsed in fluorescent green or yellow up ahead and with determination catching them up, passing them with even breath and gradually pulling away to leave them wallowing in your slipstream.

It is a sweet moment, that first overtaking manoevre and it is to be savoured for ever.

All of this sounds idyllic and it would be if the only road users were those propelling themselves on two wheels.

Add to the equation men in white vans, distracted parents with unruly back seat kids, drivers of HGV's reading the newspaper whilst in motion, the newer drivers fiddling with their I-Pod connectivity, bus drivers, the Ringtons Tea delivery men and OAP's in Japanese hatchbacks and the open road becomes a battle ground for the safety and welfare of the vulnerable cyclist.

I have had the misfortune to go through a car windscreen after having been hit head on by a motorist whilst out riding. I still firmly believe today that two critical factors saved me from serious injury or death. The first was my wholehearted acceptance in the seconds prior to impact that I was going to be hit. I could do nothing to avoid it and so just relaxed every muscle and sinew in my body. This contributed to my soft rolling up the bonnet and into the Triplex glass rather than being braced,stiff and rigid.

The other was the pedigree of the bike I was riding. I had bought it from Dave Marsh Frames in South Yorkshire as a winter bike. It was a budget machine but the tubing was Reynolds 531, strong and light so even after bolting on all of my spare equipment plus mudguards, chunky wheels and tyres and lights it was manageable in weight.

When hitting the front of the Vauxhall Cavalier the frame buckled and absorbed the kinetic energy but did not snap or fracture and this eased my floppy torso over the nosing of the car and up the slope of the bonnet.

Since then I have been quite defensive when in traffic and not a little bit prickly and aggressive towards the sloppy, inattentive, careless and reckless behind the steering wheels of their seemingly sovereign territory.

It is a fact that many of us, and I include myself in this category, have used a car to vent pent up anger and frustration accumulated in our daily lives. Conversely when in happy and exalted mood the car becomes a celebratory tool with music blaring out from the CD player accompanied by a shimmying across the white lines in the centre of the carriageway.

It may feel good to put your foot hard down and drive in a mad frenzy just for the sheer hell raising sensation or just to get to an appointment for which you are already very late.

In such a mind set the last thing you want to encounter is a cyclist of whatever ability or road sense taking up what you regard as your personal traffic lane.

From what I have observed from the saddle many drivers just switch off their perception of speed, hazards and any sense of empathy with other human beings eminently entitled to undertake a journey.

After all a car is a solid chunk of metal, unbendable, packed with airbags and safety features that will surely cocoon you from any harm in the event of a collision or incident. Isn't it?

In my charmed life on my bike I have been escorted around a corner against the side of a car driven by a very small and frail old lady. When she found me on her driveway farther down the cul de sac holding onto the guttering of her Metro she looked genuinely surprised and called me "a naughty boy".

I have been pushed forward by a car bumper towards oncoming traffic at a traffic light junction. The occupants of the vehicle, a whole family of mum, dad and kids thought it was hilarious.

Passing cars have ejected litter and liquids at me which I would hesitate to identify without a forensic investigation team.

One driver who squeezed me out of a narrowing road section felt aggrieved at my quite calm and polite protest but would not wind down his window to engage in conversation. His wife, in the passenger seat hid her face out of embarassment at the sight of two grown men in a verbal sparring contest.

I think that, on that occasion, I took the moral victory.

Just today I was approaching a sharp bend when a Volvo, normally a placidly driven brand, attempted to get past and by doing so cut into my legitimate line of cycling. It was a close thing. I was certain I could smell the air freshener dangling on the rear view mirror. My right leg was almost severed by the nearside wing mirror and it took some effort and counterbalancing not to be thrown under the rear nearside wheels.

I was too shocked to react at first but recovered enough to give a universal hand gesture of unhappiness.

The car, with three occupants, just carried on and did perceptibly speed up to flee the scene. I had no hope of catching them up and after they disappeared around the bend into the next village I just marked it up as a near-miss.

As I rode out of the built up area I saw the same car in a driveway less the driver.

I approached after being waved at by the person in the back. It was a very wizened old lady sat next to a lawnmower. She was a bit confused and what I thought was an apologetic gesture was in fact a muscle spasm of her tired body. The front passenger was a young lad, early teens. I was perfectly calm and lucid and I think that he accepted my point of view on the proximity of the car a few minutes before.

He said that his mother was in the house. She emerged carrying a vacuum cleaner and a brush. I made my case but she was fairly nonchalant and indeed accused me of harassing her son and the old lady. Some people, eh?

I gave up at that point and just walked away. I made a mental note to, on subsequent rides, avoid any possible route that Mrs Mop the Menace could possibly ever take.

I like to think that my reasoned approach in drawing attention to her crap driving may at least save another fellow cyclist from a similar but less favourable outcome.