Mooving

Another day missed yesterday due to being in transit again between temporary accommodation.  We left Little Barn and regrouped later in the day at our next resting place called The Old Cowshed. A bit of a theme going on in location and names. I am not entirely sure if residing in a cow shed represents an upgrade from a barn. Suggestions please.

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Midge Ure bites yer bum

Some of the best ever holidays that we, as a family, have enjoyed have been in late summer and early autumn in Scotland.

It is a great time of the year to visit with an often indian sub-continental climate and a few less northern european tourists in camper vans. The natural light is paler and mellow which, with the turning of the broadleaved trees and heather really emphasises the beauty of the mountains, glens and lochs.

Of course, all of this appreciation and sightseeing must be completed when it is raining or before dusk because when dry and after the light has faded is when Scotland reverts to the insect kingdom and the miniscule but mighty blood thirsty midge.

In the purpley fading light of a sunset behind a backdrop of the most fantastic scenery it is necessary to light up the 3-Tigers smoke producing tapers, immerse yourself in insect repellent or doctor yourself with oral medication and even seriously consider taking up high tar cigarettes for the duration of any vacation north of the border. I hesitate to mention some of the more wacky, folklore based and Old Wives remedies to alleviate this insect affliction. This is all undertaken even to if you intend to stay indoors and do not at all harbour any thoughts to venture out to see the unfettered night sky including the Milky Way, possibly the Aurora Borealis or the tremendous landscape in silhouette.

The Midge has undoubtedly had an impact on the attraction of Scotland as a vacation destination and for ultimate enjoyment of its great outdoors but perhaps there is an element of conspiracy in that relief from attack can be sought in the pubs, bars, restaurants and entertainment venues for a price.

To this end a proactive project was carried out in September 2008 by Aberdeen University and Rothamstead Research into midge habits in order to determine if there exists a formula for a wholly effective means of repellent.

The survey sample was quite specifically located on the shores of Loch Ness and comprised a total of 325 people who just happened to be visitors at that time.The study did reveal some interesting facts and statistics.

The midge definitely favours men of tall stature and overweight women. The reasons were however significantly different. In the former case a midge has a workable flying altitude of 2 metres and associates trees and vegetation at this height with food. Tall men are therefore a rather confused source for sustenance. In the latter the feasting of midges is on the common extrusions from overweight women of carbon dioxide and lactic acid. The survey did not comment on the emissions of large, fat males because there were none milling about at Loch Ness at the time. This sounds like a self  fulfilling prophecy if ever there was one. They are overweight simply because they do not take strenuous exercise in the open air in september around a deep water Loch.

A surprising revelation of the survey was that around 15% of the sample had a natural immunity to midge bites and when questioned on this it was apparent that this was the same with other family members and of different generations of the family, therefore indicating a genetic disposition. The report does not state if this charmed proportion of the population were culled and disected in the interests of science, humanity and the Scottish Tourist Board. Volunteers must have been forthcoming in that the secret repellent was identified as being a combination of two chemicals- geranylacetaone and methylheptenone. These can be artificially processed on an industrial scale and are sold to the perfume industry in particular.

The basis is a floral compound of fruity aroma but totally abhorrent to the midge. The merits of these compounds for intelligent pest management have not escaped the commercial world and a series of products are currently well into the test stage pending production. The availability of such a repellent will be revolutionary for the nation of Scotland.

It turns out that there really are those amongst us who always come up from any adversity, smelling of roses.

(another repeat from past years. Once bitten....)

The Bedgate Conspiracy

Habitual behaviour is difficult to break.

It is not all bad.

I would encourage parents to read that bedtime story, tuck up their children and give them a kiss on the forehead. It worked wonders for me both as a recipient child and as a giving Dad.

We all have our little traits and rituals be they based on superstition, practicalities, routine or they are just an integral part of our coping strategy in the big bad world.

I have a few of my own. Those who know me may say that I have lots and most of them rude.

I have always slept on the right side of the marital bed, for example.

This must have been a habit based on something basic as before wedlock I only ever had a single bed.

Our first joint home as a young couple brought with it a huge iron framed bedstead. With mattress in place it was a good three feet above the floor.

This gave some reassurance against the unwelcome arrival on the Slumberdown of small rodents and large insects. Our first place was a bit run down and with gaps in roof, walls, sash window frames and floors it was a bit of a short cut for creatures on their way back to their own homes.

Later on in our married life it prevented our two dogs from being able to slabber us awake first thing in ther morning and no doubt will have afforded a refuge in the event of a flood or a Yorkshire tsunami.

On the downside any uncontrolled turn and roll outwards from the quilt could result in tangible injury over the distance to fall to the floor.

The appearance of a childs head in direct level plane and view to us as dozing parents could be both magical and frightful, dependant upon what they had brought up the stairs with them to gleefully show us or had smeared on their rosey cheeked faces in variable quantities.

Our eldest daughter then aged seven would delight in leaving, in the cavernous open space under the industrial strength sprung frame, her Fisher Price first tape recorder quietly whirring away on its AA batteries.

Only when this covert operation was discovered, some considerable time later, did we realise that she was not indeed endowed with psychic or intuitive gifts in strangely knowing all of our immediate and longer term plans in life.

We chose to gloss over the possibilty of the saving on cassette tape of the detail of intimate conversations between husband and wife on a lazy sunday morning.

Perhaps, my decision to sleep on the right hand side of the bed, being nearest the door to the landing was deeply subconcious just to prevent such an invasion of privacy be it from a housebreaker, in the interests of national security ( imaginings of conspiracy theory) or fledgling private investigators heavily influenced by the Scooby Doo ethos.

Load of Bull

John has some good stories.

His family came to the farm in 1960 in, he says, a fleet of 15 lorries from their former residence in the hilly countryside around Huddersfield.

He will have been in his twenties then and prepared for the hard work, day and night in, day and night out that goes with a milk producing unit.

Located on the flat, featureless Vale of York the contrast in topography and in the composition of the soils could not have been more different to the foothills of the Pennines. In fact, with just a three mile direct road journey to the centre of the historic City of York itself the surroundings could be described as cosmopolitan.

Before the construction of the busy ring road, the approaching margins of the out of town shopping centres and suburban sprawl it will have been fairly tranquil, just off the Malton Road and in those times just carrying local traffic and not the constant stream of vehicles generated by a growing population and its needs.

John gave us a tour of the farm. I use the term farm loosely now, not out of disrespect or ignorance as I am a townie by birth, but because only the buildings and the spirit of the place remain.

The whitewashed farmhouse is still the family dwelling but having made the decision to come out of agriculture willingly some 15 years ago rather than being forced or pushed out by the economic climate or foreclosure by a previously sympathetic and friendly bank John is now the very congenial host of a compact group of holiday cottages.

I was given three well leafed through photo albums, on trust, which provided a pictorial record of the transition from working dairy farm to leisure facility.

It had been a major project in 1999 and for the ensuing three years to convert the sturdy but plain and functional barns, granary, stores and outbuildings into viable holiday accommodation.

The scale of work must have seemed daunting at the time and particularly over the early stages when demolition and dismantling will have reduced the amenity, value and habitability of the whole site to a nominal amount.

There must have been many moments of considerable doubt over the project when surrounded by skeletal roof frameworks, tumbled down walls and mounds of rubble and soil.

Nevertheless, the photos show happy, although grubby, faces amongst the wider family from senior members to young children. John is at the centre of operations.

Trades were employed for the critical tasks which were under the supervision of the Local Authority as part or the planning change of use but the family provided the labouring and graft.

The crew yard had to be manually cleared of decades of compacted soil and waste. The best structural timbers were salvaged for re-use similarly the more durable handmade bricks. Single storey stables were extended skywards to provide first floor rooms. Catslide roofs were built out to provide additonal head height from previously tight eaves. Horse stalls were turned into lounges and kitchens. Split opening plank doors and slatted openings in battered rough unplaned wood were exchanged for woodstained timber and double glazing.

The buildings which had been large open vaulted spaces took a mezzanine floor thereby doubling up useable areas. There was change but it was also important to retain character features of tie bar plates, small arrow slit vents and the external stone flagged steps up to the former granary floor.

Whilst the ghost of the former buildings are still present it did take me some time to orientate the faded photographs against their re-invention as comfortable and quaint cottages.

The old barn sleeps six in luxury with a cavernous living area and farmhouse kitchen as well as the concessions to modern expectations of good sized bedrooms and bathroom facilities. The granary accommodates 5, the old stable block 4 and our billet for the week is the baby of the lot with a double bedroom and connecting nursery complete with cot. Our 18 year old son was initially fearful of where he would be sleeping until a wider opening up of the small bedroom revealed a single bed adjacent to the crib.

We look out onto the old crew yard, now a manicured and lush green lawn and with the trickling sound of a fountain just breaking up the distant noise of traffic on the York Ring Road.

I am just thinking about going for a jacuzzi and sauna in the brick and pantile building set apart from the cottage courtyard.

John tells me it was, in his farming days, the Bull pen with a bad tempered brute in residence and lording it up over the rest of the stock until called upon to service and replenish the numbers of the herd. I can relate to that and will contemplate it whilst wallowing amongst the jet streamed bubbles and stretched out on the Swedish pine on a steamy and sultry sunday morning.

In the land of the Matrix

A sign of the times.

Self storage.

Perhaps the next book from Owen Jones will be on the theme and examining the socio-economic implications of being able to pack up your life, or a certain part of it and stashing it away in a steel container within some impersonal building whose corridors resemble a nightmarish scene from The Matrix.

I did notice the marketing efforts of self storage warehouses whilst driving northwards out of London, must have been a decade ago, but thought of it as another sort of fad, money making exercise or ploy to relieve gullible Southerners of more of their disposable income.

I had not come across the concept before.

Let's face it. Up beyond Watford, if we have any surplus items we just put them up in the roof space, out in the back of the garage or purchase a shed for the garden.

Therein lies the success of self storage in London.

There are no roof spaces left within the Metropolis. I have it on reliable information from a Surveyor who works out of Whitehall, London, England that developable space, as found in those twisty, claustrophobic parts of the roof structure, is far too valuable to house a few boxes of personal effects or an embarrassing vinyl record collection. Consequently there are no attic areas, cock-lofts, garretts or eaves left. They are now in residential use as studio type flats or described under other clever terminology that suggests a fashionable abode but belies the need to stoop when moving about and to wear a crash helmet when in bed wedged close and paralell to the roof slope.

Garages and indeed any private vehicular spaces are similarly in scarce supply in our Capital City and if they can be used to avoid street parking charges or can be let out at extortionate rates to neighbours or on a commercial basis then you can forget the comparative luxury of using the rafter space or just at the back for old furniture or other non perishable and non valuable items.

I feel sorry for the makers and suppliers of garden sheds in the London catchment, that is in the first place, if there are any at all in that line of business.

There is a feeling of satisfaction and perhaps a hearkening back to Feudal and Manorial Times in looking out over your own land, even if just a garden.

It is there to do with what you want, within reason, the tolerances of those surrounding you and in accordance with any legal Covenants in particular for older houses which prohibit setting up a hiring fair, a fellmongers, tin smelting process or from keeping poultry and swine.

What better use for your own garden than to site a shed for storage. One of those small on the outside, six feet by three feet, but producing a catherdralesque interior with boundless possibilities for stowing things on shelves, hooks, a work bench (smallish) but importantly leaving enough room in the doorway for a chair to allow you to just sit and watch the world go by.

Pity those Londoners then. Whilst they may be able to look out from kitchen or living room windows onto a garden ,chances are it is not theirs solely or for quiet enjoyment. A large, former single residence will have been carved up into flats and any outside spaces allocated to the units or just conveyed as compensation for the poor subterranean souls who got the lower ground floor/basement flat/bunker.

So , no real opportunity for a shed of spectacular connotation for those who have no rights of use.

These three factors working together or individually provide the market conditions, the ideal seeding ground for self storage facilities. There are other contributing influences of population, employment, family breakdown, economics , materialism and so on but that is for another blog another day.

Whatever trend or practice originates in London does take some time to reach us out in the sticks but I am able to report on the arrival of self storage in my home town. This may have taken a decade or more from my first glimpse of the phenomena in North London but that sounds about right.

The building, bearing the bright yellow livery of a National Chain, has taken on a new lease of life from former industrial function. The three floors which had supported lathes and milling machines are now occupied by a maze of sheet metal compartments of varying size but uniform in white metal and lemon coloured doors. The freight lift has been refurbished and security ramped up with CCTV and controlled entrances. The workforce, once numbering a few score skilled operators has been reduced to a sole manager who sits surrounded by a bank of television screens and samples of packaging materials and supplies.

Self storage is now a fact of life in our busy, modern lives. It suits us to squirrel away our possessions and liberate our floorspace for better purposes. For some it provides a vault for an old life and a brief respite before embarking in a new direction.

I have just managed to shoulder the door shut after cramming my 100 sq ft space with the contents of our family house as a stop gap between a sale and a purchase. It has been an interesting experience and I feel that I have joined a special club for those in transit.

It was fun filling it up but I have just realised that I will have to risk a potentially explosive situation when I attempt to open it again in , hopefully, a week or so.

Lofty Expectations

It has been three weeks of the most intense and frenetic activity, mentally and physically to get the house packed up and decent for the new owners.

After 28 months of being a public showcase, our willingness to sell our house displayed in flagboard form at the gate and with extensive script and photographically illustrated particulars of sale on the internet it really came down to just 21 days.

First big commitment in sheer effort was to clear the loft.

It is a spacious area.

We had, some 18 years prior, considered converting it into bedrooms and a second bathroom. It was a project and we always glanced upwards at the hatch cover upon passing under it every day imagining what it would be like. However, there is an informal terminology for it, one of those Laws along the lines of "if there is a big useful space it will always fill up with stuff" or something along those lines if I could think of anything witty and clever.

Sure enough, it became a seemingly endless void to receive willingly the old cot, surplus beds as the children grew out of them, reams of artwork from playgroup, pre-school, infants and juniors followed by stacks of exercise books from big school. As parents we were reluctant to throw anything away from the formative years of our three offspring. We did, after all, have plenty of storage for such important things.

In addition the loft became the dumping ground for the Christmas decorations. These increased year on year in amount and size. We even had a small treasure chest shaped wooden box exclusively for baubles plus two clear plastic trunks for the lights, tinsel, musical whimsies and ephemera plus a loose open bag for the assortment of wicker formed stars.

Other boxes made their way up there. It became a transit area for out of favour toys. Beanie Babies, for a few short years, regular purchases for birthdays, stocking fillers or as an easy exit strategy in gift shops whilst on holidays were particularly well represented in that half way house between being a constant companion for a small child and a radiator mascot on the council rubbish truck.

Those lovingly crafted and hand knitted dolls, angels, dare I say Golliwogs, teddy bears and amorphous forms took up further space following their persecution and demonisation by in the pursuit of Health and Safety. I can imagine the many hours spent by elderly ladies, Women's Institute members and friends of Grandma and Nanna to produce such individual gifts and their subsequent horror in being informed that they had actually created a choking, fire and toxic hazard putting at risk the lives of their loved ones.

I have a determined policy not to throw away books and so a few crate fulls of coffee table type presentations, works on the Royal Family, picture guides to the British Isles, Planes and Ships of the world began to add weight and volume to what was already in the loft. Every so often I would shift around the items to retrieve other things or out of concern if a particular bit of bedroom ceiling showed hairline cracks under the increasing tonnage.

The holiday suitcases took up another section, covered up with dust sheets in readiness for the once a year overseas trip.

Loose and random sized cartons filled in the gaps between larger items and these contained equally loose and random things. We had amassed an obscene amount of childrens toys and games but fully justified in the development of intelligence, co-ordination and the abilty of our youngsters to "play nice" with the other children.

Unfortunately most of the jigsaw puzzles had exploded from their boxes and pieces of scenes of Northumberland, Camberwick Green, London, Telly Tubby Land, the Scottish Highlands and steam trains at full speed had intermingled beyond reasonable effort to salvage.

Every year there emerged a must have piece of merchandise, Tracy Island, Furbies, Scooters, I lose consciousness thinking about them and how much was spent in the corpotate toy warehouses but they are all present in the lower eaves of the loft.

Fad, fashion and peer pressure play their part and as parents we must follow or be damned.

The same aisles of the huge emporiums threw forth those bulky square packages of board games. Nothing has really changed from my own childhood in that Buckaroo, Mousetrap, Operation, Hungry Hippos and Battling Tops are still being peddalled but in slightly tweaked lid graphics and more sophisticated Tv adverts to appeal to more sophisticated children but not enough to alienate reminiscent mums and dads. Such a game would have been clamoured for, our parents relentlessly nagged and cajoled from about August whereas nowadays it is nothing more than something to pad out the Santa Sack. In fact a bit of a manual amusement for kids brought up on electronic media.

Baby booties, first shoes and welly boots, Christening robes, blankets, best going out clothes, romper suits, bibs, winter coats and hats had all been carefully preserved and on being handed down the foldaway ladder to my wife were immediately raised to her nose to be sniffed to capture the essence of being a Mother. She soon thereafter had to resort to an inhaler from the ingestion of a decade and more of debris and grime that had permeated into the plastic bags, kicking off an asthma attack.

There were many, many other things in that loft. For brevity's sake we shall refer to them as miscellenea or just rubbish. Nothing really appealed as one of those chance discoveries of an antique or rarity category. I knew that anyway but you can always hope.

The thought of clearing out the roofspace had been a constant since putting the house up for sale in 2011. I had intended to do it over a Bank Holiday weekend, during any other short seasonal breaks or even just booking time off for work for the sake of getting it done. All the best laid plans.....etc.

The 21 days to legal completion was motivation enough and with a tentative prising open of the hatch cover and even more cautious lowering of a guillotine like ladder we gathered for the event.

Some decisions whether to keep or chuck were easy. The landing was like a resettlement area, seemingly the whole of our world on the move. We sniffed from suppressed emotion but mostly on account of the fine particles of dust which drifted down in the sunshine from the skylight in the slate roof. I happily wore an old policemans cap from the old dressing up box for the duration.

Over a three day period amounting to about 16 hours of accumlated labour the loft floor came into sight. It was a momentous discovery.

We had done it at last. The treasured items would accompany us on the move. The rest, which represented the largest proportion of the contents of the loft were stuffed crudely and disrespectfully into the large skip on the street outside and shortly to contribute to landfill.

The nicest knitted toys peered expectantly over the brim hoping for a lorry with a good flat radiator frontage on which to spend the rest of their days chewing flies.

lost in transportation

Exceptional circumstances prevented me from blogging yesterday for which I apologise after 2 years without missing a deadline. This was down to making myself and my family homeless having sold up after 18 years. I did tell them honest. Anyway the experience has summoned forth a lot of material and I am working on it now. Temporary accommodation is on a farm with no Internet and so I have had to come into the nearest population centre to log on.

Be back soon.

Outstanding in someone else's field

I was a Young Farmer in name only.

Strange really because I had no connection to things rural apart from a distant relative of my father who had a some sort of a farm in Somerset and the fact that our back garden, on the very edge of town, was onto an agricutural field and lots of green things eventually turning golden brown were grown there.

It was just another form of youth club and as most of my friends at the time were sons of the soil I sort of just wandered into it by default. Our local club met weekly at the old coaching inn in the centre of town to discuss activities for charitable fund raising, competing in the various inter-club competitions, listening to guest speakers on subjects ranging from wild field flowers to artificial insemination, treatment of blight in wheat to avoiding nasty work related accidents such as loss of a limb in a baling machine and buying alcohol under age. Drinking was a big feature of membership. This ranged from sneaking a half of cider up to the meeting in the ballroom of the inn through one of the gullible older members, breaking open one of those Double Diamond party kegs at a social function brought about on the flimsiness of excuses such as first blossom on the potato crop, adequate rain in June or start of the shooting season. Disgracefully I got very tipsy and disorientated one Christmas Eve when, after a blurry few hours carol singing around the local farms, I found myself hiding my remaining cans of beer in the porch at the Parish Church before taking up a last remaining seat opposite my bemused family at Midnight Mass. I was told that I sang well, although a bit loud and enthusiastically, by the Vicar.

It was a very active local club and I willingly volunteered for many of the competitions including public speaking and, my favourite, quizzes. I seem to remember, again, in a bit of a blur, that we won a few of these against other clubs in the region. Fortunately, the main subjects were mostly general knowledge and my complete ignorance of things farming was never exposed or put to the test.

The highlight of the year was the County Rally when all the regional clubs came together over a couple of days to partake in more competition. This was usually on a large farming estate and the challenges did include such stalwarts as ploughing a straight furrow, rigging up a tractor with different types of equipment against the clock and animal husbandry. This did tend to highlight how many club members were non farmers but we were catered for, albeit in a rather patronising way, in such competing categories as speed wiring an electrical plug, decorative egg painting and best dressed urban scarecrow.

I like to think us non rural types did add a bit of variety and street-knowledge to the proceedings and were therefore accepted and tolerated even if we were a bit idealistic and naive about what really went on in that industrial sector. I was constantly surprised by the regular disappearance of a field until recently full of nice cows and plump sheep not really thinking that they had been despatched to the abattoir.

I did benefit greatly from my time as a Young Farmer and my children, when growing up, expressed great amazement at my diverse knowledge of rural things and they have remembered, even now in their late teens and early twenties that a green coloured tractor is infinitley better than a blue one, but the red ones are easily the best.

A bit of a Stalinist Purge, but in a nice way, really.

Keep and treasure.

Hand down to family or friends.

Sell on E Bay.

Donate to a worthy cause.

Take to the tip.

Populate a car boot sale .

Just give away.

Return to rightful owners after protracted period of loan.

Leave on the garden wall with a hand written notice to relocate.

Destroy wantonly and with relish.

These ten courses of action, not in any order, have formed the policy for the systematic decluttering of the family house of 18 years occupancy ahead of its sale.

With two calendar days but realistically 36 hours left to vacate the premises we have had to ramp up the process somewhat.

I have mentioned in previous writings about the large skip which was parked on the road over the last weekend. It was entirely apt that the large metal vessel was of 18 something units so therefore one unit per year of residence.

It was well used. On the evening before it was scheduled to be picked up I expressed concerns over the ability of the collection truck to physical hoist it up on chains onto the flat load bay. I need not have worried because overnight and in the short window of opportunity in daylight before collection a vast horde of organised individuals descended on the skip and extracted shiny and malleable objects and ,in the eye of the beholder, anything of perceived scrap value.

I was actually a bit embarrased when the driver from the waste transfer depot queried whether a 10 something unit would have sufficed given the low level of materials deposited.

Some choice items of our house clearance have been reserved for one of our scavenger neighbours who has been of almost vigilante status over the skip. He lives in the scruffiest house in the street what with the piles of scrap timber and the wreck of a car forming an interesting scheme of garden landscaping in full view of passers by and visitors to our town. Perhaps a candidate for an eco display at a future Chelsea Show.

He will of course have the last laugh being largely self suffcient in combustible material for the foreseeable future.

Much of our accumulated car boot sale stock found its way into the skip. It had been tested on the market and had found no willing takers and so could legitimately be dumped. I got it wrong, I admit now, about the demand for elephant dung paper.

My wife has been very busy on E Bay and successful sales of surplus furniture have meant a regular procession of callers to the door to pick up their purchases. Folk have travelled from some reasonable distance in Yorkshire in pursuit of that bargain, be it an IKEA desk, an IKEA chair, an IKEA glass and backlit display cabinet or in fact anything with Swedish design credentials.

I have been involved in local deliveries to successful bidders. A mirror to an Indian lady, a bike frame to a gangly youth, more Scandinavian self assembly furniture to cottages and estate houses and a collection of crockery oddments to a well to do address in a leafy city suburb.

The sending out of smaller packages has, in my experience, highlighted some considerable differences in the attitude of Post Mistresses towards the E Bay exponent. Some regard my grinning arrival at their window as an inconvenience or a chore whilst others have gone that extra bit to be helpful and with a cheery attitude.

Not naming names but Thorngumbald PO figured badly in my personal consumer ratings whilst Greenwood Avenue were exceptional. Reticence to embrace E-sales is altogether disappointing given that that the Post Office appears to be experiencing a boom time and it is down to the individual E Bay sellers and not much else.

Priority has been given to hand me downs to family and friends. It is nice to keep things in that circle but we have made it clear that speculative selling on and any prospect of profiteering is to be encouraged.

Donations to charity have not proven as easy as you may think. Our High Streets are dominated by sales outlets for national, regional, local and specialist causes but I have borne the brunt of a bit of reluctance from the staff of volunteers to be offered a mixture of items, albeit eminently saleable.

I have been selective in who gets what. This is not based on any specific criteria but more out of self interest as I have concerns, in the following order for my prostate, heart, offspring, potential carcinogenic things, world welfare and any looming prospect of dementia. and any looming prospect of dementia. Sorry, cheap and politically insensitive and incorrect statement. and any looming dementia.

Large donations cause a panic as to whether a van is available for pick up or if there is space in the lock up shop. Only one of the major Charities got me to register eligibility for them to reclaim tax on any actual sales acheived. Perhaps the others thought I was just donating rubbish.

A small box sits forlornly on the landing full of things that we know we have borrowed but we cannot recall from whom. We will just take this with us on the house move, invite everyone in our address book to a warming and hope that they may notice and reclaim their possessions.

Passers by have been understandably suspicious about anything offered for free on the garden wall. A few, with hands on a particular item, have retracted in case they are being captured on film for subsequent release on You Tube, Candid Camera or similar.

I have resisted wanton destruction of miscellaneous things but it may have been fun, particularly given the risk of starting a wild fire in the current climatic conditions.

Whatever the route of redistribution of personal effects it has been an interesting exercise and I can recommend it as much as probably colonic irrigation, squeezing a zit or picking a scab. Have fun!

A Brief History of Sustainable Development in the Written Form

Today marks the second anniversary of my adventure in blogging.



Who would have thought that I would have been able to keep going for all this time.

I would like to say some thankyou's to those amongst the 19,000 and more who have

been gracious to seek out my writings, those who have returned to see if I have improved any

or those who have stumbled into my pages by accident or under the misguided impression

that I have anything to do with that great rock band, BCC, from whom I lifted my blog name.

I know that I have some faithful followers and they have been ,and continue to be ,my inspiration.

They know who they are and their encouragement has sustained my thoughts and the desire to make my blog a living record of a life and its happy moments, trials, tribulations and downright madness.

 

I hope that it will last beyond my own years.

I have some intentions that the resource of my scribblings will one day

form a basis for a book or a collection on a series of themes that I have covered.

That depends on a lot of things falling into place but I will try to make it happen if I can.

I am looking forward to starting my third year in the bloggersphere tomorrow..........

Speak soon

OLS

Suspense and Nonsense

The reigning Monarchs of England should know better than to schedule a visit to Hull during the month of July.

In that month in 1642 Charles 1st gave up his siege of the City after some 3 months of attempts to get hold of the reserves of ammuntion which will have served him and his Royalist supporters in their struggle to resist the Parliamentarians.

The City was a walled fortress at that time and could hold out under attack for many months. Charles had underestimated the resolve of its good citizens and soon gave up and concentrated his eventually futille efforts elsewhere in the country.

The part played by Hull in the early stages of the English Civil War, whilst critical, has long been relegated to a short introductory paragraphs in the history of the country. I have a sneaking suspicion that the ancestors of the ruling classes today still have it in for the City for daring to snub the Monarch. The short form name for the City has long since surpassed the grander title of Kingstown Upon Hull as though an insult, a four letter word.

In July 1981 a similar Royal snub took place but this has never to this day been revealed to the nation apart from a brief article in a school magazine of that time.

The engagement diary of Elizabeth the Second had an entry pencilled in for the 17th of the month.

This was to mark a fantastic British engineering feat by the official opening of the Humber Bridge, then the longest single span suspension bridge in the world (now relegated to about 5th).

The region was anticipating a great day of civic pride, not a day too soon, as the construction of the bridge had been a very prominent project in full view of the taxpayers for the previous 9 years. The manufacturers of union jack bunting had been working overtime and all manner of souvenirs from postcards to Doulton mugs were available free to dignatories but at full retail price to the main population.

The scene was set at the row of futuristic Toll booths for the Royal ceremony and with a large grandstand erected close to the similarly futuristic control room and adminstrative block. As the bridge was actually opened for traffic in the June the official area had been set up on the day before the arrival of the Queen.

As a sign of more innocent times there was little or no security on the roadway approach to the Toll booths on the 16th July.

This allowed a small group of sixth form students to overcome their teenage self consciousness and carry out their plot to steal the glory for the honour of opening the Humber Bridge.

Three of the group formed the advanced party, Dave Huzzard, whose name will be changed to Ted Huzzard to protect his identity wore his or his father's dress suit with trainers but less cumberbund. At booth number 1 at the cordoned off official area one of the students in the raiding party attached the end of a length of bunting to the building and walked across to hold the stretched line of flags taut. The third student officiously handed over a pair of round ended scissors to Dave, the Master of Ceremonies and with a few semi anarchistic words the deed was done.

The group skipped off nonchalantly ,very pleased with themselves but prepared in body and spirit for any backlash from the authorities. Transportation to the Colonies  had been a sanction in their minds for a treasonable act of this nature.

No one who witnessed the strange chain of events could really be bothered to raise any challenge. It may have been the case that the students were just one more group with the same intention who had visited the Bridge that very day.

(repeated from a couple of years ago)

The Bells, the doorbells.

First impressions are very important.

I was brought up by parents who themselves had come through life with a very high emphasis placed on smartness, politeness, speaking when spoken too and general good manners.

Even though me and my siblings did our best to scuff, muddy up and thoroughly abuse our footwear it was always the case that we would leave for school with a well polished pair of shoes. We were a rough and tough adventurous group of kids and became regularly soiled from our exploits in the fields surrounding our housing estate, in the bottom of ditches in pursuit of sticklebacks, frog spawn and water boatmen, falling off our bikes into dirty puddles and from really getting involved in games of football or wider ranging battles with the smelly children from the other side of town.

Whatever state we returned home in you can be assured that within a few minutes we were scrubbed up good and proper so as to be fit and ready to recieve what we thought was royalty, but was usually our Grandparents or Aunts and Uncles on a regular weekly visit.

The application of a shoe brush, plain soap and water and a comb looked after our outward appearance.

Our parents also made sure that we knew our pleases and thank you's and that we spoke clearly. Such things made a very good impression on our elders and became second nature to us.

This upbringing has served us well through our adult lives. It may even have got me my first proper job against more experienced candidates. I came over well in the interview because the prospective employers were obviously like minded with my parents generation and I blagged it on the basis of shiny shoes and good diction.

Many may call it a case of bullshit baffles brains but I am convinced that it was actually a strategy enacted over the previous 25 years of my life.

Now, in the second decade of the 21st Century, first impressions remain important although you are more likely to be judged on the type of car you drive, the designer label of your clothes or even down to what mobile phone or tablet you have on display prominently. It is all, as they say "top-show" but just watch or listen to a soundbite in the media and a thousand wannabees are actively engaged in making it in the big time on this very same false pretence.

I am not trying to put myself forward as an old school type. In fact I am a total hypocrite in this first impression beauty parade and this no more evident than in my latest purchase.

A doorbell, or rather wireless electronic door chimes.

There is nothing more annoying than calling at a house and pressing the bell with no reaction whatsoever from the occupants. Of course they may think that, dressed in a suit, I am trying to sell them a domestic appliance, Wowcher or religion and could simply be hiding away until I give up and leave.

 I get the message if the dog goes ballistic behind the letter box and then falls silent on the command of its owner lying prone on the floor below the living room window cill.

At the other extreme I can be standing on the step, face to face with the home owner and yet we cannot engage in conversation until the last few bars of "Yellow Rose of Texas" has completed and then just leaving an awkward silence.

Some chimes are plain nasty, cheap and tinny whilst others are akin to a full orchestra in the entrance hall. I have not had much luck with recent purchases of doorbells. This may be down to just going for the cheapest at B&Q and in chimes you do get what you pay for. The instruction leaflet is far too detailed for such an uncompromising item. I just want to put in the batteries, fix up the push button and receiver and get on with my life.

Oh no, it is necessary to train the equipment in its wireless capabilities so that it can recognise the chosen frequency and not interrupt or interfere with other similar products in the same street. The choice of tunes is also daunting but on a cheap version it can be very difficult to differentiate or even identify the source material.

My last doorbell was acquired to help us to sell the house so as not to miss any viewers who may have given up on the doorstep. It broke quickly and many callers found it unnerving when I opened the door quickly even before they had lifted a digit to press the bell. It must have come over as being a bit desperate or just downright creepy and may have contributed to our 24 months on the market before getting an offer.

I have bought the new chimes for our buyers. They may not like the choice and range but I am reassured by having spent more than four times my usual allocated budget on doorbells or in other terms, as much on one item as laid out in the last 18 years.

I did not of course follow the instructions but just fixed it to the wall in the prescribed locations and it works well in my opinion.

It is the same make and model apparently as our adjoining neighbours. Funny though, whenever someone announces their presence on my doorstep with a press on the back lit button it appears that my good neighbours think it is for them and open their door only to be annoyed at an apparent case of kids "knocking off ginger" or whatever those smelly children from the other side of town used to get up to.

Nuts and Bolt

There is a lot of talk about who is the fastest human on the planet.

Of course, Mr Bolt has the well deserved honour of retaing this position in recent years over his main disciplines of the one hundred and two hundred metres sprints.

However, in our house we feel that we can put up a valid and meaningful challenge on a pro-rata basis.

I could, in my late teens and early twenties put up a credible twelve seconds time for the one hundred metres, given, I accept a favourable wind, slightly downhill running track, a good bottle of lucozade and with the incentive of a book token prize for first place.

I did enter races at school and in my Polytechnic days and with a very real seriousness of intention to do myself justice in full kit of spikes, floaty airy shorts a la Seb Coe and vest top.

However, the claim of being able to give Usain Bolt a run for his money (that would certainly be nice in the literal sense) amongst the male contingent of our house is not strictly based on athletic methods, a training regime or with any intential pretender status.

Our efforts are very rarely witnessed apart, on occasion, from when the wife is in or the neighbours are out in their garden.

There is no prior warning of what subsequently takes place.

We can be sitting quietly minding our own business and acting our respective ages when suddenly there may be a slight disturbance in the ambient sounds in our surroundings.

Our ears prick up.

A filtering process attempts to screen out the noise of the nearby dual carriageway and its thundering traffic flow, exclude the sounds generated by active gardeners from use of their (dependant upon the season) lawn mowers, hedge trimmers, leaf blowers and branch chippers, ignore the rythmic chimes of the ice cream van and the excited exclamations of the local children.

It is a particular skill honed over the history of mankind from our prehistoric ancestors.

To illustrate this just substitute the 21st century practices with volcanic activity (traffic), frantic whittling of mammoth tusks (the neighbours), the clamour for a bit of freshly killed game (ice cream van) and the excited exclamations of the local children (ditto).

The outcome of this genetically inherited process is the isolating of a single distant but fast approaching sound.

Only at this point will we, in unison, shout out at the top of our voices "AIRCRAFT , QUICK,OUTSIDE".

You see, we are a bit geeky when it comes to plane spotting but then again I am convinced that a good proportion of the UK population, male and female alike are so inclined. It is something that hits a chord in our subconscious and always, with me, asks the question "how is it possible for man to fly in the first place". (Answers via the comments section please but restricted to six words).

There follows a rapid sprint from a sitting start towards a rough vectored guess to be able to actually see the source of the aircraft noise. Beware any furniture, furnishings, pets or family on a potential collision course.

When I lived in Lincolnshire in the 1970's (I was born in 1963) there was an altogether more leisurely stroll to spot the passing planes.

The huge Vulcan bomber announced itself from some considerable distance .I could even dilute an orange squash or extract an ice-pop from the freezer and still be in a relaxed pose at the bottom of the garden to wave at the lumbering and distinctive delta winged beast as it passed over. Even at cruising speed the noise loosened the fillings and made the heart skip a beat because your brain was temporarily unable to function in ordering normal bodily functions.

I was spoilt for choice in that part of the country what with the RAF and USAF being regular users of the airspace in training for an anticipated nuclear war.

English Electric Lightnings were easily identified from their stubby wingspan and snub nose. My absolute favourites by a long way were the Phantom jets, sleek, menacing and again terrifyingly loud.

Todays fast jets constitute much more of a challenge for aircraft sprinters.

Usually flying at high altitude and high Mach velocity it can be near impossible to even glimpse an outline of a Typhoon or the vintage Tornado's but what about that noise!

Jet engines do have raw power and aggression and we are regularly treated to a fly past being again on a bit of a popular route to and from the Lincolnshire airfields and the North York Moors or Scottish Highlands.

There is something missing though.

The jets are a bit impersonal and aloof.

They just cannot compete with the resonance and audio range that comes from a propellor engined aircraft.

I do not mean the rather weak and sometimes erratic and frankly disturbingly stuttering and faltering output of a small private plane of which there are plenty from the flying club at the local airport but the extremely rare sound of a Rolls Royce Merlin or a Pratt and Whitney.

These evocative soundtracks can only emanate from a handful of surviving world war two planes, the Lancaster Bomber, Spitfire, Hurricane and the Dakota. It is with the hope of spotting these very same machines that we break allcomers records for the aircraft sprint and we will do it every time just for the opportunity of witnessing these historic aircraft for a fleeting few moments over our back yard.

We are of course not stupid. Do you think that we would really hang around each and every day just for the remote possibility of seeing these iconic bits of heritage? What are the odds on that? No, we just log onto the Battle of Britain Memorial Flight website and make an educated guess as to whether their next round of public engagements which could be anywhere in the country could possibly involve crossing our own little bit of airspace. That way we can be sure of being in tip top condition for the aircraft sprint and to give Bolt something to think about.

One Man's rubbish....

The water cooler in the office. By the bins if you happen to be a smoker. At the bus stop waiting for a delayed service. In the queue for something, way back around the corner.

All pretty good places to engage in a conversation but trumped in all aspects by the ambience created by a domestic rubbish skip.

I have taken delivery today of an 18 cubic ,something, skip and in the process of struggling down the driveway laden with the contents of the garage, greenhouse, roof space and Kelly Cottage (The grandly named shed in homage to one of my cycling heroes Sean Kelly) and dumping it in the rather jaded metal container I have had more meaningful dialogue with estranged neighbours, complete strangers and casual passers by than in all the eighteen years of residing in the same house.

It is a grossly underestimated ice breaker in social circles.

It is a  hot topic to start a conversation such as todays examples " are you just moving in or moving out?", "is it falling down?", "has someone died?" and "what is the name of your reclamation company?".

These are comments from the dog walkers, those taking doctors orders for an afternoon perambulation in their local area or the plain nosey, inquisitive and envious.

On just about every return to the skip carrying bits of wood, ironwork, half empty paint tins (I am that type of bloke rather than half full), bits of children's broken toys, persistent returnees from car boot sale stock and pieces of bike I have encountered someone engaged in the practice of skip diving or from my own personal observations today skip dipping.

Some item has caught their eye in passing and furtive glances follow to determine if they can just lift it out and flit down the street but inevitably they are prepared to linger awhile and ask for permission. Of course the former gets the adrenalin going but conscience, good citizenship and decency prevail.

It is a bit like that fleeting moment when shoplifting has momentary appeal even though you have the full amount in cash in your wallet, or so I am told.

My first depositing of items in the skip was arbitrary, in effect just to make a start on the major project of clearing out nearly two decades of surplus items in house, garage, garden and loft.

Initial interest from members of the public  in certain of the items led me to begin a strategic placement of goods in easily accessible positions in the skip and soon enough they had simply evaporated between my trips.

Pictures, hung and enjoyed for a few years of our occupation were very popular amongst the skip dippers as were bits of glassware from those standard issue vases that come with the expensively gifted Interflora flower arrangement, legs from broken up old pine furniture, housewares and anything metal, so pots and pans with no handles, an enamelled bread bin and storage vessels.

I started a sort of private sweepstake involving specific items.

First up was a wicker log basket. This I placed upright and centre in the fast filling skip making it very visible to all those on the street.

It was a dead cert to be taken on the basis that I have been regularly and rudely awoken in the early hours by the ungodly sound made by local residents dragging behind them scavenged and salvaged tree branches and boughs after a particularly violent storm.

These are the wood burning contingent amongst the resident population who have sought to reduce their heating and energy costs by installing and perpetually feeding a monster of an appliance. I fear that in the next twenty years the upsurge in the wood burning folk will contribute to the deforestation of much of our suburban areas.

Sure enough a lady whom I caught in the act respectfully asked for the basket and I was not inclined to impede or refuse this ultimate act of recycling.

Other skip dippers are more obvious and blatant in their intentions. I do not mean in any fanfare upon their sighting of a skip but more their arriving with an empty wheel barrow which is quite a big hint.

One chap, whose face I recognised, from farther down my street had already commandeered the remains of the rusty iron chimnea although I know not how he managed to lift the thing given that it took two of us to put it there in the first place.

He was, lets say in the interests of being polite and politically correct, three sequins short of a jump suit but I warmed to his enthusiasm and lets face it, his absolute amazement at the contents of my skip.

In his obviously highly intelligent but hyperactive mind he had already allocated each and every item to a current, prospective or long term project.

He was planning to build a garage to accommodate the Oxford Cambridge car which, minus headlights and a square inch of sound metal served as an unusual flower bed in his front garden. The well to do elements of the residents committee for the street regularly expressed their unhappiness at the unsightly example of the British Car industry in such a prominent position and he had become resigned to the fact that he was being compelled to do something about it. The contents of my skip had in his minds eye formed themselves into a more than adequate motor storage facility.

Timeframe is essential in the art, or is it the science of skip dippy diving, and I reassured him that I was not planning on ringing the waste company until after the weekend.

That seemed to invigorate him even more and mention was made of his mate John who had a car to go with his trailer. Apparently the tow bar previously attached to said Oxford Cambridge had succumbed to the dreaded corrosion. It was necessary to call in a favour. I expected John to be as challenged in sequin terms.

 My other sweepstake was that John would roll up in a Land Rover bearing those stickers of menopausal intent "One life-Live It".

In  real time it is now 20.16 and in the fading light of a very busy fetching and carrying day I can see faint shadows of visitors to the skip, a bit like zombies around a blood bank.

My new best mate alerted me to the possibility of a posse of travellers descending on the skip overnight  and stripping it of anything of salvageable value before throwing it into an unmarked Transit van.

As far as I am concerned he is welcome to have the entire contents.

I am fairly relaxed and philosophical about the whole thing.

I have categorised the items in the hired skip as rubbish, surplus goods, tat, impulse buys, embarrassingly unstylish things and scrap.

I am just thrilled that, to my new found Womble-like acquaintances, it represents a veritable treasure trove.

Dead Dog exhumed

There are three questions that a child must ask of parents.

It may take some time to summon up enough courage to raise queries of such potential magnitude but be assured that it will happen and you must be prepared for the answers. The posing of such will change forever the relationship you have thus far enjoyed with your parents. The responses may not be pretty or particularly easy to comprehend and assimilate into what is likely, even in the quite young, to be a firmly entrenched and preconceived notion regarding such matters.

The first question is the inevitable 'Where do babies come from?'

The second question is ' Am I adopted?' and the critical third question, 'Was I annoying as a child?'.

The first two questions can be flim-flammed over quite easily or in the former there may soon be an illustrated medical type book amongst the shelf of family reference sources, between the Readers Digest Book of Home Improvements and a Blue Peter Annual.

The second one can be dealt with vaguely through an examination of the archive that is the stock of family photograph albums. By this process there can be the identification of certain inherited and genetic dispositions which in our family include a flat section on the crown of the nose, a generational skip of ginger hair and bright green eyes. Any fanciful ideas of having been abandoned at birth by nobility, circus-folk or a celebrity rapidly evaporate under such overwhelming evidence that you are not adopted.

I think that now that I am 49 years old (birthday just on the 17th past) I am ready to ask the third pivotal question.

I do suspect that I was a very annoying child. A bit hyperactive, noisy and tiresome, likely to go on and on about something very trivial as though it was the most important thing in the world, high maintenance, a bit wingy and needy and always on the scrounge. Not much changed there then.

I was very inquisitive or nosey as it can also be labelled. I was into everything, meddling, airing an opinion but based on no understanding or empathy whatsoever with what was going on.

For some reason, from the age of 11, I kept a diary. It was a mixture of quite mundane entries such as ' School today', ' Played footie with Spog Needham' , 'Took Ruff (grandmothers dog) for a walk but it died'.

In contrast I also made a point of making a running commentary on world events. These included various atrocities by the IRA with graphic detail on fatalities and injuries, the Turkish Invasion of Cyprus and the sinking of the merchant vessel Derbyshire. The radio and tv news broadcasts were always on in the house so I could not really avoid picking up bits of information. Certain stories of tragedy and gore would, in equal proportion, fascinate and petrify me. Of course I would never actually stay around and listen to the full story, but rather latch on to a particularly thrilling, scary, morbid and exciting aspect and run with that to the annoyance of everyone in the house and the neighbourhood. I was also quite impressionable and gullible. The mean kids did take advantage of what was just a complete unquestioning trust and faith that I had in others. I was not actually victimised or bullied in any way and indeed I was generally left alone by those intent on trouble for the simple fact that they found me strange and annoying as well.

Oblivious I must have been at the time to my childhood character traits because on reflection I had a wonderful, secure and privileged childhood  and that has given me  the outlook on life that I have today. Perhaps I will hold off asking that third question after all. Annoying, eh?

Dug up from an original posting back in 2012

Scribblings of a tormented youth

Having a bit of a clear out in the loft and came across a collection of my writings when I was in that angst stage of late teens way back in 1981.  It was utter rubbish. I must have been mad or stupid to think I could make a go of being a writer. Probably for the best that I trained, instead, to be a Chartered Surveyor.......um.

The Persecution of The Elm.

Children had swung innocently on its lower boughs. The more intrepid youths had scaled its trunk with all the concentration of a climber on The Eiger. In the upper canopy precarious platforms were built on which the story lines of Amazonians and Tarzan were re-enacted with great imagination.

The seasons had been marked by the sprouting buds, early and full blooms of leaves, the cascade of the same in the autumn and, in winter, a lonely silhouette of skyward pointing spikes.

The Elm tree had always been a focus of attention as an object of natural beauty. It could be manipulated as a playground, provide a shady canopy for the occasional picnic party and even provide a source of fuel as, each year the March gales claimed a branch or two.

But now, in old age, the Elm was suffering.

Within its heartwood and sap it felt a dripping and trickling as though its life blood were being decanted away. It was not a normal process of age but a pain inflicted by a tiny living organism thriving as a parasite. It was supplanting the life of the Elm in favour of its own existence. It was an invasion witnessed so many times in the parallel of human history - the fight of the Aztecs against the onslaught of the Conquistadors, the plight of the native and indigenous peoples of North America and Australia and the fight of refugees from tyranny and mayhem.

The Elm was a victim of exploitation. It was being abused and strangled by the cankerous element within its very self. It had to put up a fight in order to have any prospect of survival.

Already there were physical signs of outward decay reflecting the inner torment. Its leaves, once eavesdropping on casual conversations below were noticeably thinning in number and those who had managed to flourish against the temptation of sleep were weak and blighted.

Children, the very joy in its existence, were steered away from the pale imitation of a tree by anxious parents as though it harboured a malicious intent of a murderous glint in the pus seeping bark.

In the absence of tiny voices or the caress of small, inquisitive hands the Elm began to wither. The boughs, unloved and frigid lost their natural suppleness. The platforms so marvellously engineered in the upper reaches rotted away from lack of attention and fell to the ground.

The delicate songbirds, previously constant companions, who had perched on the branches declined the hospitality of the now increasingly bleak environment. Their places were willingly taken by the dark and ominous shadows of carrion . The once fertile and fecund tree now resembled a bulbous and clumsy fruiting body.

The Elm was no longer elegant in the landscape but a scar on the backcloth of the blue sky and greenery of the surrounding countryside. As with all diseased elements in the natural world it would not be long before the Elm would be singled out for felling.

Already the woodman had left his mark in the form of a large white cross in white paint. It was a symbol of impending death as significant as if found on the door of a plaque house or in a Star of David patched onto the lapel of a small, innocent child.

Where before, in dark times, an ancestor of the Elm may have formed a gibbet it was now as if it was itself the criminal and destined for the axe.

With a jovial whistle the woodman wielded his work tool and with the first swing it embedded deep into the sensitive bark. The Elm visibly shuddered at this wounding and with it the last shrivelled and dried leaf was released and deserted its vigil.

Each successive swing and strike penetrated deeper and deeper into the soul of the tree, severing dried and arid veins until with one devastatingly final flash of the tempered steel the great Elm wheeled and crashed to the ground.

No one heard the scream of the Elm, the once majestic but gentle and beloved Elm as it made a subtle and intentional movement in its fall and by doing so crushed the woodman in a frenzied mass of dead wood. As the tree breathed its last the cankerous sheen of the poison had the faint resemblance of the murderous glint of the eye of a killer.

Go to Infinity and on a little further...

I am always a bit nervous if I sit too close to Buzz Lightyear.

He, or rather a large Disney action figure , has been in our family now for about 14 years.

It is not a personality thing, after all I cannot compete with his Space Ranger status and powers, but rather a Health and Safety issue.

For a start, he is extremely bulky and heavy. He stands about 25 cm tall in his best cosmic gear from the green toe capped weight boots up to the highest point of the dome of his helmet. There is a solid density to his midriff which is attributable to the electronics that power the authentic sights, sounds and mechanics that make the figure so enduring and appealing to children.

I do admit to having re-enacted a few scenes from the Pixar animated movie in those few precious moments after kids bedtime and I can confirm that it is good fun.

It was bought, one Christmas as a main present for our youngest after he and his sisters really became sold on the whole Toy Story thing. Disney have merchandising down to a fine art and after saturating the media in the build up to the second of the films the only way to get any peace in the house, ironically, was to buy in the well packaged item.

At one stage we were awash with products and goods endorsed by Toy Story especially the smaller static figures that came with a McDonalds Happy Meal. We never ever achieved a full set of those on offer but certainly amassed a whole army of the green aliens from the Pizza Planet restaurant, numerous Emperor Zurgs and miscellaneous other characters including Mr Potato Head. Other goods ranged from back-packs to drink cups, stickers, colouring-in books, tableware and bed linen.

Our son was only 4 years old when he excitedly ripped open the large wrapped box on Christmas morning. He could barely lift up Buzz Lightyear and we, as parents, were concerned that there could be a hazard if the toy fell over and trapped him out of our view or earshot.

The operating buttons, switches, opening flaps and moveable limbs were enough to keep him engrossed without the need to erect the figure to its full height.

Buzz gave many years of imaginative play for all of our children but inevitably he was soon to be confined to the old toys box up in the attic. He was remarkably preserved after all manner of neglect and abuse in the name of active use and for the first time in my recollection we had kept the original packaging.

I did make a tentative search on E Bay, purely out of curiosity you understand, to see if other parents were cashing in on the obsolete toys of their children. They certainly were. I could sympathise equally if the proceeds were going into a future college fund or on a small menopausal sports car.

Just this week in one of those rash decisions to clear out the loft I came across Buzz Lightyear. He had been tucked away in a box of soft toys, nestled amongst hand knitted scarecrows and angels, wedged in with the pliable and mouldable Beany Babies and in the company of a great many and variable sized teddy bears.

Through some freakish degrading process in the plastics which made up his body Buzz had turned from his bright and vibrant colours into a pale, sickly looking and tarnished thing. This may have been due to a manufacturing fault whereby not enough UV inhibitors had been mixed in the injection moulding process and even though sheltered from direct sunlight there had been a gradual break down in the composition and pigments.

It was both shocking and upsetting to behold and I did turn my head away in a shameful shunning of the great action hero. Out of sympathy I brought him back down into the habitable part of our house and he once again took up pride of place on the playroom window cill.

This familiar sight meant that he soon blended into our lives once more and we took him for granted. That was until one of my late night wanderings when, thinking I had heard a noise outside I came down to the playroom which had a good vantage point over the back garden.

I had forgotten about a particular trait of the action figure and the surreal sight of Buzz and his luminous body parts caused much fear in me. Then I remembered why I was always a bit nervous of getting too close to this heroic character.

I had read about the adverse effects of the radiation given out by luminous paints and substances on male parts in particular. What must have looked very strange to any nightime prowlers was the sight of me, cupped hands around my genitals backing away slowly from a ghostly apparition of a galactic superstar in the comfort of my own home.

A First Time for Everything. Part Five

I have decided to embark on a bit of a self indulgent journey, well, OK, a very large self indulgent one as I am not generally known to do "bits". The theme is to be recollections of the first time of doing or experiencing something that is now commonplace and indeed not today worthy of mention because it is the norm in the lives of most of us. Part One was my first glimpse of a Japanese made car, followed by my first experience of Chinese food ,the arrival of the continental quilt and going out for a meal on a date. Today.......

In these times of easy and cheap travel you may find it surprising, or even amazing that my first ever flight in an airliner was when I was in my late 30's but that was the situation with our first family holiday abroad.

It had always been so much easier with young children to pack up the car and go on vacation within the British Isles rather than contemplate being reliant on others for transport and sustenance. At least, if we needed to stop for toilet break, cup of tea or just for a snooze we could pull over by the road or in a scenic rest area and get on with what needed to be done.

There was so much of our own country to see that travel to foreign parts was not a priority in order to see and enjoy great sights, sounds and atmospheres. The children could be enthused with our own history by a walk along a section of Hadrian's Wall, an outlook from the elevation of Edinburgh Castle, beachcombing in Cornwall, skimming pebbles off the Northumberland coast, finding dead sheep on a Scottish Lochside or looking at old buildings in our fine cities.

The catalyst to our inaugural adventure to Greece, or rather the Ionian Island of Kefalonia was that Captain Corelli movie which showed a fantastic terrain, white sandy beaches, a clear blue ocean and so much more.

We started from scratch as none of us had a current passport. Clothes and sensible but appropriate footwear had to be acquired but it was something of a guessing game as to what temperatures and humidity we would experience out there.

We travelled in an English August in wet weather gear and woollies and were taken aback by how little our fellow passengers were wearing as we stood around in Manchester Airport in the early hours of the morning for the 7am scheduled flight. Our rookie status must have been very obvious. We huddled together not confident enough to wander about in the shops and eateries airside. I was guilty of regularly delving into my small rucksack to check and recheck the paperwork which, itself, was meticulously arranged in strict order in clear plastic wallets.

We squinted at the departures board every time it flickered and displayed a change even though our destination was well down the rankings. We were very early for the preliminary steps but so well prepped that we sailed through the check-in, baggage checks and security screening with no drama or excitement apart from the novelty of it all.

I was always, before the event, apprehensive about flying and I admit to some palpitations during the sprint to take off speed and then the rapid climb to the first stomach churning turn. I remained calm on the outside so as not to startle or embarrass the children who were, in any case, enthralled by the noise and view from the small windows.

It would be a three hour flight but it passed quickly, what with the constant attention given by the cabin crew and offers of food or other goodies on a regular basis.

What struck me first about Greece was the sheer heat as we stepped off the plane and walked across the concrete apron to the small island terminal. I had not been prepared for it and every pore in my body opened up and leaked out instantaneously.

We boarded a coach for the transfer to our accommodation. The photo in the brochure had shown a front door, one window and some whitewashed interiors with sparse but adequate furnishings. Apart from that there were no clues as to where it was or what the outlook or surroundings were like. The numbers on the bus dwindled rapidly as we wound along the narrow roads and individuals, couples or family groups alighted and disappeared up or down a path above or below the carriageway.

We were one of the last lot to leave the hot, sweaty bus with the tour rep ticking us off her list and pointing vaguely in the direction of a two storey modern apartment block. It was a compact place, deep, dark and thankfully cool for the early morning as we flopped out and rested from jet lag.

The lack of any supplies led me to venture out in what was now the full midday sun. It was a foolhardy but typically English thing to do and three hours later and a bit frazzled and red I returned with a large bag of crisps, some bread and a few bottles of mineral water.

The nearest settlement of any note had been some distance away over the hills. The true folly of my expedition was only evident a couple of days later when the same journey in our hire car seemed to take an age.

Being Greek is very much a frame of mind. It is a characteristic dictated by keeping out of the harsh sun and heat, doing things slowly and enjoying them. These attributes are again completely alien to us English.

The best and most comfortable times in the day were the very early morning and the late evening. This was when the Greek population did what they had to do in work and chores but not forgetting setting aside a good time to just talk, eat and drink. We expected to do a lot of sightseeing and to absorb the culture and heritage of the island but our most active hours coincided with the shutting down of activity by the locals.

The main street of Argostoli, marble paved was deserted from midday to tea time giving the impression of a sleepy backwater rather than the thriving economy that it was.

My assimilation into Greekness was slow.

It included being patient from ordering a cool drink or a snack meal which could take an age. Excess movement was discouraged in favour of just finding the shadiest spot and staying there. Shopping had to be savoured rather than to be attacked and completed as quickly as possible. There was a protocol in purchasing everything, a period for reflection and then bargaining. Very un-English but perfectly logical and understandable in one of the oldest cultures of the world.

I gradually acclimatised to Greek hours and practices.

This was assisted by my personal discovery of the Greek Salad and the music of Stamatis Spanoudakis.

I would order and savour that same dish at every opportunity. There was some degree of interpretation of the components across the island with varying amounts of fresh tomatoes, cucumber , onion, feta cheese and olive oil but I was always left with a feeling of contentment and happiness.

I did eventually track down the Spanoudakis CD in a small record shop on the island and our subsequent holidays in Greece seemed to coincide with his next and latest release of atmospheric orchestral and choral offerings.

My CD shelf is fair bulging with half a dozen of his works and the ambience of the sounds of his native country are always close by.

For the rest of the authentic experience I just pop down to the Tesco Express and with a plastic bag of the staple ingredients, donning sandals, shorts and T shirt at any time of the year I am whisked back to those fond memories. As my children say, I have always been a bit of a Greek, or something to that effect.
I am embarrassed to admit that my first flight in a proper airliner was at the age of 38. You may find that hard to believe in a world where taking the plane is as commonplace as taking the bus.

A First time for everything. Part Four

I have decided to embark on a bit of a self indulgent journey, well, OK, a very large self indulgent one as I am not generally known to do "bits". The theme is to be recollections of the first time of doing or experiencing something that is now commonplace and indeed not today worthy of mention because it is the norm in the lives of most of us. Part One was my first glimpse of a Japanese made car, followed by my first experience of Chinese food and yesterday the arrival of the continental quilt. Today........

I was brought up as one of five children and had two sisters, one older and one younger than me.

I like to think that I was at ease with and sensitive to the opposite sex having grown up and experienced life with them at close quarters.

There was always a house full of our friends at any one time because we had a good play-friendly back garden, a super metal climbing frame and lashings of snacks and orange squash on hand from our doting parents. I thought nothing of playing mixed role playing games which in our minds were innocent and natural such as Doctors and Nurses, Soldiers and Nurses, Spacemen and Space Nurses, Cowboys and Cowgirls with medical training and so on following a certain theme and pattern.

My early years education was at a small town co-educational junior school and I would number a few girls amongst my best friends. When my family moved away to another area in the early 1970's one of my friends who happened to be a girl, so technically a girlfriend, took it upon herself to give me a collection of leaving presents. These included a few Robinsons Jam Gollywog figurines, merchandise from the book character Milly Molly Mandy merchandise and some miscellaneous ornaments of a pony/horse type.

In retrospect I suspect that she was just having a spring clean of her belongings but I acknowledged the sentiment with grateful thanks. I soon swopped the whole lot at my new school for some Tonka Toys.

I think she would have been pleased at my resourcefulness.

As a new arrival a new town it took some time for me to find my bearings but as soon as the school term commenced I was easily integrated into a whole new set of friends.

The age group of 9 to 11, of which I was now part, represented a time of a growing awareness of girls amongst us lads.

Rumours and whispers were rife about who fancied who and the phrase about "going on" was mentioned but having arrived from a different part of the country the customs and language may as well have been from another planet. The school had regular disco's in the assembly hall starting at 4pm and finishing when parents turned up to collect us. This was a legitimate time to talk to girls although the school staff prowled about to make sure there was no physical contact. Slade, The Sweet, Alvin Stardust, Suzi Quattro and the like were the soundtrack for that particular phase in my life.

I seem to recall that I was always getting invited to girls' birthday parties and would often be the only boy there so I took this to be a reasonable indication of popularity. Perhaps the curious parents of the celebrating child just wanted to see for themselves this polite new boy who wore a sports jacket and slacks. Fortunately my style was some years before William Hague emerged on the scene and irrevocably my smart attire became associated with that idiot.

One girl always seemed to be smiling at me at the same parties. We seemed to assume the roles of girlfriend and boyfriend although never held hands or, to my knowledge, even spoke to each other. This apparently was the assumption for the next five years, a sort of arranged betrothal by proxy or default. It became a bit of an in joke amongst my school mates. For those imagining this to be the beginning of a schoolyard romance that led, eventually to marriage are completely mistaken. Out of the five year, so called relationship, we were in fact at different schools for three of them. So there. Lesley Whitehand, if you ever get to read this I liked you a bit but we were never compatible. I hope you have had a good life over the last 40 years since we "broke up".

My subsequent passing of the 11 plus exam and entry to an all boys Grammar School represented a retrograde step in my slowly emerging confidence with the ladies.

It was some four years  of feeling hot and bothered in the company of girls out of school before I summoned up enough courage to invite one to a disco in the village hall. Amazingly she agreed but copped off with an older boy at an early stage in the evening.

If you think that nothing could be worse than being dumped well, consider that I had to wait around after the disco for my dad to pick me up and drive the girl back to her house as well. Totally cringeworthy.

We moved house again, not because of my track record with girls, but through my Father's job. The next town was as far from the previous sleepy and backward places as you could imagine.

It was a bustling market town and being only six or so miles away from a major regional city  all the attractions for a 17 year old were close by including cinemas, record shops, performance venues and the like. I quickly assimilated into the school and social scene and gradually regained some of my shattered confidence with girls. After a couple of terms I got a date.

The first time for everything, in this instance ,was going out for a date and a meal.

This event is commonplace now ,what with the great range and variety of fast food restaurants, foodie pubs, cafes, bistro's and other outlets serving every conceivable ethnic and home made meal.

The phrase 'lets go out for  meal' was for my seventeen years quite an undertaking, a commitment and a big gamble.

The choice in the local town  was in those days limited to just a restaurant above a pub but the displayed menu that I had studied a few days before the date was within my budget and as I was not yet driving we could walk down from her mum and dad's house.

I scrubbed up well and felt that with a liberal splashing of Brut aftershave on my downy cheeks I was the embodiment of sophistication for my age group. The girl looked nice as well.

Nerves had knotted up my stomach and befuddled my brain as I ordered a gammon steak with a fried egg, chips and peas. A classic mainstay of a restaurant above a pub in 1980.

For some reason I was fooling myself that all previous incidences of my feeling and being sick immediately after eating this menu item had been a freakish occurrence rather than , in truth, a persistent and allergic reaction to one or more of the ingredients.

Sitting down and with some awkwardly forced small talk about school and favourite teachers, who had been on Top of The Pops that week, or my repertoire of Monty Python impressions I felt the liaison was going well.

I had not counted on my meal evoking a stirring and gagging so quickly but, persisting under a sweat beaded brow and shiny nose, I cleared my plate rapidly.

The rest of the evening, or rather the final ten minutes of a total elapsed time of under an hour for the whole date , was spent alone in the gents loo as I inevitably and predictably chucked up everything including the tea I had eaten upon getting home from school.

Credit to the girl, I'm sorry I cannot recall her name, she waited patiently for me to emerge and kindly walked me home.

A First Time for Everything- Part the Third

I have decided to embark on a bit of a self indulgent journey, well, OK, a very large self indulgent one as I am not generally known to do "bits". The theme is to be recollections of the first time of doing or experiencing something that is now commonplace and indeed not today worthy of mention because it is the norm in the lives of most of us. Part One was my first glimpse of a Japanese made car, yesterday was my first experience of Chinese food and today....

Even at an early age I envied the Europeans.

In contrast and lets face it, life in Britain in the late 1960's and early 70's was a bit dull and dire.

Joining the Common Market gave some legitimacy to adopting the fashions, cuisine, fads and fancies of our near but water separated neighbours and gradually the economic entity grew to encompass most of the continent.

The supermarket shelves in our High Streets were close to bursting with the produce of the EU, our roads teeming with their vehicles and we began slowly to assimilate into a lifestyle and culture that traversed boundaries and ethnic differences.

Even though Sweden did not actually join the EU for some years they were at the forefront of the revolution of all things European which lit up our shores.

The Pop Group Abba , in particular, were responsible for a lot of changes in our house.

It was, under their influence, acceptable to sing aloud and dance a bit in a refreshing way after decades of conservatism and formulaic music from the usual home grown artists who just went on and on. Our parents would sometimes host a party for friends and we, as children supposed to be in our beds, would peer down through the bannisters and marvel at the dancing, small talk and revelry thinking to ourselves that, in the distant future, when we were that old we would model our own gatherings on the same.

The women wore flowing kaftan or maxi dresses, a bit like Frieda and Agnetha and some of the men had beards like Benny and Bjorn. If I knew at the age of 10 what chic and cosmopolitan actually meant I would have tried to say them in describing what went on in our through living room at such events.

It was shortly after the Abba fixation that our parents introduced us to the idea of the Continental Quilt, another import from Sweden.

Us siblings were not at all sure how to react to this revolutionary concept.

After all we only knew about bedsheets. The word "quilt" was associated with a sleep over at our grandparents who possessed those heavy, dense, silky finished and rather fusty smelling items of bedding referred to under the same name.

Conventional sheets were, to us,  comforting and at bedtime our parents, after reading a beloved story, would tuck us in so tightly that we felt like we were safe and sound from anything that the bogey man or dark shadows could threaten us with.

It must have been quite a leap of faith for our parents at the time.

The airing cupboard above the hot water cylinder was crammed full of cotton sheets, towelling covers, bedspreads and a multitude of linen. These had been requested and gratefully received as bottom drawer gifts, wedding presents and no doubt formed the basis of many a Christmas wish list for their rapidly growing family in successive years.

It was the British way. A bed made up of sheets and covers. Always had been and would be so ad infinitum. I remember Monday wash days and helping in the stripping of the beds as a precursor to that ridiculously  labour intensive process for housewives. Something just had to give.

Terence Conran of Habitat lays claim to introducing the continental quilt, or as it was more colloquially called, the duvet, to the British public but it took some persistence in advertising and marketing to gain acceptance. The unique selling point that it was a "10 second bed" appears to have swung it. This would gain a considerable time advantage for our beleaguered Mother of five.

There was an innate mystery in the duvet inspite of its simplicity. This was the Tog Rating. We were a bit confused by this. Tog was a character in one of our favourite animated TV programmes, the best friend of Pippin in Pogles Wood. It appears that in terms of duvets the higher the Tog Rating the warmer the quilt. I expect that was an easy decision in sub Arctic Scandinavia but less easy to gauge for a small sleepy town in North Lincolnshire.

It took some time for me to be entirely at ease with a duvet.

The thing kept slipping off my unconscious body and could be found in the morning in a heap in the gap between my bed and that of my younger brother with whom I shared a room. I referred to this, I thought quite cleverly as continental drift.

In winter it was necessary to be wholly submersed and cocooned in the soft downy folds even to the extent of having no natural ventilation and in the hotter months of the year the whole shroud could be kicked off as soon as my feet got hot. My pet cat would find its way to the bottom of the duvet and take up residence in a deep, reassuring resonance of purring.

Still, the important thing was that the composition of the duvet still allowed our loving parents to wrap us up tightly and securely at bedtime, as snug as a bug in a rug.

A First Time for Everything....Part Two

I have decided to embark on a bit of a self indulgent journey, well, OK, a very large self indulgent one as I am not generally known to do "bits". The theme is to be recollections of the first time of doing or experiencing something that is now commonplace and indeed not today worthy of mention because it is the norm in the lives of most of us. Yesterday it was my first glimpse of a Japanese made car. Today ............

We thrived on my Mother's home cooking.

We were a traditional family unit although being one of five children I suppose we were viewed as being of exceptional size in a nuclear world. No, we were in fact Church or England in anticipation of your next question.

I cannot imagine the sacrifices and dedication that it took to eek out the housekeeping and family allowance on keeping us all replete and happy but we had no cause to moan.

We went to bed with a full stomach and happy and contented hearts.

The cupboards were always full with the staple foodstuffs of a young and growing family. The breakfast table was well stocked with cereals such as the Kelloggs Variety Pack, Golden Nuggets or Ready Brek and the bread bin was always full to be spread with Marmite, Lemon Curd or Peanut Butter. We even came home for dinners and returned to school energised and ready for anything that the curriculum could throw at us.

There were snacks waiting when we got home to tide us over until tea time. Packets of crisps, mini mars bars or sandwiches.

At 6pm on the dot we would crowd around on the bench seating and refectory table, Hectors House behind us and indulge in our favourite meals of fish fingers and chips, crispy cod balls, beans on toast, scrambled egg and spaghetti hoops. Everything of course washed down with lashings of diluted orange squash.

At bedtime, with the closing theme tune of The Waltons, The Goodies or The Likely Lads just fading away we would have drinking chocolate and biscuits.

Childhood dreams are made of such things. I was truly fortunate and blessed in this regard.

Weekends were a bit more of a free for all in the household as it was a busy time to do the shopping and a wide range of play based activities and chores. The weekly shop was a time for all to help with pushing the trolley and fetching and carrying in the aisles in Marks and Sparks or Liptons.

If we behaved we would be rewarded with a bag, to share, of sweet popcorn or a bit of a smash and grab in the pick and mix section of Woolworths.

Everything was building up to Sunday Lunch. This would be in the dining room at the front of the house, a very rarely used place apart from when relatives came to stay, at formal times such as Christmas or when taken up by the huge chipboard sheet onto which was nailed the train set.

Mother magicked a full roast with veg and gravy but we would have to wait until Father got back with his pal Howard from the pub to be able to sit down and witness the ceremony of the carving of the chicken or the joint. I aspired to be, one day, the head of my own table and to be responsible for the ritual carving.

This was our sustenance and were well looked after, wanting for nothing.

That was until we were exposed for the first time to Chinese Food.

We lived in a small market town in the mid to late 1970's. "Fast Food" and "Takeaway" were not in our vocabulary and comprehension although we did of course indulge on occasion of fish and chips with scraps from the local shop.

There were, to my recollection no Pizzerias or Burger Bars, Indian, Thai or other ethnic outlets.
We were not a backward settlement, just that there were no such establishments.

It was therefore and understandably a major cultural shock to us when Mother placed into the shopping trolley one day a small, slim rectangular package bearing the title of Vesta Chop Suey.

I have always meant to ask Margaret (Mother) about her decision for introducing the family to this revolutionary influence in our lives, whether it was advertised after the 9pm TV watershed, displayed in her Woman's Own or Woman's Realm magazines, in the pages of Readers Digest or just mentioned at the school gates from other Mums.

Whatever the source it entered our psyche, our being and left a momentous impression.

A whole meal in such a small box smacked of mumbo jumbo, science fiction or just the dark arts. Us offspring witnessed the unpacking in readiness for a school night tea.

The contents consisted of an airtight sealed bag of freeze dried ingredients, another cellophane sheath of dried rice and a mysterious packet of what were described as crispy noodles but resembled strips of clear plastic.

There was a series of instructions on the side of the box and we followed these devoutly as though representing the whole meaning of life.

The pale, powdery and gritty contents of dried substance had to be liberated by mixing with half a pint of cold water. It took quite a bit of vigorous stirring in a Tupperware measuring jug to saturate the light mixture. Strangely, bits of what appeared to be small cubes of carrot and shrunken peas remained floating on the surface of the milky liquid. If Mother was not looking I would scoop these out with a teaspoon and with utter delight crunch them between my teeth. Gradually with the introduction of heat there was a thickening and emulsifying into an acceptable sauce based consistency.

Meanwhile my fellow siblings would be responsible for the cooking of the rice. This could take up to 30 minutes and with close monitoring of liquid levels and regular topping up from the boiled kettle. Frequent taste testing was necessary but rapidly depleted the volume of the rice.

Our industrious and diligent approach to our respective chores was a means of excitement for our young minds but nothing could prepare us for the first time that we saw crispy noodles being cooked.

This involved an entirely separate set of instructions and involving danger and hazard that could only be handled by an adult.

An inch or two of cooking oil had to be heated to a stage when just starting to emit blue smoke on the gas hob. Then the cellophane type strips could be tossed in upon which an amazing transformation took place. From an inert state the material fizzed, spat and then expanded its size by, must have been, a million fold to form a perfect curled form of aerated honeycomb like consistency.

There was  matter of milliseconds that determined either a perfect crispy offering or a fatally carbonised, distorted and inedible nugget.

The whole operation took some co-ordination over about an hour but with the ultimate reward of each of us receiving a small ring of crunchy rice filled with a creamy, indistinctly flavoured sauce and a single quaver like topping.

It was a magic moment in the rich heritage of the Thomson children.